Private Liberti Lunam Spectavit [Children Watch the Moon]

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
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It was a fair day on Jutrand. Not too hot—Nor too cold.

Srina had only just returned from a visit to the Castellum from visiting her children when she was informed by the Sepulcher that one of her duties had been neglected. The Empress frowned softly at the notion of missing something but listened to what was expected of her in the absence of other members of the Dark Council. It was beneath the Sith Emperor, obviously, but they felt that their errant Empress might be able to fill the gap. Mentally…She was exhausted. Nothing had ever brought her to the brink of madness so easily than the midnight wails of her younglings.

Elegance flowed from her movements while she set her piping hot tea down on the coffee table before leaning back in the chaise lounge to absorb what she was being told. "You want me to…What?"

"Visit the Academy this afternoon. You've been away. It will bolster the morale of those training to serve the Order as well as give you the chance to inspect the facility. Our Emperor, long may he reign, believes that your experience with military, tactical, and combat precision would be invaluable to the curriculum."

"…You've already cleared with this Empyrean?"

"Indeed, most illustrious Lady. He seemed to think watching the students spar…might be something you would enjoy.", the robed supplicant informed with a little bit of confusion. Most spouses of the ruling class spent their time gossiping in one of the many halls or pouring over archives for obscure texts to lord over one another. Often, they seemed to discount the heritage of the one Empyrean had named Queen. It was a thin line to split. Technically, Srina was Lady of the Sith.

But only by marriage.

Something the Sepulcher never let her forget.

Slowly, her head nodded. She could handle the inspection easily enough…. And Darth Empyrean was right. She did like to watch a good spar and it had been a long time since the opportunity arose. She passed along a hand-written note to the Emperor, one, she didn't mind or care that the Sepulcher read (of course they would) that contained only one word. Meldanya.

It was Echani for "my beloved" and contained nothing else.

They needed—Nothing else.

A little while after the allotted lunch hour found her walking the grounds with two of the Sepulcher trailing behind the Empress while she gave her notes on the training facility. Material Studies, Arcane Knowledge, Alchemy, and the more Forceborn subjects were obviously prodigious but she thought that many of the obstacle courses could have held less linear challenges. Any Sith Acolytes that rose through the ranks would need to know how to navigate difficult terrain. With and without the Force.

How to fight. With—And without a lightsaber.

Everything seemed to be going rather well. The instructors were more than surprised by the suggestions that came from such a refined woman, let alone, their Queen. It was untraditional but profitable that she had a wealth of knowledge to draw from. She wore attire that was expected of her, though, the colors were slightly off. Silvery white for her people. Red for the Sith Order. The dress robes were comfortable but aristocratic. Cinched at the waist with a swath of red fabric to make what was already a slender figure even moreso. Her shoes were practical, hidden, beneath layers of expensive silk. If no one could see them…Surely, it would suffice.

She might have passed right by Alchemy II being taught were it not for the fact that something caught her eye. Her head pulled back with confusion. It couldn't be. She twisted the ring around her finger that let her feel her husband through any medium. Space and time could not separate them…Even death had failed to do that. It didn't make sense. Her eyes darkened and a latticework of onyx spread across pallid skin while she reached through Jutrand. Reached, for her husband.

Who…Thankfully she found. Not here.

Her shoulders settled.

It wasn't him.

It was just someone that looked like the man she had married, before, the ritual on Odavessa. He looked like Maliphant. How peculiar. Srina wandered into the classroom setting and walked the long rows of onyx tables and altars. Upon closer inspection, there were indeed differences, and it caused her to breathe a little easier. The acolyte was working on some sort of project but she didn't quite know what it was at first glance. She could feel the wax and wane of the Force being manipulated—but to what end?

Her curiosity was something she had never lost with age.

"…May I inquire as to what you're working on?", her voice was soft, dulcet, and unlike that of the instructors. She was far older than she looked or seemed but there was a youthful curiosity to bright eyes that had settled on burnished gold. She'd been born with silver, and still, flecks of mercury ran through it. The more she gave to the Dark Side…The less they returned to normal.

"Em—", the sepulcher tried to interrupt but a stern look from the diminutive Echani silenced the protest. She waited, instead, for the student to respond. Aware that the others were also rising from their work to see who was there that shouldn't be. Soft murmurs started. There was only one woman on Jutrand who would be here with her coloring. With skin as clear as porcelain, alabaster, and hair that seemed to have been spun of moonlight.

Her gaze flickered. He looked…So much like Maliphant. But so different, now, that she could see him up close.

"I would like to know.", she trailed off, lightly, intrigued with the memory that her Master had been extremely fond of alchemy. "If I may."

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​

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Jutrand, a city world trapped in the relentless grind of technological progress, whose fair skies, as Srina Talon had noted, were a rare glimpse of normalcy in a relentless cyber dystopia.

The sky above was as a flickering holographic canvas, displaying a pristine blue expanse while hiding the eternal smog and pollution that plagued the city below. Citizens in their drab, cybernetically enhanced attire walked the neon-lit streets and platforms, their faces obscured by gas masks and augmented reality visors. The omnipresent hum of machinery and the distant clatter of robotic drones filled the air, a constant reminder of the relentless industry that drove the planet.

The streets were a labyrinthine network of concrete and steel, towering skyscrapers casting shadows over the perpetual twilight of the undercity. Neon signs advertising cybernetic enhancements, memory wipes, and black-market neural implants flickered with a seductive allure, promising escape from the monotonous existence.

Food stalls on street corners offered synthetically engineered delicacies, their chemical flavors a brilliant symphony of near mind-altering gastronomy. Androids and bioengineered creatures roamed the streets, their mechanical limbs and synthetic flesh a testament to the blurring lines between organic and machine.

The eternal night of the city's underbelly was in constant flux—teetering on disarray whenever the authoritative gaze of the Sith Order turned towards it's next task to solve. Neon-soaked alleys became havens for illicit dealings, where shadowy figures brokered information, contraband, and forbidden pleasures. The sound of distant sirens and the occasional explosion punctuated the evernight, a reminder of the criminal undercurrent that flowed beneath the city's glossy upper-levels.

It was a captivating place for anyone, let alone, an individual in the tumultuous throes of their youth.

That thick air with the acrid scent of industry, a heady concoction of metallic tang and smog that clung to his senses. Arkyrion would often inhale deeply upon it, his lungs filling with the intoxicating aroma of a world that would one day be consumed by its own ambition. There was a lesson in that somewhere, but what it was, he could not yet decipher.

Now, the Dark Council were not wrong in their belief, nor the Corpse Emperor, Darth Empyrean , in his pronouncement that the Shimmering Empress could be of the utmost paramountcy to the amelioration of the Academy. Her contributions could very well shape the ascendancy of countless Sith Initiates and Acolytes who walked those sinister corridors for generations to come.

The atmosphere of the Academy had become stifling, suffused with a crushing sense of impending doom. It's curriculum, bogged down by redundancy, was all on it's own a descent in to mind-shattering madness. From Arkyrion's schedule alone, what true purpose did it serve to whelm the mind, and time of the student down under such classes as: Sith Politics & Intrigue, which wasn't to be confused with Political Manipulation, or, of course, Diplomacy & Deception.

Could all three not be merged in to one? Or preferably be incised in their entirety? Oh, to be so lucky.

Where she saw him, within the dimly lit sanctum of Alchemy II, Arkyrion held court like a spectral maestro amidst the arcane orchestra of alchemical equipment. His presence was an embodiment of ethereal contrast against the backdrop of shadowy mysteries that cloaked the laboratory.

His sable robes, an abyssal cascade of fabric, seemed to drink in the ambient obscurity, shrouding him in a shawl of darkness. The fabric whispered with every subtle movement of his meager frame, as if it were woven from the whispers of forgotten incantations. His attire seemed not as mere clothing; it was a manifestation of the void itself, an elegant shroud that concealed and revealed in equal measure.

Arkyrion's hair, quite like her own and of her beloved, pale as starlight, flowed like tendrils of incandescent mist. Each strand resembled a silvery wisp of celestial fog, shimmering with an otherworldly radiance.

The alchemical apparatus that sat before him upon the dark surfaced workbench was a symphony of brass and crystal, a mechanical ballet of glassware and intricate mechanisms. His hands, pale and graceful, moved with the precision of a master conductor, guiding the unseen forces of the dark side with a poet's finesse. The veins beneath his ashen skin pulsed like rivulets of liquid starlight, carrying the promise of potent transformations.

Arkyrion's eyes, twin orbs of tanzanite luminescence, were not mere windows to the soul; they were a gallery of expression. Their depth and hue shifted with his emotions, like prismatic gemstones catching the light. During this fervent pursuit of his alchemical art, they sparkled with the excitement of creation, mirroring the passion of his endeavors.

"As advised by the disciplinary council, I am descriptively codifying the production of the contraband, ChronoShift, for my expulsion hearing. " His voice, a mesmerizing cadence, bore a rich, resonant quality that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his being.

He'd never heard the voice of the Empress before, had never let his senses grasp upon her presence, in that moment Srina was perhaps just a student heaving an inquiry upon him. For several more, after that, he indemnified her no further. Continuing his work unabated until it became agonizingly obvious that the rest of the Class had ceased their own productivity, all of their eyes now upon the woman near him, defectively trying to hide their mouths behind uprisen hands as they whispered back and forth.

His own gaze shifted, like sand across vast and endless dunes, meeting the small womans directly. With haste he rose upward to his full height, turning respectfully towards her, his robes swaying wildly—fashionable as they were, it was clear they were in no way tailored directly to his spindly build. "Empress, " he began again, "ChronoShift, something I was developing to derange time, ease the burden of the after class workloads. There were oversights, aspects beyond my knowledge, I've taken direct responsibility for the students that suffered complete temporal desynchronization. " Each word he uttered carried a weight and gravitas that transcended the mere sounds of language, resonating in the hearts of those who listened.

Perhaps, he began to reflect quietly, this truly was a larger issue than he had been leading himself on to believe.

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
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She waited.

The inquisitive Empress bent at the waist just slightly to see what this Acolyte was so intent on finishing. The dedication he displayed toward his craft, even, while the rest of his peers seemed horrified at his ignorance drew a sliver of amusement to the seemingly angelic kiss of her mouth. The response she received did not deter her, rather, she began to drift around the obsidian workbench like an effervescent cloud. Evaluating.

No.

Maliphant had never spoken that way, certainly, never to her. Keen eyes filed away the now glaring variances between this Sith and the man that she had married, so very, very long ago. Most were entirely incapable of seeing what she saw…And in that regard, her interest, beyond that which was academic had temporarily waned. She was more curious about the tone he had utilized while describing his current predicament. It was both studious, and perhaps, touched with an air of youthful arrogance.

Now that sounded a lot more like the Emperor.

The flaxen-haired woman often kept her Force Signature suppressed when her husband wasn't within arm's reach. Especially, on Jutrand. It served her well for the Dark Council to think that the rumors surrounding her conquests in the Southern Systems were little more than that. Rumor. On more than one occasion she had used it to her advantage. The encompassing wave of all she was would have been little more than a distraction for the entirety of the Academy while she sought to improve their education. Not, detract from it. To that end…She fell still when he stood suddenly.

Was he that startled?

Her fingertips came to a stop on the edge of his desk and she glanced toward his classmates. One finger raised toward primrose lips and she blew softly. The sound that erupted would shock them, shrill, while demanding focus as the Force rose in her being. It was an ocean. Endless, deep, and dark where only a drop of her essence stirred the deep seated magicks hidden within the Academy walls. The school would seem to breathe with her while she gave her orders. "As…You…Were."

The urge to return to work and lower their eyes would be overwhelming for all of them.

Except, the one she spoke to.

"Are your burdens so heavy that you seek to weave time itself to avoid them, little tinkerer?"

Temporal…desynchronization? In the Academy? It wasn't the strangest incident she'd heard coming from the minds of their best and brightest but it was the first time she's heard one of them so readily admit they'd gotten in too deep. Progress had a price. Srina began to move around the work station again without looking at the Acolyte. She had half a mind to order his research collected and turned into weapons development. There was part of her that longed to see how her enemies might fair against something they had zero control over. No hope, of escaping.

An eternal prison in an hourglass…

If the much smaller woman noticed that he had begun to defend himself about his past transgressions she didn't seem to let on. Her skin was smooth alabaster, her face, empty of all things. There was something chilling in her loveliness that left a sense of ice crawling up the spine. With long claws that found purchase, pierced flesh, to let the fear in. To let her in. To corrupt…with achingly deliberate slowness. "The design is inspired…But your creation, in the end, remains unstable."

No doubt—It would have similar effects toward what had apparently been a bit of a disaster. He reminded her of an orchestral conductor trying to pull a symphony together. He would produce music…But the quality would be hamstrung by the sum if its parts. He could only produce results that were equivalent to the state of his instruments.

"…Have you ever visited Cularin?"

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​

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Startled? In a manner of speaking, perhaps. For Arkyrion found himself in the peculiar position of having cast words upon the Empress, Srina Talon , in a manner so unanticipated, it could be construed as nothing short of audacious. To misjudge to such an extent the character of the individual he was addressing, particularly one of her stature, was far removed from the conventional aspirations of leaving an indelible and favorable impression.

However, it must be clarified that his sudden rise to attention, notwithstanding its origin in a seemingly inept initiation, was, in fact, a manifestation of profound respect upon realization. This reverence extended beyond the confines of her illustrious position merely as the Empress, delving instead into the realm of the woman she was and the formidable reputation she had meticulously forged. Though, perhaps curiously, this did not extend to a much more formalistic bow.

There, in Alchemy II, a chamber steeped in foreboding and esoteric darkness, a place where the boundaries of the known and the forbidden blurred into an unsettling tapestry of arcane knowledge. Its design invoking a sense of oppressive mystery, as if it were a taboo vault of secrets hidden from the prying eyes of the uninitiated.

He meticulously studied her, watching from behind a tanzanite gleam, as she loft a single finger to lips as plump and inviting as the petals of a rare orchid, adorned with the faintest hint of a rosy hue—a mere suggestion of color that beckoned the gaze with an alluring promise. They spoke of both sensuality and restraint, a dichotomy that added depth to her enchanting magnetism.

The walls, constructed of ancient, weathered stone, bore the scars of countless experiments gone awry. Etched into the cold, unforgiving surface, were cryptic symbols and sigils, their origins shrouded in obscurity. These markings seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light, as though they were alive, whispering forgotten incantations into the very air.

The room's ceiling stretched high overhead, seemingly lost in the inky abyss above. Dim, flickering candles hung from iron sconces, casting elongated, grotesque shadows that danced with sinister glee. The ceiling itself appeared as a starless void, a canvas of all-consuming blackness that invoked a feeling of insignificance, as if one stood at the precipice of an infinite abyss.

Rows of aged, high-backed chairs, their upholstery tattered and frayed, lined the perimeter of the chamber. Each chair seemed to beckon with a baleful charisma, as if they were thrones of power from which students would harness the very forces of creation and destruction. The air itself bore a heavy, acrid scent—a mélange of incense, burning herbs, and the otherworldly sapor of alchemical reagents.

At the front of the room, a lectern of dark, polished wood stood like a sentinel. Its surface was adorned with ancient tomes and parchments, their pages filled with the forbidden wisdom of ages past. The lectern's design was both ornate and unsettling, its intricate carvings depicting grotesque, nightmarish creatures engaged in acts of seductive ecstasy.

The room itself seemed to inhale with her, as if drawing breath from depths far beyond the veil, a collective inhalation that echoed the pulse of her command. Upon it's release, it was as though the very foundations shivered, and the walls quailed under the authority of her melodic syllables. A truly simple gesture, such a minor display of dominion, and the only eyes left gazing were his and hers.

"Perhaps, my choice of words has caused confusion, Empress. " Said Arkyrion, his voice resonating with a deep and velvety timbre. "I was not seeking, by any means, an escape. No. Not that. " His words flowed smoothly and confidently, each syllable carefully articulated, attempting to leave no room for ambiguity.

He returned to silence once more, quietly contemplating the choice of words he wished to convey to the small woman. An act, someone like her, could decipher as easily as she breathed. He stood as an eerie specter, his tall, sinuous frame wreathed in lopsided robes that sagged loosely to one side. Examining her every gesture as she began to circle back around the obsidian workbench, which had been polished to a cold, unforgiving gleam. The remnants of his alchemical endeavors lay astride it's mirror finish. Vials of iridescent fluids, each shimmering with a hypnotic, eldritch light, stood like sentinels of forbidden knowledge. Arcane implements of glass and metal, etched with runes of a cryptic language, lay scattered and now lifeless without his guidance. And his gaze, alight with a feverish intensity, was locked upon the ethereal visage of Srina as she took pause once more, an apparition of otherworldly beauty that had commanded his attention.

"I sought, rather, " his eyes lowered away, fixating upon his long and slender fingers, padding at the sting of lingering chemicals that stained their ivory hue. "A means of overcoming an academic system that I believe to be bloated and flawed. " He concluded with utter honesty.

But at her next words, those blue and violet orbs returned to meet her. A tempest of thoughts churning beneath their weight, like stormy seas under a starless sky. He didn't know why, but a small smile grasped the corner of his lips and his head bowed to a slight sideward angle.

"I've. . had the tea? "

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
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She could feel his eyes.

It was not something she acknowledged nor did her flawless exterior bend for the variety of queries the rest of his peers undoubtedly had. Their whispers were little more than the chittering of skittish fowl while they tried to discern whether to remain very still or take flight. Such, was the nature of a flock. To follow as obedient and delicious little things when their mother came to call. When Srina began to settle within the confines of the learning center it seemed to settle with her. There was an audible grinding sound as shadows moved, almost, like the aching of old bones.

The ephemeral souls trapped between duracrete and onyx wept and reached for the Lady Sith but she paid them little mind. Let them cry and worship the unholy life she breathed back into them. Instead, burnished golden eyes simmered with the intensity of twin black stars. They were empty. Boundless…But there was something else, there. It was only very difficult to find.

Amusement.

"That sounds as if we are splitting hairs, little tinkerer."

He spoke in the fashion that most Sith had a penchant for but there was a certain eloquence to his work that caused her to linger. She let him take his time to put his thoughts together while she created a mental blueprint of his experiment. Srina was intimately familiar with alchemy, considering, her Master had a Forge built into their first home. Sinners Well had been her first experience with creating something deafeningly powerful with the blood of the pure…And it certainly hadn't been the last.

This student loomed over her. Easily. It was not an uncommon state of being and although she was forced to tilt her head up to look at most she interacted with on Jutrand—None could claim they ever felt like they were looking down on her. There was something about her carriage and bearing that had always seemed to echo the finest nobility. The crown she currently wore was one of circumstance and the result of following her passions, rather, than remaining a servant.

That was all she had ever been within the confines of the Confederacy.

The people had whispered about the pale lady who conquered all her iron eyes touched. They used stories of her wars, battles, to scare younglings straight. She became their Dread Queen because it was kinder for the media to swallow than puff a piece on savagery. For every victory she had obtained there had been a price. Her freedom, her life. The galaxy had insisted that she had ruled the Droid Nation alongside her Dark Father…But they were wrong.

She had endured.

She had served in gilded chains.

She was a servant, no longer.

"Explain."

The singular icebound word would refer to his take on the current status of their academic programs. She was present, after all, to review what was being taught. The future of the Sith in general relied on these black palaces of occult learning to challenge the minds of their young so that they might one day ascend to greatness. Srina wondered, briefly, if anyone had ever asked the students what they thought of their curriculum. Likely not.

Her head tilted, hawkishly, at his response about Cularin. Her gaze flickered. Sweeping over his tall and sinuous form with an expression that couldn't be determined. Was she annoyed by the attempt at humor. Did she enjoy it? Her hand rose over the failed experiment and she remained silent for a long moment. Especially, if he began to speak again…"May I?"

A request to let her adjust the experiment.

"…Time itself has pockets of distortion on and around the Cularin system. The roots of the ch'hala tree can be used for tea but there is also great value in the bark. For centuries we thought that the ch'hala were entirely incorruptible as a group of Tarasin Witches tried to take control of the world's ecology and failed dismally…But they weren't entirely wrong to try.", her dulcet voice carried like the softest song, crystalline, and untouchable. Her tone was cold…But not unkind. It was almost like listening to a droid recount historical document. "Their folly provided data that it benefits us best to leave the trees as they are and harvest them when needed. Sparingly cut—They retain certain properties that could facilitate the proper function of your project."

The bark was considered little more than a pleasing aesthetic for most but Srina knew that all of the ch'hala trees were actually one life-force, with, an exceedingly powerful Force presence. So much so that the entirety of the Cularin System had disappeared into time for a decade. Only to reappear, supposedly, having shifted to the future, and back again. Her studies of flow-walking had led her to the anomaly that was created due to the activation of the long-lost Dark Staff.

Interestingly enough, once upon a time, the Dark Staff had been an object within her husband's possession. The after effects of chronal manipulation had left unstable fields all over Cularin and something so steeped in the Force as the ch'hala tree couldn't help but take in such effects. Akin, to a sponge.

"It is incredibly dangerous to handle in this fashion but the after-effects can be…Stunning."

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[Arkryion Malachar]

As Srina Talon 's gaze bore in to his own, a subtle shift in the very essence of the atmosphere seemed to take place. His eyes, akin to the rich depths of a haunting twilight, held unwaveringly to her own burnished golden orbs. There was a profound stillness he felt in that moment, as if the world around them had fallen silent in reverence.

His gaze did not falter or shirk away, nor did it seek to challenge or defy her. Instead, it met her with a quiet strength, an unspoken acknowledgment of the formidable presence that she was. Within those depths, he could discern a sense of deep melancholic wisdom, a reflection of a soul that had journeyed through the shadows of existence and emerged with its own divine grace.

While Srina's eyes burned with an intensity akin to twin black stars, Arkyrion's offered a chilling serenity that had settled in, like the tranquil depths of a forest bearing the shroud of eventide. There was a deepness to his gaze that was not easily deciphered, a hint of secrets and experiences that he held close to his heart, fastened and sealed away from the outside world.

With a voice that resonated like a sonorous melody, Arkyrion began to address her query, almost before she had even finished the single word she spoke so chillfully. "Political Manipulation, Diplomacy & Deception, Sith Politics & Intrigue. Three courses, all of them compulsory. " Robust and steadfast, he started to guide her through the reasoning for his earlier assertion. "Useful? I fully understand and grasp the need, " his chest drew a deep and deliberate breath, "three subjects that attempt to maul your mind in to plotting and conspiring? Do any of the enemies of this Order seem to relish in such self-destruction? Should court intrigue and sycophantry possess such invaluable weight? It oft seems flattery and a silver tongue are viewed in higher esteem than the willingness to actually earn your ascension through dedication and sacrifice. "

"The Alchemical Arts, fine but, Material Sciences? We receive only enough resources to support one of the two courses in any long term capacity. Case in point, at this very moment, Material Sciences has been shuttered until the next cycle. " His deep, mellifluous tones bled with clear and marked notes of irritation. "Artifacts & Relics department? Anything permeating even the frailest signature of worth is liberated before it can be archived, let alone presented in any meaningful way for study. The Sparring Pits? " He gave a solid nod of his head, "More than sufficient. The Training Field? Uninspired, paltry, hardly built to prepare you for much more than a jog through a verdant meadow. It almost seems to reinforce the assertion that Politicians and their backstabbing are needed more than Warriors. " He took a pause at that point, silencing the need to drone even further on.

May I, she breathed in to that silence.

Where her odyssey began to travel, drew him in entirely. As a moth to the flickering flame, he felt beckoned—he moved with a certain grace, his steps were deliberate, like a curious predator, as he closed the distance between them and took vigil at her side. His body, though thin, possessed an undeniable vitality. He'd look to her, and then to her hands as she now became the tinkerer, hanging on every word her chiming voice spoke.

As Srina began to adjust his experiment further, Arkyrion's gaze remained fixed and unyielding, following her every movement. There was a quiet reverence in his demeanor, a respect for her expertise and authority. He observed her adjustments with keen interest, his long, slender fingers twitching slightly as if in anticipation.

"Ch'hala tree bark, that would provide equilibrium between the Void Moon Orchid and Blackfire Nectar distillate before the convergence. "

As her hands would retract from the device, Arkyrion's would arrive. Each digit seemed to possess a mind of its own, capable of delicate precision and a hauntingly beautiful touch. His fingertips, almost unnaturally smooth, glided above the alchemical tool she had just adjusted on the obsidian workbench as if they were extensions of his very essence. The paleness of his skin, reminiscent of pure porcelain, contrasted starkly with the dark and arcane materials he began to manipulate.

Veins, like pulsating conduits of occult power, etched intricate patterns beneath the surface of his skin. When he extended his fingers, they resembled the undulating coils of vipers, poised to strike with a venomous potency. The veins throbbed with a surging energy, not as testament to the unholy knowledge that coursed through him, but rather the unharnessed and raw potential that existed within.

The device pulsed with an otherworldly aura as he manipulated it's function on further and further. It's power was amplified from the adjustments she had made to the Sublunary Core and Crystallization Convergence Chamber. Without the Bark, and under his authority, still, it sang of menace. A looming sensation that only they would feel, a torrent of paradoxes crashing upon the shores of existence, erasing the past, warping the present, and rendering the future an incomprehensible enigma. It was as though the very sands of time shifted beneath their feet, creating sinkholes of oblivion that threatened to swallow them whole.

"The distillate forms there, in the arcane crucible. " An undertone of somber reflection coloring his words. He wasn't explaining it to her, he knew she was well aware, "Then the convergence. " The mixture had begun to crystallize, forming a swirling, luminescent liquid within the Chamber. This liquid radiated with an eldritch fury, casting an eerie glow across the their forms. "Then, the Temporal Sealing. "

He left that to her, or at least, there seemed to be an assumption she would seize the opportunity herself. The Temporal Sealing was the most critical phase of the process, to touch the vial and pass it's illuminated liquid through the woven mesh of Shadowmoss, was as to witness the unraveling of the cosmic clockwork, where the gears of causality ground to a halt, leaving the universe adrift in an eternal twilight, devoid of order or purpose. It was a fate worse than oblivion, a descent into the abyss of temporal madness where the very essence of existence was torn asunder.

Perhaps he was quite deserving of expulsion, or maybe, he just needed a much more firm and brutal hand to hone him.

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
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Once again—She listened.

The silence that she offered was complete but there were no awkward pauses. No breaks or spaces where one might try to find a way to liven the interaction. Her presence was more than enough to sweep around them in a cloying sense of purpose. Her every glance, every breath, felt like it was something to be noted. Something of the greatest importance. Mercurial eyes slipped over the pieces of his chronal project whilst he detailed the current failings of the Sith Academy.

The fact that this young man could list them so freely meant that this wasn't the first time for such inefficiencies to cross his mind. He reminded her of someone, once, she heard him speak on more than his seemingly imminent expulsion. Not Maliphant. That was a similarity that ran only skin deep and event that was tenuous once she got a better look. He reminded her of herself. The way he settled in his element, reflective, and adaptive. The cold serenity that he offered was a familiar comfort.

It was his voice that seemed to differentiate him the most from other Acolytes she had met. From her memories. She had met many Sith who carried such power in their vocal cords that those who heard them fell to their knees in reverence. They were Masters of their craft. Tested and blooded in order to impose their will on others without their awareness. Here, hid a student, toiling away to please some repugnant review board with a natural melody that could charm even the most hardened of hearts. It was poetic to the point of pain. Beautiful.

And a waste in this dungeon.

His last comment drew a subtle laugh from her throat that echoed throughout the Alchemy II classroom in the way crystals might chime in the wind. It was light but sweet of sound, easily, a trait that she had inherited from the Echani gene pool. She'd recently had an interaction with a few Sith that wished she would have resorted to the silver-tongued whispers they were used to. Bribes, bartering, blackmail and all manner of lies were the things they knew. Srina was a political bull in a glass tea shop.

With two very large, very hungry, and very powerful man-shaped wolves on retainer. In that regard she would have her way. She didn't believe in negotiating outside of extreme circumstances and it left things quite simple. Rather, she took what she wanted.

And that was the end of it.

"...I will take your thoughts into consideration. Thank you..."

With permission, the experiment rose into the air and began to disassemble itself. Srina altered the configuration, not only from memory, but from feeling her way through the Force toward knowledge that she had absorbed from burning through a variety of Archives. Both Carnifex and Empyrean had often found her in some dusty corner of their respective repositories…Reading tome after tome. Devouring, the contents. While he spoke of the changes she made—She merely moved in silence.

If there was something to correct, she would do so. If not she let it be.

When she let the device settle with new parameters, she stepped slightly to the side to allow the much taller man access without a word. His interest was immediately piqued by new possibilities that presented themselves and she had no desire to halt that process. Already, it seemed more effective. Her head tilted to the side and one of the locked doors opened at her soundless behest. It was obviously a place that housed the restricted materials and her intrusion made one of the instructions very unhappy. The huff was met with silent eyes—And the complaint died in his throat.

Srina had always been a difficult person to argue with. Wearing a proverbial crown simply meant that it could be counted as treason in this building versus scraping themselves off the floor in the outside world. "I assure you Master Cyndell…I won't blow us back to the old Galactic Republic."

From the room snapped an alchemized glass jar that was filled with small shimmering pieces of bark. It was charmed to remain in stasis so as not to lose efficacy over time. When used and charged with other materials the shelf-life would be more than adequate for a device so small. Srina planned to introduce the ch'hala during the temporal sealing and almost gently picked up where the student left off. Soft words escaped her, none in basic, but a skilled ear would notice High Sith.

There was power, seemingly infinite, in those words.

During the process came a point in which the surrounding area of the workstation became almost fluid from the vibrations the device emitted. It was primed. It seemed like pressure in the space was reaching critical mass while the flaxen-haired woman called even more power toward it. It was not a project that could be expected to work as intended without prompting. Her voice issued commands in the black tongue. Commands, that brought such chaotic energy under their control.

The final step the Empress took was to prick her finger with an athame that was sitting on the edge of the work bench. If they intended to take? They needed to give. The exchange of power was equivalent and when her blood hit the bark the project gave a shudder that seemed like it might explode. Only…It didn't. Everything stopped. Silence. Srina tilted her head and lifted the device once more by raising her hand in the air. It didn't LOOK like much but…Looks could be deceiving. Especially, when power echoed from it in a constant ebb and flow. "Let us see what we have made."

The core began to spin at a rapid pace and Srina reached out to touch the arm of the student beside her. There was a familiar pulling feeling at her navel before a sudden sound bore down on them with the strength of a falling star. Lights filled her eyes until she couldn't see…But when she opened them?

It was precisely when and where she'd been thinking of.

They were standing in the Nightlands of Ryloth.

More than twenty years ago.​

"…I have made calculated improvements, little tinkerer. We can visit a specific time—And place."

Instinctively she shielded their presence in the Force so they wouldn't be detected. No one should have been able to sense or see them regardless...But time was a finicky thing in which she had always been told not to interrupt the flow of. The effects could be nothing. It could be everything. It could create a parallel timeline where they all got stuck in a paradoxical loop. A timeline where important people had never been born. For the moment…They were just invisible, silent visitors. In the distance, she could see a portal. A white-haired man stepped out of it and began to engage with…Her. Well. A past version of her.

Srina watched in silence. This was the moment everything had changed.

Everything.

______________________________________________________

​

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

"I assure you Master Cyndell…I won't blow us back to the old Galactic Republic."

Master Cyndell was a figure of both enigmatic wisdom and ornery demeanor, of legendary renown. His lineage traced back to the ancient race of Chiss, his cerulean flesh bore the weathered marks of countless years, and his crimson irises glinted with a fiery resolve that had not dimmed in his antiquated age.

Standing at a modest height, his ragged frame exuded a sense of quiet authority, and the ornate robes of dark blue, adorned with intricate silver patterns, draped around him like a heavy curtain of arcane knowledge. His crooked, arthritic fingers, adorned with intricate rings, hinted at the mastery he held over the esoteric arts of the Force and alchemy.

Master Cyndell's visage was etched with the lines of a life lived in pursuit of recondite secrets, and his once-lustrous hair had faded to a silvery hue that framed his angular features. His presence exuded an aura of antediluvian wisdom and a cantankerous disposition that had been honed over decades of the scholarly pursuits he had followed after he had long become obsolescent.

A twisted cane of obsidian and pearl, adorned with intricate Chiss glyphs, served as both his staff and symbol of authority, and it was said to have been infused with dark energies that mirrored the depths of his enigmatic knowledge.

Caught in his throat, oh yes the words were, nary a peep emerged from the well-aged man. But in his mind though, this simple action had unfurled a course of events that sent him spiraling to utter madness.

Must I suffer so? How much more indignation must I endure, he thought loudly. Two hundred wars I've fought in, a thousand battles I've seen! I have lain betwixt demon and beast and wrought upon both fervid bliss. That Ch'hala was from his private stores. Oh how could she, how could this happen. The obsessiveness intensified, his frail hand swaying the door that Srina Talon had opened, shut with a deafening boom. The boy should be expelled, this is unacceptable. Go on and meddle, see if I care. Unravel the whole damned Galaxy. I'm going to quit, I've burned finer schools than this to the ground before.

A violent panic attack, spurred on by the mans compulsive hoarding, likely followed.

It was of no significance, let him silently unravel, Arkyrion had hardly even perceived the clap of the sizable door as it rattled the frame and stone with its tremendous weight. His attention was inexorably drawn to the actinic marvel unfolding before his very eyes. What had been a mere ongoing experiment moments ago, and for months prior—was now a monument of power and artistry, however small it may have been, and he stood agape with awe at the celerity in which she amended and diversified its function.

Far, far more than a Dread Queen.

As Srina's manipulations wove their way to completion, he felt as though he stood at the heart of a tempest, where the winds of destiny whispered secrets too profound to grasp fully. It was a sensation akin to gazing into the eyes of a voracious storm, where chaos and order danced in a precarious balance, and the boundaries of reality blurred into a nebulous dreamscape.

Then, there was a tingling warmth upon him. It spread from the point of contact of her hand, sending tiny ripples of sensation weaving through his skin. It was as if a dormant energy within him had been awakened, responding to her touch with only a turn of his head, and a return to her gaze. We. That was a statement, all its own, that lofted something within himself he'd not easily be able to describe. It'd been rare, in his paltry experience, to hear another, especially one of much higher standing—articulate anything other than I.

An exhilarating shiver coursed down his spine, igniting his senses with a thrilling anticipation. Her touch, so silken yet charged with latent power, seemed to bridge the gap between their beings, as if inviting him into a journey of unuttered secrets and unknowable wonders. He yielded his arm to her without even the briefest hesitation, or fractional recoil.

But what was, perhaps, pedestrian to her by now. It was not so, for him. . .

In a cosmic frenzy beyond the boundaries of mortal reckoning, his unfortunate soul, or perhaps it was more appropriate to say 'un-soul,' embarked on a perilous descent into the howling abyss of temporal inversion. It was a plunge not into the dulcet harmonies of chronological progression, but rather a tumultuous submersion into the cacophonous abyss of yesteryears.

As the first quivers of this grotesque process wracked his form, Arkyrion's flesh itself became a contorted effigy of anguish, ensnared in the dissonant tendrils of chronal disarray. Veins pulsated like pulsars, throbbing to the rhythm of forgotten epochs, as sinewy tendrils of temporal entropy entwined through and around his very essence.

Fingers, once human, twisted into grotesque tendrils of primordial matter, every movement an agonizing dance with the forlorn past. Eyes, repositories of sanity, now vacant orbs marinated in the ichor of forgotten aeons, beheld horrors unnameable, eternally resplendent in the churning void of subcelestial regression.

The irrevocable plunge into the abyss of anti-time wrought unimaginable transformations. Skin dissolved into ashen vestiges, forever whispering the dread secrets of antediluvian eras. Bones splintered and reformed in the image of prehistoric, primordial beasts, the very marrow echoing with the remorseless footsteps of ancient terrors.

His mind, that fragile sanctuary of cognition, was ravaged by the maddening whispers of extinct languages, an eldritch babble that gnawed at the edges of reason. The boundaries of perception shattered, and he perceived the mosaic of existence as a nightmarish kaleidoscope of disjointed memories and half-formed nightmares.

Amidst this tumultuous descent, he could not help but cry out in the tongue of beings long gone, a wordless wail of torment and desolation that reverberated through the chronicles of time itself. With each agonizing backward step, the world around them unraveled, history reborn as a fathomless abyss of madness, and his very existence became a grotesque relic of profane upheaval.

Then. . .

. . . it wasn't. .

For but a terse moment, his body yearned to wilt right there where they stood. His posture had become deflated, his head lurched forward, legs began to bend—he was going to fall. It was her voice that plucked him from the fog, rescued him from the very brink.

"…I heya nena sersiredan ainfsuyanaldr, " It made no sense at first, just dissonant sounds. "Little tinkerer. We can visit a specific time—And place."

The air itself felt charged with a unique vitality, as if he were drawing his first breath after an aeon of captivity. It was crisp and invigorating, tinged with the subtle fragrance of exotic flora that lingered in the night breeze. Every inhalation filled his lungs with the intoxicating aroma of night-blooming flowers, a symphony of scents that stirred his mind further back to life.

Beneath his feet, the terrain of Ryloth's Nightlands was unlike anything he had ever encountered. It seemed to pulse with an innate energy, as if the very ground were alive with a primal heartbeat. The soil was rich and fertile, soft to the touch beneath him, and adorned with rigid, effulgent crystals that glimmered with a spectacular resplendence.

With his left hand, the young man swam through his pendulous robes, his pose fully aloft and sturdy as durasteel again. A small electronic smoking device was seized from somewhere on his person, raised to his lips, and inhaled thoroughly from. He held his breath in—then released gently, letting loose a swirl of soft emerald smoke that shimmered like polar lights. He wanted to lunge upon her with so many questions. Wanted to harvest so many answers. But when his voice emerged, he managed oh so very few words.

"Where are we? " His hand unhurriedly drifted across his chest, the ESD detained between two slender digits, offering its contents to her. Perhaps his mind was not fully back. "When are we? Wait— " His arresting voice wandered out quietly to her, his eyes beginning to focus upon the portal and the figures some distance away. "Is that—you, and. . . " It almost looked like himself?

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
______________________________________________________​

The seemingly young woman was aware of the negativistic cogs turning within the old Master's mind and discarded them just as swiftly. She had no patience for someone who sought to horde knowledge in a school of learning. It didn't matter to her that he was thrice her elder. Srina regarded skill and aptitude with respect. Not, the merits of a deluded hoarder. She would see him sacked for the disservice he was doing their youth. Possibly, for the sheer notion of interrupting her.

If he put up a fight? All the better. Let him be an example to educators past, present, and future.

Srina let go of the young one when they arrived at the intended destination. The energy that was required if the Dark Side to accomplish something so vast, so smoothly, was something that she had long ago grown accustomed to. Standing beside Darth Empyrean was akin to taking up residence on top of a nuclear reactor. It prepared her in ways most would never know. "Breathe…", she encouraged as the Nightlands solidified around them. His cry had not been lost to her.

It was a strike against her heart. A lash, a brand, that clenched tight. Her swift execution without mental preparation had unwound his mind, his soul, and pieced it back together on the other side. She could not let it show lest her effervescent control slip and they land somewhere entirely prehistoric…But she had confidence that he would adjust. He had an easy potential that needn't brag. Needn't burst from the heart of a star…It simply was. She could feel it…Like the depths beneath ocean waves.

There was always more.

"Breathe for me."​

The soft command would bring him stability through strength of will. Her power would reach for him. Flow through him and give him the ability to stand and endure chronal displacement. In the end…It only took her little tinkerer a moment to get his bearing. A ghostly smile touched the kiss of her mouth. It was pale and hollow—But pleased all the same.

Srina took a moment to soak in the sights and sounds of her former home. She had many places of residence throughout the galaxy, but none called to her, so much as the Nightlands of Ryloth. The tall crystalline structures emanated auras of bioluminescent light throughout the pervading dark. Their current state kept them from the bitter cold…But it was a fond friend. She had been born of the cold. Of the ice of Clan Talon…It never bothered her. "Ryloth….", she responded, slowly, to his first question.

It was strange.

Her attention was pulled from the two figures in the distance by the offering of some sort of device. Golden orbs swept down, briefly, in quietly curious decline. She didn't drink or smoke anything…Not for anything so pedestrian as morality but for the sheer fact that she didn't like her senses being dulled. As an Echani…It left her feeling blind. "...Several decades ago."

It was another lifetime. To see him this way…To see him wear a guise, then finally, lift it so that she might see him. Truly…See him. "The Emperor...@Darth Empyrean...was not always as he is now…Once…"

"He lived and breathed."

Her head tilted while she recalled the sorrow that had brought her to the desolate Nightlands. Such loss had nearly been her undoing, her damnation, while burying a child that had never been given the chance to breathe fresh air. It was her first brush with the daggers of the light. Her first bit of knowledge that told her that Jedi were not the arbiters of peace that they claimed to be.

That peace, truly, was a lie.

Srina had ensured that the man who was responsible for the death of her only child would never know rest again. Never have a moment of respite. She brought him to his knees and cast the remains of his soul into the Nether where it might be torn asunder by vicious beings of untold might. She wanted that traitor to die slowly. She would have his screams, his agony, and bathe in his sheet torment.

In the end…It hadn't been enough. When her revenge was exacted?

She felt empty.

That left her here.

"I was an apprentice to an ambitious Sith by the name of Darth Metus. He was my beloved Dark Father…A parent in place of my own. He made a home for us here...But I was lost. Empyrean…Maliphant…He found me in my deepest darkness. Saved me from my despair. From my weakness. He was my strength…When I had none left."

They'd spoken of many things that night. What could have ended very differently…Ended with a promise to see each other again. A promise to push through. One day at a time. He found her.

Maliphant found her.​

"Many often…Wonder how I can maintain a marriage with the Corpse King. They speak of crudeness and base desires. They can't begin to fathom how I would sacrifice my youth for a partner I can neither touch nor derive any physical comfort from. For an Echani…This is heresy. His body would kill me, if it could. This…This is how. We are soulbound. A dyad of horror and the exquisite, twined, with the same black snare. He could be King or a pauper…And I will never be moved.", the soft words that spilled from her lips were nothing short of brutal honesty. He would feel the cruel wanting this moment caused her. The pain it lashed in her being, so bright, that it burned through her skin with the rapaciousness of a devouring acid pit. It was private, personal, but there was a purpose to her tale. "…He crossed space and time to find me on his own when my soul cried out...Not because he knew how. Not because he knew Srina Talon was in danger of succumbing to the final dark… But because, it couldn't be helped. We are one."

"I modified your device so that you would remain a watcher, a visitor, to the past, present, and future while it is in use. We are specters that they can neither hear nor see. We cannot interact with our surroundings. Our bodies are standing still in the Alchemy lab.", the alabaster haired woman explained gently, aware, that he may feel some level of disappointment. She owed him an explanation at the bare minimum for ruining the true purpose of his project. "Your mind is brilliant little tinkerer and one day you may be able to flow-walk without the aid of alchemy…But some things, no matter how tempting, are not ours to meddle with. Time is one such thing. As much as I long to turn back the clock…The memory must remain here."

"We can never undo what has been done. The past can be learned from…But in the end?"

She tore her eyes from the couple not too far away. Different people. Different lives. Watching Maliphant try and comfort her younger self was bittersweet.

"We must let it die."

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

"Breathe. . . "

Her voice was as whisper of life, tender and delicate, like the brush of a lips upon his soul. Each inhale carried the essence of the Nightlands—it flowed through him as an uplifting benediction, a soothing caress, that further rekindled the fires of awareness within his mind.

"Breathe for me. "

Each breath, Arkyrion's thoughts coalesced into harmonious clarity and focus. Srina Talon 's guidance held an indomitable grasp upon him, pulling him from the abysm of ghoulish purgatory and anchoring him firmly in the present moment. Right there, right beside her.

With a sense of quiet admiration, he offered a small nod to Srina, as if acknowledging the wisdom of her decision. Perhaps, even, asserting recognition in his own weakness—he commanded a fathomless level of discipline, tried to encase himself with such a lofty level of standards. But with this, and a certain few other things, he always found a nagging lack of willpower to resist. For now, it remained a conduit to a world of introspection and contemplation, a sanctuary for his mind to wander and explore the boundless realms of thought. A soothing withdrawal in to solitude, a placid journey in to the depths of his own soul.

"That's the Emperor, Darth Empyrean ? " Arkyrion's voice was a velvet whisper that seemed to flow through the air like an embracing breeze, "He looked, almost, like— " With his eyes still laboring to carry the weight of what was, the words that had began to unfurl like ancient parchment tomes in those hallowed halls that had just left behind, crumpled to silence.

As Srina's head tilted, a subtle inclination that seemed to echo the heavy weight of her memories. Her golden eyes, once ablaze with a reticent intensity, now bore the burden of sorrow, and he could feel it resonate through the Force—through her like a ballad of torturous verses that sang of loss and pain. With tender care, the young man floated his hand towards her, his palm shrouding over the round of her closest shoulder.

As the waves of her emotions washed over him, Arkyrion could not help but be drawn into the maelstrom of her feelings. It was as if he had been plunged into a sea of grief, his own soul echoing with the resonance of her suffering. He could taste the bitterness of her anguish, like stinging tears yet unshed. He could feel the chill of her despair seeping into his very bones, threatening to devour him for all time. Her misfortunes, like a torrential downpour in the blackest of nights, sensations so vivid he began to drown in their cruel depths. It was a heartache born of tragedy, the loss of innocence and the shattering of illusions.

Arkyrion's slender frame seemed to tremble beneath the weight of it, his fingers clutching upon her as if seeking to remit some sort solace, some infinitesimal comfort in the face of such profound anguish. But he knew that there were no words, no gestures that could truly assuage the depths of it all—so he just held firm, and steadfast.

And so, he stood there, a silent witness to her pain, his own heart heaving with the shared burden of her anguish. In that moment, the boundaries between them seemed to blur, and he felt as though he had glimpsed a facet of her soul that few had ever seen—a soul scarred by tragedy, yet still burning with a fierce determination to find meaning in the face of such overwhelming despondency.

His wispy fingers remained, like the delicate tendrils of a vine, offering a constant presence on her shoulder—an unspoken gesture of solidarity in this moment. He allowed her the space to speak, recognizing the importance of the words she voiced in such a haunting and candid way.

Arkyrion's gaze shifted back and forth, until finally, they remained fixed on the profile of Srina's face. He watched her with a profound attentiveness, taking in every nuance of her expression. Her eyes, yes, they held the echoes of severe tragedy, and he saw in them the reflection of a soul scarred by loss and betrayal. But in equal measure, they peered on, perhaps stronger than ever before.

As she spoke, her words reverberated through him, and he listened with a depth of empathy that transcended mere understanding. He could feel the raw emotions that welled up within her, the anguish and rage, the unquenchable thirst for vengeance that had driven her to the brink of damnation and then carried her back to newer and even higher heights than ever before.

Arkyrion's own emotions swirled within him, curiously compassionate towards her, perhaps even remarkably so for someone as youthful as he. He recognized the pronounced tragedies that had shaped this woman, the crucible of suffering that had forged her into the formidable presence she now embodied. In this moment, he was not just a witness to this one, almost mythical moment of her life—but a companion, sharing in this journey through the depths of her own soul.

He absorbed every word, every syllable, as if they were fragments of a sacred incantation, a testament to the enduring strength of her spirit. Her pain became his pain, her sorrow his sorrow, and in that connection, he found an astonishing sense of kinship with her. He had never absorbed such raw, such real, energy before. Never felt something, somehow, so dark—yet pure.

Love, true and honest love, what would he know of it? His only involvement in such a concept was that of any man his age, at this point, mere proximity infatuations that lasted the width of an evening or the span of only a mere few weeks. Before, there was a new experience to revel in, and a new heart to tease—minor play things to pass the nights by with. Nothing of this magnitude, not now, and perhaps not ever.

Time seemed to stretch out into an eternal expanse as he weighed his words with meticulous care, the little tinkerer, measuring each ingredient as if for the most intricate of concoctions. After all of her words had been spoken, he let the silence linger and loom inward upon them.

"In the unfathomable abyss of the temporal sea, I cast my net, and there I weave with the strands of fate. To filch moments from the past is to barter with the future, and in the ledger of time, the ultimate price is exacted. For every stolen second from yesteryear, an hour of retribution looms on the horizon. To pirouette upon the apex of vast eternities is to embrace madness, for time is a remorseless creditor, and its recompense is naught but the very essence of one's soul. "

Wreathed in the folds of his dark, billowing robes that seemed to sway gently in the unseen currents that swirled around them. He wore an expression of serene patience, his alabaster skin seeming to absorb the ambient light of the flora and glittering crystals, casting him in an impalpable glow. He chose to affirm her lesson first and foremost, he understood the significance, he understood the vulnerability of allowing him to witness this. It was, perhaps, a whisper too philosophical—but he had just inhaled a lung full of spice.

"Srina, " he began, his voice a gentle cascade of sound, though it was perhaps uncouth to stray so far away from decorum, "Was it all worth it, though? " He didn't speak about the pain, no, he struck towards the experience. However fleeting it all may have been, no matter the terrible losses she has had to endure, always moving forward. "For those moments you shared—for this. "

Carefully his hand finally released itself from where it had rested this whole time, gesturing slowly towards the two that rose up in the distance.

"Would you do all of this again? " He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air for just a moment. "Go through it all again? " Arkyrion's eyes bore into Srina's with a profound sincerity, "If you could, would you change it? "

"The past must die, but if it were not so, would you not have changed it all? Perhaps a farm over a throne? "

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
______________________________________________________​

"It is…"

Her voice was softer when she referred to the ivory-haired male that shared so much of her own coloring. The version of herself that spoke so openly, so earnestly, with the person the Emperor had been seemed smaller than she was now. Decades prior she'd mistakenly held some notion of hope that the galaxy wasn't as cruel as it seemed. That aspect had warped, changed, and turned her into the villain for so many stories. "His name was Maliphant. He was…Inventive in all ways that mattered."

"So clever that he ran circles around most galactic powers with ease… He never needed much. The galaxy never gave him anything easily. But it never mattered."

She was one of the few things that ran contradictory to that statement. Need. It was a strange thing to not only want someone else so completely but to require them in the same way the lungs required oxygen to keep functioning. Srina had been entirely unaccustomed to such a state. She'd tried for years to break it down into scientific parts, into a series of biological chemicals that might explain her husband as a necessity—But there was no data to explain it.

It just…Was.

A quiet smile touched the kiss of her mouth while the young man at her side tried to get his bearings. She'd already had her moment of déjà vu. It was time for the student at her side to adjust to what she had already acknowledged. "You could be twins from a distance. Admittedly…I might have passed by your classroom without a second thought were it not the case. Your similarities drew me momentarily…But it was your intellect that held my curiosity—"

"Especially when I realized what you were up to. Alchemy is already not for the faint of heart."

One wrong move and his insides could have easily become his outsides. When it came to her story…Her delivery was strangely distant. As if she were talking about someone else. It was her presence in the Force that betrayed her glacial tone. She remained in control at all times, in all things, and even when her heart was laid bare…Srina was an immovable, untouchable, and unbreakable object.

The hand she felt on her shoulder did not change that.

Yet…There was the smallest of fractures that let a delicate hand lift and settle atop his. She could feel her pain rolling around inside him and sought to draw it out. Pulling, slowly, like drawing poison from a terrible wound. It was her burden to bear, even if, he walked this memory at her side. Most would have fallen to their knees. Broken, like unforgiving waves crashing along a jagged shore.

He did not.

Rather…He listened. That was a unique quality among Sith young and old. Most acted with hedonism or waffling ineptitude but this student seemed wise beyond his years. They might have looked to be about the same age but the ephemeral ivory creature at this side was most definitely his elder. Time…Time truly was remorseless. It might have been a philosophical take but it was apt nonetheless.

Metallic orbs stole from the conversing pair at the gentle cadence of her name rolling from a silver tongue. If she minded being addressed directly, she said nothing, and instead her head tilted almost hawkishly at the query. There was a pregnant pause while she considered her answer. Vast and wide as a valley with no end before her head tilted back and her eyes settled on his. Was it worth it?

"…Every moment."

Were there things she wished she hadn't lost? Was there some part of her that she had sold in exchange for her vengeance, for revenge, for the death of her child? Yes. But would she repeat the same steps that she had taken before? Yes. It would be a hard concept for most to grasp…Who wouldn't want to prevent the death of their own child? "Without these experiences…I would not be who I am and it would be little more than a false half-life. I have been feared. I have been…hated. Reviled with a fire so unyielding that I felt purified, born anew, by the sheer intensity of it…But I have also been loved and adulated in equal measure. Not many of our people can truthfully say that."

Srina chuckled softly, suddenly, and the sound was lighter than air. Almost avian in the way it chimed like beautiful silver bells. "Fear not little tinkerer…I may have my farm, yet."

"But until then...I will be what our people require....maiden, warrior, murderer, mother, administrator, heretic, witch, crone...It matters not. What say you my young alchemist? What would you change?"

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

In the silent aftermath of Srina's poignant revelation, Arkyrion remained a somber presence, his alpine and gangling frame exuding a sense of compassionate understanding. He listened with an attentive ear, his rich twilight eyes reflecting the melancholy of the moment. The weight of her words hung in the air, like an unspoken truth that resonated deep within him.

"Maliphant," he began with that voice, profound yet so silken—it carried the weight of his empathy entirely unabashed, "I've heard the rumors, about the Emperor, that radiate through the halls of the Academy. It's often hard to decipher the falsehoods and embellishments that arise in a place like that, but I have not once doubted he was something less. To achieve what he has, what you have, I don't surmise you could be any other way. "

Arkyrion twisted his own gaze in soft reverence, honing that midnight hue off towards the figures that were, soundlessly reflecting upon the moment. The pair of them, Emperor and Empress, seemed indeed to cast a long shadow, their legacy stretching across the Galaxy. He understood the allure of what she saw, such brilliance—the kind that could eclipse even the grandest of galactic powers. It was, unquestionably, a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who dared to explore the furthest reaches of knowledge and adversity.

When his eyes returned once more, the quiet smile that graced the Srina Talon 's lips was like a fleeting breath of solace amid that storm they were emerging from, a mere glimmer of warmth in the cold abyss of that black night. Her words held the cadence of a distant memory, a reflection of times long past, and the young man at her side struggled to find his footing amidst the echoes of anguish that haunted his thoughts. Her reflections.

As the weight of her emotions had pressed upon him, as the sorrow and torment swelled within the confines of his spirit still, a hand, light as a whisper of wind through verdurous fields, rose to meet his. The process was gradual, the meticulous purification of a wound left to fester. A careful unraveling of the tendrils that had taken root within his psyche. As her ethereal touch worked its way through, he felt the gradual release, the slow unwinding of the coils from around his spirit, like a serpent releasing it's prey—hers alone to bear, but he would have carried that weight, even so freshly introduced, right beside her.

"The likeness, indeed, it's uncanny. " Arkyrion mused, his voice a whisper of reverence for the irony that had brought them together this day. "The line between creation and annihilation is razor-thin, " he acknowledged, tipping his head gently with a nod. "It offers no quarter, a dance with forces beyond mortal comprehension, a delicate balance between power and peril. Beyond my scope, at times, out of my current reach much of the time. But I find myself powerless towards the prospect of simply yielding to the challenges, rather just, constantly driven to continuously rise and grasp towards whatever victory I can fumble for. "

"…Every moment. "

The weight of truth hung heavy in the air, every word a drop of wisdom falling into the vast reservoir of his understanding—it was a sentiment that resonated deep within his own soul. The dichotomy of her experiences, the duality of love and hatred, fear and adulation, painted a vivid portrait of a life lived at the extremes of emotion. To be both feared and loved, to bear the weight of revulsion and adoration—was a testament to the multifaceted nature of her existence.

He understood, in that profound moment, the fires of adversity had tempered her spirit, reshaping her into a force to be reckoned with. Her words were a revelation, an affirmation that every experience, no matter how painful, contributed to the complex fabric of one's self. Strength. As he stood there with her, his eyes radiated with a newfound inspiration. Her story, her unapologetic acceptance of her past, had ignited a spark within him. The weight of his own choices, his own moments of reckoning, whatever they may be, took on a new significance.

"I believe you will, and there will not be a thing that could stop you. No matter the struggle. "

Her next words, though, they seemed to transform him in his entirety. In introspection, he stood, gazing into the crevasses of his past with eyes like twin pools of melancholic twilight.He let the moments wash over him, the memories, like aeriform whispers, flooding his consciousness. Arkyrion realized that he had not yet lived a life worthy of harboring any sort of regret. He had seized mere moments, painted his destiny with the hues of audacity, and left no stone unturned in his relentless quest for enlightenment thus far. There was shame in that.

"I'm afraid, to this point, I have no answer. I have yet to face that level of adversity to even begin to compare, or even contemplate, what I might want to change—were I able to do so. "

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
______________________________________________________​

"The Sith do enjoy their…Gossip."

There was a certain level of diastase in her tone that she didn't bother hiding. For all the faults of the fallen Confederacy, there had been rather minimal levels of theatre among those running the nation. There were squabbles with underlings, certainly, but the major heads of the government had always maintained unified goals. In that regard, popular or otherwise, decisions were handled smoothly. It made Geonosis and later Naboo captains of progress and industry.

It let the nation thrive for decades without fail.

Were it not for the unforeseen Cataclysm that brought the superpower to its knees it was very likely that it would have remained standing. The Sith Order was often the opposite. Destroyed not through outside forces but from within, from political sabotage, from senseless, pointless infighting. They were always so focused on taking power from each other that they never stopped to wonder why the galaxy was in the state it was in. Why it was that their notoriety had faded. Why their enemies were brazen, bold, and thriving. They were consequently…

Arbiters of their own demise.

"The myth, the legend, is what stills the hand of the Jedi while we remain shrouded. What the Emperor has actually become versus what he was thought to have been…They will never know. They will make their best guesses, and tell their little stories, but they are ignorant. It is truth and lie—Forever entwined."

This young one who appeared to be so visually similar to her Maliphant had a peculiar viewpoint that she found herself easily able to understand. Often, her lack of aptitude for social graces left her open to misinterpreting basic information no matter how perceptive she truly was. It took her longer to grasp the emotional goals of others when they hid their desires between weaving words and clouds of subterfuge…So she preferred to cut to the heart of the matter. She ended clever games of words and placed her cards on the table.

There was no lie in her. No hubris. No overdone show of strength, merely, an expression of what would be and what would not be. This student seemed to accept her standpoint.

"I have been told that I am a conqueror…I will likely endeavor to conquer that distant dream but I am conscious of my weaknesses. I am just as fallible, just as likely to lose, as I am to win. No matter how powerful we become…There's always a bigger pond to contend with. ", Srina responded after a moment, thinking, back to a time when she'd lived in a small cottage on Naboo. With little more than a few droids for support. Trying to live the life of a flatscan human versus a dominating figurehead that obviously had a Forceborn destiny. It had been like trying to hold back an ocean tide with her bare hands…Impossible. But, perhaps…Perhaps she could maintain an illusion of freedom and a mundane life.

Even if it was only for a little while.

Srina waited patiently for a response to her inquiry. There was no wrong answer. Just as he had felt the weight of her memory, her pain, she too experienced what he drew to the surface. It was lighter. She saw the wistful dreams of an intelligent being and a collection of experiences that led to an inevitable conclusion. Her head nodded, slowly, with understanding. Her focus had almost entirely shifted away from the clandestine and star-crossed meeting in the Nightlands toward the much taller individual at her side. It was rare, exceedingly, that she felt the need to invest anything in anyone other than those whom she considered her own. The Sith were too…Unpredictable.

"Take solace in that. Enjoy, the concord afforded to you by youth…It will not last.", she murmured almost gently to ensure that he might truly hear her intent without finding offense. The fact that he had not experienced some sort of calamity that forced him to reshape himself into something he no longer recognized was a benediction. A gift. A blessing. "You will have your day in the sun..."

"There will, one day, be a moment when you realize that the weight of the galaxy bends for you. Not against you. That the very air we breathe is a weapon to be wielded, when, you feel power fill your veins to the point where it leaves you blind. When the denizens of the universe have no choice but to refer to you as a deity because they lack comprehension and grace to know the truth…It will come."

"You need only stay the course."

Enough time had passed since they'd last utilized the chronal device that had sent them to a moment of her past. It was time to return to the present. Her point had been made, plus, she felt efficacious in explaining to an ambitious Sith that knowledge, insight, and strength would come in time. It was not a process that could be rushed by forcing projects forward regardless of the consequences. Rather—It would serve him well to recognize his own limits. To choose when and where to break them to gain the most beneficial return for his gambit.

Certainly…Not for a paltry expulsion hearing.

She charged the device without moving and in the blink of an eye he would feel that same desperate pull that stole them through the depths of time and settled them back in their bodies. Srina immediately reached for the student to steady him when their spirits returned to the Alchemy lab with a vicious snap. The force of it shoved several of the closest workspaces back from them, pushing over beakers, bottles, and anything not nailed to the floor. There was an audible sound that was reminiscent of a concentrated sonic boom. The time-traveling devices settled, winding down, and synchronization returned to the classroom. His peers were…breathlessly curious.

For them? They would have only experienced a few seconds of time passing whereas it would have felt much longer for Srina and Arkryion. She waited, much like before, for him to catch his breath.

To remember her command. To breathe. For her.

"Are you here with me little tinkerer?"

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

". . . A deity, " Arkyrion breathed out slowly, finding himself entangled in the coils of a forgotten memory, a repressed memory, a very dim recollection of a world that had been devoured by the voracious maw of time—its name buried beneath layers of obscurity. It was a world, long lost yet ever-lingering, where the boundaries between mortal men and the Gods were as tenuous as a spider's silk, a place where men and women aspired to ascend to the divine echelons.

In the grim drapery of that nameless realm, a perpetual rhythm of war and violence played out, an unending cycle of bloodshed that stretched beyond every vast horizon. The skies of that enigmatic world were eternally bathed in a crimson glow, as if the very firmament wept bloody tears for the ceaseless carnage below.

In that forgotten land, the very ground seemed to hunger for conflict, birthing battlefields that bore the scars of countless confrontations. There, ambition knew no bounds, and mortals vied to become gods through a cauldron, boiling with brutality and conquest—no matter what the cost may be. Arkyrion's memories whispered of a society where the mortal coil was but a temporary vessel, a chrysalis awaiting its transformation into something greater. It was a place where men and women reveled in the savagery of combat, their deeds etching their names into the annals of myth, propelling them toward apotheosis.

"A sentiment that my people, my true people, " his voice emanated with a sibilant allure, as if beckoning her to lean in closer, to surrender to the sinister cadence of his utterances. "Have surrendered themselves to in their entirety, only to take what power they have aggregated, and unleash suffering at a scale that would rival entire galactic conflicts. All from the surface of a single world. The words you say, the very essence of my being finds such a strong romanticism there. With the experience I lack, however, my heart wishes rather to mend this shattered Galaxy, this. . . conspiring Order. Perhaps when I have endured trials, overcome true tribulations, I will see that to fix what is broken—it must be bent. "

Idealism was indeed the song of those that had not yet had to withstand the true horrors of life.

"This lesson, memory. . . wisdoms, you have shared with me here. I am grateful for it. All of it. "

No sooner than the words strode from behind his lips, Ryloth vanished, and the suffocating miasma of a chronal chasm had returned. Time's tentacles had ensnared him, and through the veil of aeons, he clawed his way forward with her. His passage was an inscrutable odyssey, where the very essence of existence groaned and thrummed in eternal dissonance.

His descent into the tumultuous flux of the ages began with the inky murkiness of an abyssal past, where the primordial darkness loomed as an omnipotent monolith, whispering cryptic secrets to the unwary. In that antediluvian nightmare, he was but an ethereal specter, a figment adrift in a sea of preternatural aberrations. It was a time when stars swirled like cosmic whirlpools, and eldritch beings strode the earth with blasphemous impunity.

In that relentless voyage, he plunged deeper into the time's maw, transcending epochs as one would ascend steps of a surreal staircase to the very edge of madness. Each era was a fractal labyrinth of horrors, where sanity dwindled, and reason was but a fleeting whisper.

He tread through aeons shrouded in twilight, where the remnants of civilizations had crumbled into eerie relics, and the very essence of life's meaning had eroded into oblivion. Each footfall was an echo in the caverns of entropy, and his form quivered like a mirage in the sepulchral gloom.

As he clawed his way ever forward, back to the present, the crescendo of temporal turbulence reached its zenith. His mind, an asylum of fractured thoughts, grappled with paradoxes that twisted like the writhing tendrils of a cosmic leviathan. The very fabric of time quivered in his presence, wailing in tumultuous dissonance.

Finally, as if plucked from the jagged jaws of temporal dissolution, he emerged from the yawning abyss, returned to a semblance of his former reality. His chest tight, hands contorted in to grotesque claws, straining so tightly, had they held for but a single breath longer the very bones of their slender structure would have fragmented in to a jig-saw of shattered razors. Breathing. Breathing. . .

Oh, he remembered her words, he'd not forget a single syllable they had shared.

"Are you here with me little tinkerer? "

He heard her speaking through the impalpable haze, his senses returning, a frisson of otherworldly dread pervading the very essence of his being—the air itself tingling with an uncanny vibrancy. As a malevolent kaleidoscope of colors swirled and danced in the arcane tempest of his mind. "I'm here. . . " Was all he replied, perhaps more breathlessly than even the many eyes that had suddenly returned to gazing upon them.

His sentience, this time, had returned much more quickly. The sound of retorts, alembics, and intricate coils tumbling from their pedestals, producing a cacophonous discord as they crashed upon the ground—birthing vivid echoes in his ears. The dim light of Alchemy II, piercing at first, left him blind and blinking as the shapes of his peers began to become tangible. A mere moment after, he was entirely fine.

"If you would take me from this place, " he began with an urgent sense of immediacy, turning his body towards Srina Talon , as his peers once more were aroused to chittering whispers, "my loyalty to you would be unyielding. I would see any task you set, get accomplished, or I would die trying. . . " This may very well have been his biggest gambit yet.

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
______________________________________________________​

"People deify what they do not understand, such, as they do with extremely advanced scientific advancements…", the alabaster woman explained with the barest shrug of slender shoulders. Everything she did, from moving to breathing, looked so fluid that it hardly seemed real. "It is known as magic."

Srina listened to the quiet information about his people, absorbing data, like a sponge. The Sith Empress had been known to devour any sort of information she could get her hands on. Old flesh bound tomes, datacrons, holocrons, and all manner of material that might let her learn just a little more than she had known before. She never stopped trying to improve herself. Never stopped trying to advance, even, if it was through something so simple as retaining knowledge.

How often had knowing that a random animal or plant on a foreign world was poisonous kept her alive?

How often had some long-lost Sith technique pulled her through an impossible situation?

All the time.

"Your heart is wild in reaching for such a lofty destination. Prepare it well."

The response wasn't meant to dissuade him for the nobility of his intent but to remind of the heights he was reaching for. Echani were a warring people…But the Sith? They made discord and betrayal an art form. The mental gymnastics it took for a powerful group to devolve into eating one another alive whilst their enemies profited from their corpses was staggering. "I am meant to be mother to them all…"

"But my younglings of the Order are…unruly and like to…bite."

He thanked her for sharing her thoughts with him and a ghostly smile swept across mercurial features in the same way a wave might clear sandcastles from the beach. There and gone. "Thank you for listening. Not all Sithlings are patient enough to mind their elders for more than a moment…"

He was strangely thoughtful. Well-spoken, for an Acolyte. Srina had crossed many in the wild and most could barely restrain themselves from trying to prove their worth. The sheer arrogance and apathy for life was staggering to the point of ridiculousness. They were of the Dark but they also required living and breathing people to see the nation into the future. Not every person living on Jutrand was Forceborn. Some were simply civilians that believed in the cause, supporters, families, and spouses of those who served. They didn't deserve to suffer for the hubris and folly of their leaders.

It was an unpopular opinion. Many of the factions within the Order saw their citizens at best as workhorses and at the very worst…They were considered property. It made her skin crawl.

Srina pulled them both from the shared lucid dream and took a moment to ensure that her companion had returned with all his faculties. Burnished metallic orbs could see him trying to find purchase in reality again and her hand remained an anchor on his arm. Her voice a lighthouse in his head. Slowly, lulling him back to the present with careful guidance. She had known it might not be pleasant but she was certain he would survive. The experience was often worth any level of discomfort…Especially, for the intellectually minded.

At his first words upon returning, Srina, found herself puzzled by his request. Had his mind not settled? Was he still partially on Ryloth? Had she not…Brought him home? Her head tilted while her eyes surveyed him for damage or a frayed consciousness…But he seemed well intact. "I don't—"

Then it dawned. Srina understood, now.

She was quiet once more while she considered what he was truly asking her. The achingly beautiful Echani found that she had enjoyed his company, plus, his way with words. His vocabulary was not something she held. He had a fire. A spark that seemed to be just waiting for someone to come and pass him a match. Could she help with that? Aid him in realizing his full potential?

Srina was uncertain and did not want to render him any disservice.

"I have never had an apprentice…I remember being one—But I have no frame of reference to offer you. My schedule can be intense and I have enemies large and small. My hours are long, and my designs, goals, and titles are frequently subject to change. In time…You may come to hate me, whether you remain loyal, or not. I am a difficult taskmaster. I was raised a soldier…Not a professor.", she breathed, easily, listing what she believed to be failures toward what he wanted. Srina was far from the ideal Master. She had duties to the Emperor, the Sith Order, and her family that required tending…And yet?

Part of her did not wish to turn him away. To see his talent and skill…Wasted in this deeply disappointing dungeon of mediocrity. To know that he had withered because she had refused?

It was unbearable. Heretical.

"Knowing this…Are you certain that you would be able to follow my lead? Would it still be your desire?"

She gave him the opportunity to recant. No matter how she felt about it…She would be remiss not to let him know before agreeing to enter her service exactly how difficult she could be. How shrewd and paradoxically methodical. He couldn't know what he asked for…

Her favor would place a target on his back from his peers and the factions.

Was he ready for that?

"If not…I understand. You will not require an expulsion hearing and may return to your studies without blemish on your record. This—I can assure."

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Back within the confines of Alchemy II, Arkyrion had let his gaze wander purposefully—passing over each student that dared to cast an inquisitive glance towards his and Srina Talon 's direction. The walls, like scarred monuments to the relentless pursuit of all things arcane, bore the vestiges of countless esoteric endeavors. Carved into the ancient stone, cryptic symbols writhed in eternal torment, their origins lost in the annals of forgotten knowledge. These etchings seemed to emanate a malevolent sentience, whispering unfathomable secrets into the very air.

Above, the ceiling reached into a starless abyss, an endless black void that swallowed the feeble light below. Flickering candles dangled from the same iron sconces, casting those macabre shadows that cavorted with eldritch revelry. It was all the same, but was he? Such a curious thing, that journey had been, he could not imagine himself remaining here after it. Not now.

Yet, amidst the spectral throng, his raptorial attention found its lodestar. Srina's burnished gaze, twin orbs of coruscating power that mirrored the infinite abyss above them—held him in their gravitational thrall. Within their depths lay the nexus of knowledge and authority, a volatile dominion of power, that he would stop at nothing to earn the approval from. Undaunted by the covetous gazes of his fellow acolytes, Arkyrion stood ensconced by the shroud of every possibility she may unlock within him. The cadence of her words resonated within, a canorous aria of dark and practical wisdoms and admissions—he listened, not with mere ears, but with the very core of his being.

"You have never had an Apprentice, " Arkyrion began with a subtle sideways pitch of his head, "I've never had a Master. "

He stood at solemn attention, his commanding height granting him a vantage over the gathered students that carried an air of natural authority. His gaze swept the room once more, with a practiced indifference, acknowledging his fellow apprentices without truly seeing them, for his focus remained reserved for her, and her alone.

Where her slender fingers had encircled his arm, Arkyrion's eyes, now pools of calm and measured devotion, descended from the gathered students to where her touch had been. That grip had felt like the beckoning of destiny itself. In that subtle pressure, he felt the weight of what her teachings may bring, resonating within his very bones.

When his eyes sought Srina's once more, they held a reverence that surpassed mere loyalty. They carried a profound understanding of the unspoken bond between master and apprentice, a connection that could transcend the waking realms, binding them inextricably in a shared pursuit of power and mastery. In that gaze, she would not find a simple subordinate seeking to pillage her guidance for naught but his own gain, but a vessel for her enlightenment—a conduit through which her legacy might thrive and endure, as timeless and unyielding as the Force itself.

He knew the dangers, that to stand beside her, would be as treading upon treacherous ground, where trust was a rare commodity and betrayal could lurk around every corner. The intrigues and machinations of Sith Culture were as lethal as any lightsaber, and he would have to navigate this labyrinthine web of power with the utmost caution. He knew it, yet, he remained steadfast.

"I believe hate to be wasted in that regard, a relic of a bygone era that has plagued those that follow this path for far too long. " He chose to address that first and foremost, "If you were unrecognized Sith Lord 12, or remain Empress until your last days, I would not feel differently. You have little time, and much responsibility? I have hands, I have legs—put them to use. " Arkyrion was devoid of unnecessary emotion or flourish, his voice one of quiet confidence, somehow never even bordering on bravado or ego. Yet it could cut through the chaos of battle or the murmur of intrigue with unwavering precision.

Arkyrion, in a fleeting moment of respite, raised his left hand to his alabaster locks, a cascade of white silk that framed his sharp features. The soft caress of his fingers brushed the strands away from his pale visage, revealing the calculating depths of his tanzanite eyes more clearly. His hand moved with a graceful economy of motion, a gesture that bespoke both elegance and a surprisingly chilling detachment. Not a single word she had uttered had dissuaded his gambit in any way, if anything, he felt only more emboldened by the substance of those lustrous syllables.

"Anyone can read books, gaze upon and listen to holocrons—follow their instruction. It's what I've been doing since I entered this Academy, it's something I will continue to do, as well, until my final breath is drawn. But I believe the words I say, the criticisms I have, and we need more Soldiers. More Warriors. More people like you, that are built in an entirely different way. Quills are very powerful tools, but swords and rifles are what get the job done, so that the ink may flow. "

Arkyrion, his features chiseled from the very stone of bold and fortified determination, leaned his head down towards Srina with the careful deliberation of a nexu hawking its prey before the pounce.

"Accept me, and I shall follow your lead—no matter where that journey goes, or however brutal it may be. "

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
______________________________________________________​

In the dim-lit confines of the Alchemy II lab, the Sith Empress stood tall at the side of the young student that her instincts had taken a shine to. Regardless of the title she now carried the Echani had always held an air of regal authority, and in the moment, her presence remained stalwart. Otherworldly and ephemeral. Her long white hair fell like a waterfall and when she moved, it swayed, and reflected the artificial light in fractals. As if she drew it in and pushed it away. The golden fire in her eyes fixated on her little tinkerer. He…Wanted her teachings? Truly?

Not many would be bold enough in all Jutrand to seek her guidance so directly.

"You should only have one Master…This decision should not be made lightly."

She moved slowly as she set the device back down in his work area. He seemed to have considered the ramifications, but Srina was cautious for both of their sakes. She had no desire to raise a youngling that was destined to put a dagger through her heart. The draping garments she wore of pristine white, twined with red, and adorned with intricate gold detailing left her an embodiment of purity tainted by the allure of the Dark Side. It was a mockery of the Light.

But also, part of her heritage.

"Little tinkerer…", Srina's voice resonated, gently, but with a melodic and commanding tone that was hard to ignore. It made his peers jump and stare, even more than they already were. Would she flay him alive for his audacity? Would he be punished for making such assumptive requests of the only one in the Order that could temper the Corpse King? "You stand at the threshold of power and I find your desire to be molded to be both commendable and perilous. Tell me, why do you seek to become my apprentice?"

"I'm sure that there are other Sith that would gladly take you under their wing. Such intellect should not be wasted…Even the soldier that I am can acknowledge that."

The air in the classroom almost seemed to crackle with her potential for both creation and destruction. Srina's mercurial gaze penetrated the young acolyte's very essence, demanding truth, and ambition in equal measure. Soft fingers reached up to find his cheek so that she might guide his eyes back to her own. She did not require his subservience—But his honesty. He spoke with the finesse of a poet…But what did his heart cry out for? What were his motivations? How had she moved him in moments, when it seemed, his professors were incapable?

"Power is indeed the currency of the Sith Order. I have it. This inherent truth draws you into my being… But it is not enough to crave the promise of it; one must be willing to embrace the darkness within. A journey at my side will be treacherous, fraught with challenges and sacrifices…Do you understand that?"

She gestured with her free hand around the Alchemy II lab where vials of mysterious concoctions and arcane symbols adorned the shelves. Her other remained on his cheek, slowly, keeping his focus on her. Only her—Not his peers who still expected her to snap his neck for the thrill of it. They feared their betters far more than Srina would have thought possible. "Alchemy, as you know, is a manifestation of the Darkside's influence on the physical realm. It is a tool, a means to reshape reality to our whims. As my apprentice… You will delve not only into these forbidden arts but all that is secret. All that is forbidden. You will not be afforded an ounce of mercy…"

Srina locked eyes with the young man once more and he would find that her golden orbs held a mix of promise and warning. She did not want to crush his dreams nor diminish his promises to serve and obey…But she required that he understand her position. It was her duty as mother, maiden, and crone to the Sith Order to ensure that he knew…Everything. She drew his face down to her height and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. A seal. An unspoken request of forgiveness for all that she may one day put him through. She owed him that much. "Understand this, young one: power comes at a cost. You will be tested, both by the trials of the Sith and the crucible of your own desires. But should you prove yourself worthy, diligent, and loyal—I shall grant you the knowledge and mastery that only an apprentice of mine can wield."

A ghostly smile played on Srina's lips, and he would feel it against his skin, while her enigmatic expression revealed neither approval nor dismissal. "Are you prepared to embrace the darkness? To walk this path of night with me?"

"If so…Speak your name."

She let go of him and took a step back to give him space. To give him the chance to think and breathe without her power swirling around him, blinding his senses, with the scent of jasmine and rain. "Speak your name—And become mine."

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Arkyrion's gaze, a molten fusion of fascination and reverence, remained fixed upon Srina as she delicately returned the chronal device to the Alchemy workbench. His eyes tracing her every movement with an intensity that was beginning to border on zealotry. The way her slender fingers, so deft and precise, cradled the device like a precious relic from forgotten eons, even though it was anything but. The way she supplely swayed with every movement, such fluidity and grace—as if she were floating.

His eyes were always keen, always watching, disquisitive of even the smallest minutiae of all things. The touch of Srina Talon 's hand upon Arkyrion's pale cheek sent ripples through his senses, akin to a tremor emanating from a dark, cabalistic fissure—pitching him back in to the heaviness of her gaze. Her fingers, gentle yet laden with the weight of millennia-old knowledge and power, brushed against his skin like the elusive caress of some lost and forgotten deity.

He could feel it—the palpable aura of power that emanated from Srina, how it surged and receded,a tidal force that could craft or sunder worlds with a mere thought. A siren's song, beckoning him to plunge deeper into its depths, to grasp its unfathomable mysteries. Why her?

"That's why, " he began so simply, "That power, that ascendent authority—your will. You're very different, different from any other Sith Lord that has come to stalk these halls. Megalomaniacs, egomaniacal narcissists, self-absorbed conjurers, pompous. . . politicians. " That word furled out from behind his lips with particular animosity, "all the same, all eager to acquire a pet to bow and scrape beneath their monumental might. They seek mere tools to be used and discarded, to be bent and broken, perhaps something to be used to pass the lonely hours of their nights with. But I will be dead, before I am anyone's slave. " His voice was a profound resonance, akin to the somber tolling of a grand and glorious cathedral bell, each word imbued with the sanctity of a sacred vow he had made to himself and the depth of a boundless soul that sought a mentor, an authoritative figure to hone and guide his ambitions, an ally he could stand by no matter the odds set before them.

"I understand every syllable, and I remain resolute. "

Her touch upon his cheek was such a tender sensation, as if she held all of the keys to hidden marvels beyond the very veil of existence, and his skin tingled in response. Yet, it remained those eyes—radiant vortices of power and mystery, that bound him to her will. "I seek no mercy, now or ever. Tear me asunder, and I will pull myself back together, stronger than before. "

Her lips were as a silken whisper against his ivory forehead, as soft as the first caress of twilight upon the horizon—their supple warmth seeped into his very soul. As her breath cascaded upon his pale brow, her whispered words painted visions of uncharted realms upon his mind, each syllable a seductive brushstroke upon the portrait of his consciousness.

Arkyrion, released from her touch, rose back to his towering height gracefully. The warmth of her kiss lingered upon his brow, an indelible mark that branded his very essence, his gaze was a piercing lance, probing the depths of her being—seeking to show that he took her words earnestly. In that hushed interlude, as the echoes of her whispered wisdom and warning cascaded through the labyrinthine corridors of his mind, his thoughts churned like a cyclone within the very depths of his being.

He parsed the profound weight of every word she had bestowed upon him, investigating each nuance and implication. Complete and utter intellectual dissection, his mind a relentless scalpel, carving through the layers of her cryptic guidance to unearth and appraise each and every gem of enlightenment. He delved into the abyss of his own existence, the turbulent undercurrent of ambition and desire that had driven him to this point. He knew the path ahead would be shrouded in shadows, a path that would demand sacrifice and ruthlessness. But now, he stood at a crossroads, where the boundaries of self were tested, and the very nature of his purpose might finally have found the peak it had sought to reach, come in to view.

Was he just fanciful words, or was he the very embodiment of them? The actual actions.

The room, silent save for the whispering echoes of his peers' voices, seemed to hang in a state of suspended animation. It was a moment outside of time, a juncture where the fabric of reality itself quivered with anticipation. He knew his answer, he'd known it from the very second her fingers had brushed upon the chronal device he very likely would have been ejected from this Academy over. This path, for him, was over. He was ready for the next, with her.

"I am, " he said very slowly, his body drawing closer, right back in to that perfumed, jasmine rain.

"Arkyrion Malachar. "

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Location: Jutrand [Sith Academy]
Wearing: XoXo
______________________________________________________

"I am, Arkryion Malachar."​

The pale Empress observed Arkryion Malachar with an expression that gave nothing away. Her golden eyes, flecked with silver, traced every nuance of his demeanor as he spoke his name, affirming his vow. The dim-lit room seemed to hold its breath, an anticipatory stillness lingering in the air. The weight of his decision, the gravity of their newfound connection, manifested in the profound resonance of his voice. Her gaze flickered with the flames of an ancient fire and she held his sight with a mixture of approval and intrigue. He had chosen to transcend the mundane. "…By your word…"

"You have chosen to enter my house of your own volition."

The moment hung in the air, suspended between the old life and the new, between the acolyte seeking knowledge and the Sith Empress ready to shape him. Srina's ghostly smile reappeared, with a flicker of life and solidarity that recognized his resolve. She extended her hand once more—This time not to guide but to beckon him. That same scent of jasmine and rain would wash over him with a buzzing pull of barely contained electricity.

"By your word…You are mine.", she declared, her voice carrying an echo of primeval authority. As he stepped closer, the unseen currents of the Force seemed to swirl around them, binding them together in a pact that was far more than mere words. She offered him a path forward. She offered him her knowledge, but more than that, a place at her side. Srina had a patchwork family of powerful individuals that would soon become his kin. They would aid in his growth. "You've taken the first step into my shadow and it is there that I will keep you until you are ready to cast your own. It will be your poison and the sweetest relief…"

With a graceful motion, Srina turned away from him, her long white hair trailing like a silken veil. She approached the Alchemy workbench and, with a swift and precise movement, retrieved the chronal device. The artifact began to pulse again with her unearthly touch. Brought to life, resonating, from her undeniable connection to the Darkside. She didn't fight the shadow…She didn't fight the whispers—Not fear the flame. She embraced it and it cradled her like a loving parent in return.

Srina would do the same for Arkryion.

"This is the only thing of value. Our first collaboration…Leave the rest. I will see to anything you require."

As the wintry woman turned back toward him, chilled, to a sub-zero perfection the entirety of the room seemed to shift. Their gaze had changed from wonderment to a mixture of jealousy and surprise…No doubt the rumors would begin to circulate. The room itself seemed to exhale all at once… As if acknowledging the presence of a new apprentice, the only apprentice, beneath the wing of their timeless Empress. Srina gave the other acolytes a hard stare that halted their surreptitious voyeurism. They averted their eyes, swiftly, as they sensed the weight of the moment.

Arkryrion would find that his whole world would begin to change. Doors would swiftly open that would have otherwise been closed simply by virtue of his mistress. He would find protection and guidance that mingled with a love so deep that it could only belong to a mother. "Come…Your life here has ended."

"Do not mourn the loss as your true journey has only just begun. It will be a path of enlightenment and trials but fear not the dark, little tinkerer. Our path awaits. There is much for you to learn and much for me to reveal. The mysteries of the Darkside are vast and you shall become a vessel for their unfolding…"

The echo of her power would fill the Alchemy II lab from floor to ceiling while she slipped her free hand into the elbow of the young man that she now claimed for a student. It was a deliberate show of possession so that any of his less-than-congratulatory peers might think twice before letting a jade-eyed monster get the better of them. The scent of jasmine and rain would return, lingering, as they left the lab and stepped into the empty corridor of the Sith Academy. "We have much to do…"

"But all the time we need. Would you be opposed to staying with me until accommodations can be made? The Academy is…"

Srina slipped into the role that was required of her without blinking. It was natural as breathing to sweep someone deserving under her wing. It had been her nature for as long as she could remember. To shuffle that which she governed into a carefully crafted space where they might learn of themselves and survive unimpeded by the injustices of the galaxy. "No longer suitable."

"Not for you, my Arkryion."

His path had just begun, and the echo of his name spoken by the Empress, reverberated through the halls. It heralded a new chapter. A new beginning. Srina…Only hoped to prove herself worthy of his faith. She was, wholly, undeserving…And yet he placed his fate in her hands.

Such loyalty…She did not yet know what to make of it. But, she would adjust.

She owed him that.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

A frisson of exultation coursed through him, like a wisp of haunting music on the breeze. The whims of destiny had favored him, and the darkness had whispered secrets known only to those who dared to venture into its inky abyss. He had seized Srina Talon 's attention, earning a place by her side, for a moment—he was unsure if this was real. Somehow, against the odds, he claimed this prize. Like a character from some moth-eaten saga, he stood as a testament to such boldness.

In his heart, the flames of victory blazed, casting long shadows that danced like marionettes in a sinister play. The fortress of opportunity had opened its gates, and he had crossed its threshold. This was a triumph not only of ambition but of the audacity to challenge fate and emerge victorious. He, whom had been placed upon the block for chopping, now belonged to the Dread Queen.

Arkyrion, in this poignant moment of vindication, had outwitted the whims of destiny and beckoned the Empress's gaze upon him. With that gaze came the promise of revelation, the embrace of ancient power, and a path that, while fraught with trials and darkness, held the allure of true enlightenment.

The very air quivered with her declarations, and he was the madcap actor on this eerie stage, entranced by her ethereal presence. But as those words lingered in the air, they cloaked him in a web of silence, each syllable leaving him breathless, unable to craft his own response. The deep pool of his thoughts mirrored the pitch-black obsidian robes that enveloped him, absorbing and distilling the essence of her words over and over again.

And then it came, a sensation that transcended mere words—an enchantment as captivating as a forgotten lullaby or a dreamy tale of otherworldly realms. A waft of jasmine and rain, a fragrant mélange that cocooned him in an embrace of timelessness, began to infiltrate his senses. The delicate scent wound around him like a ghostly veil, weaving the threads of rapture that would tether him to her will forevermore.

Her arm, sleek and poised, snaked into the cradle of his own, creating an unbreakable link between apprentice and mistress. In that moment, Arkyrion felt the allure of her power entwining with his very soul, like tendrils of ivy creeping through the ancient ruins of forgotten empires. Her essence melded with his, and the world outside this bonding dimmed in significance, leaving only the two of them, tethered by a force beyond the grasp of mortal understanding.

Arkyrion knew not whether he was bewitched or blessed, but one thing remained undeniable—the magnetism of the Empress, of his Master, had ensnared him in captivation beyond imagination, and the path before him beckoned with the enticement of both peril and revelation. The world had changed in that fleeting moment, and he was irrevocably bound to the woman who had agreed to take him as her own.

Grasp your senses, you fool! This was not the moment to lose himself in. Not now, not as she was so boldly whisking him away, in front of those fleeting glares, from eyes gone jaundiced with covetous envy, and spite.

The halls of the Jutrand Academy stretched out like nightmarish tunnels in the subconscious of a tortured mind, as they emerged from the room. Mossy tendrils clung to the stone like gnarled, skeletal fingers, reaching out for the few rays of light that dared to intrude into this abyssal expanse. The air outside of Alchemy II hung heavy with the scent of ancient tomes, mold, and forgotten secrets, as if the very knowledge contained within those thick, leather-bound volumes had turned to decay and dust. The flickering light of dimly glowing sconces, cast in Devaronian silver iron and shaped like grotesque devils, painted the walls with an eerie, shifting chiaroscuro, as though the shadows themselves whispered maddening tales to the brave or foolhardy souls who traversed this forsaken corridor.

Monstrous statues, leering and twisted, lined the passageway, their grotesque forms a testament to the darker obsessions of those who walked this journey. The faces, caught in eternal rictus grins or contorted screams, seemed to watch with an otherworldly malevolence. It was as though they yearned to step down from their pedestals and join in the macabre dance of knowledge and power—or perhaps strike them down right there where they now stood.

Above them, a ceiling obscured by time and grime bore the remnants of strange frescoes, their original meanings long forgotten, now warped and faded into bizarre forms, like surreal and fevered dreams. The very stones beneath their feet felt slick with centuries of corruption and hidden agendas, a treacherous path indeed for the unwary. But it was there, just beyond that door, that Arkyrion urged the march Srina had been leading him on, to a gentle and silent halt.

Arkyrion, with a sense of soft authority that was neither timorous nor meek, tightened the grip of his arm around Srina's. "Opposed? " The words came back to him again, finally, "not in any way, could I ever be, opposed to that honor. "

From her, his chin tipped carefully towards his shoulder, casting what might be the final glance he'd take of that place he had grown so crestfallen with.

"I can feel the rumors already beginning to form; they'll be singing of scandal before we reach the courtyard. " Breathed the young man with an air of execration, he'd never fit in with that sort of culture, never saw the attraction of gossip or obloquy. "What you hold there, what you refined and made whole, is all that I have. Other than robes that don't fit, and quills that have gone dull. "

"Whatever you wish or require of me, I will do. I need little more than a pad to sleep on, maybe a few books—but whatever you give or provide me with, I shall cherish. I stand ready, even here, right now, to begin. Whether I die in this process, or exceed your every expectation, I shall never make you regret this choice—if I do, then may my death be by your own hand. "