Private Ongoing Procedures

[Darth Tennacus]

​

Location: Unspecified
Mentions: Darth Senthral Jhira Mereel


Following protocol, Tennacus could not permit the Mandalorian to know where they were going. Even though she had been stored within the cargo bay for holding, the Sith demanded that she take on a blindfold that could be wrapped around her visor, allowing her to maintain tradition to not remove her mask. It was unspecified how much time had passed since they propelled through hyperspace after leaving the battlecruiser, but when they jumped out they landed roughly twenty minutes later, docking on an unknown platform where Tennacus and Senthral carried her through a network of tunnels after leaving the Wandering Pilgrim. Mechanical whirring and hissing emanated all around them, but it was soon silenced once they crossed through the necessary corridors and climbed countless steps to reach a holding room. Tennacus had 77-B fetch a simple black robe, which the droid folded over a bed before the Mandalorian was permitted to remove her blindfold. She had been stripped of all noticeable weapons, with her jetpack taken by the droid for repairs at the Sith's request.

The room was quaint, its decor not grand, but comforting. It had all the essential facilities necessary: a single bed, fridge, cupboard, and toilet. A single window sat up over a desk beside the red-draped bed, but there was not much to see. The climate beyond was a grey expanse of darkness, with dome like structures rising up over the dull hue. The two Sith were standing at the doorway, but they would soon leave.

"Get changed into those robes," Tennacus started. He looked up at her mask, staring at it for a moment. ". . . Leave it on, if it makes you comfortable. It'll only be a matter of time before we remove it by force. But hold on to what sentiments you have for the moment; it doesn't matter what your beliefs and ideologies are. The Dark Side sees all. No amount of beskar will ever change that, but you will come to see that for yourself."

The Sith turned around, ready to walk downstairs. "When you are ready, go down to the residential lounge and wait there until Lord Senthral and I arrive. I suggest you avoid any temptations to escape; you are in the middle of nowhere, lost, but not for long. You have already started down the path set out for you. One way or another, the Force shall set you free."

The door sealed behind her, leaving her in privacy.

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

It was a strange, dangerous courtesy, to leave Jhira with her helmet. Despite her exhaustion and fear, she nearly constantly used its complex of sensors, enhanced senses and computing power to analyze both where she was, and the nature of her captors. But beyond the practical uses of the helmet, allowing her to keep it both gave her agency and an incentive to avoid suicidally stupid reactions. Neither one of which matched her general understanding of the MAW or treatment of prisoners of war.

Which left her with the unsettling idea that she was less a MAW prisoner, than a personal prize. Being carried off of the ship, however practical, didn’t help that impression. Though it did serve to impress her once more with their extreme fitness; a Mando in full armor, even without her weapons load out was not light. They had no enchantments that she could detect, no cybernetics nor powered body glove to assist.

Just stubborn determination and sorcery.

They had wrapped a cloth around Jhira’s Burc’ye to block her visor, but she had found no more sophisticated effort to blind and deafen her. Jhira collected more data than they would likely have preferred, even if not nearly enough for her purposes. Not nearly. Knowing they were on a small planetary body with a thin, oxygen-less atmosphere when they left the ship and began to traverse the platform was hardly going to help her. Gravity, too, appeared light, although science and artifice pressurized the atmosphere and stabilized the gravity to roughly 1 g. Her Helmet’s HUD kept feeding her a time/date stamp her droid brain insisted was accurate … expect that it was still dated the day before the Invasion of Rhand. Which made Jhira highly suspicious of any relevant data, even the 20 minutes or so of clocked hyperspace travel. An acoustic analysis showed they were in a complex of some sort; ship or station, she would guess? Large, anyway.

The long, endless seeming stairs were concerning; modern structures had lifts. And old ones … well old ones conjured images of ancient temples and tombs, bathed in cruelty and pain. Outer Rim, she told herself firmly. Just a cheap, third-hand installation on the edge of Wild Space.

The room that was revealed to her was wrong, in every detail. Clean and neat; the decor neither grand nor horrific. Kitchenette, bathing area, bedroom all in one. Comfortable - even comforting; a Junior officer’s housing, if she had to guess. How? Why? A false sense of safely permeated the small room, and oh how part of her longed to fall into it. To believe in it. And then she saw the window. Why? How? Her breath caught, not with hope, but bleak despite. How certain must they be, that escape was impossible, to allow a window out onto the local world?

The melancholy, dark voice of her captor summoned Jhira’s anguished attention from the grey, miserable view; heavy cloud cover made certain not a single star offered hope of orienting herself. Cybernetically, Jhira initiated the emergency-and-capture protocols to purge her helm’s memory of sensitive data, protect the Droid Brain and to encrypt what could not be purged. She had to trust that Breshig’s protocols were top of the line; Jhira was no computers expert. Reaching up, she loosened her helmet, sliding it free and cradling the precious thing in her hands. New; it was so new, and now to be surrendered to the enemy.

Their droid placed a simple black robe upon the bed, a silent warning of what was to come. Jhira acknowledged the droids service and the command to don the robe with a nod. Settling her new helm upon the desk, she was srtuck by the tragedy, terror and desperate heroism etched into her armor by the Battle of Rhand. Loosening her gauntlets, running battered fingers over the bitter legacy, Jhira pivoted to face her captors. So terrifyingly familiar had the two become, that she felt their intent to leave in nothing more than their stance.

“It is not the helmet which matters, truly. It is the armor which is enshrined in our ideology.” The helm beeped plaintively, distressed at being surrendered. It felt oddly like leaving a comrade behind enemies lines and she soothed it with a soft touch. “Some Clans and creeds forbid removing the helmet, but mine does not. You will mostly find the insistence upon privacy with some Death Watch factions or crusaders who focus upon battle, rather than family.” To Jhira’s mind, such diversity was not merely good, but necessary. A wide set of skills and philosophies held within the overarching reach of the Resol’nare kept her people strong and adaptable.

The follow up conclusion that no amount of beskar would save her from them, or the Dark Side, was greeted by a shrug. “A warrior is more than their armor.” And this battle? It would be fought on the inside.

The Force shall set you free.

If only that were so.

Grave eyes watched them leave; closing and blocking the door behind them, she spent a precious moment to wash off the fear and filth of a doomed world. Carefully, utilizing the remaining tools (hidden and obvious) in her armor and gear, she likewise engaged the emergency-and-capture protocols in her beskar’gam. Scavenging and hiding what she could about the room was reassuring; Jhira was a more-than-competent mechanic in her own right. This left her only in her body glove, shrouded with the soft, black robe they had assigned.

All the armor she had left, was wrapped around her heart and mind.

Squaring her shoulders, and trusting her on-board systems to track her path back, Captain Jhira Mereel began a systematic recon of the areas available to her. Every door, hatch, plumbing fixtures and electronics-run mapped and cataloged, before being either intercepted or simply, inevitably discovering the residential lounge.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them, refusing to show the fear pounding through her. Vulnerable; she was hideously vulnerable and knew it. All but naked before an enemy whose weaponry could never be taken from them.

 

[Darth Senthral]

​

Darth Senthral

Location: Unspecified

Equipment: Double-Bladed Crimson Lightsaber, DL-22 Blaster Pistol, the Dark Side of the Force

Objective: N/A, otherwise bring Jhira Mereel to a different way of thinking, with Darth Tennacus ​

"The woman came before them, and saw herself as disarmed. Was she right? Was she wrong? A lesson I can give insight on." A quick glance to his Master, as if notifying him no disrespect was meant, but not enough time to see whether he was received or not. His eyes were back on the Mandalorian. He removed his armor, and rid himself of his weaponry. Placing it upon a table nearby, he was now in simple black garments, and snatched a cloak from that same nearby table. Had he been ready for this? Positively. Now he stood before her, cloaked in black, same as she was. Weaponless, to the eye that did not see beyond.

"I am not disarmed. I do not believe you are either. You've the power to take my life, even now, and yet... Would I ever let you do so? Not without fighting back no, I will tell you why you would lose. You have never accepted the Force, and yet maybe if even just an ounce, it is within you. Power, just there, waiting for you. You've not reached out for it, perhaps because you believe there is only strength behind your tradition. Your way of life. The armor you wear is a symbol, but you cannot deny your feeling of nakedness without it. Only you may give yourself the strength that those things cannot. Once you see that. Then you can begin hoping for escape, but then, will you want it? Open your eyes Mandalorian. There is more to yourself than a warrior, you know that. Even so, do you not think there is more to us than killers, murderers, or slayers?"

He feared his enemy, he would never hide that. For hiding it would suppress the power that could be drawn from that enemy. Nor would he cower in that fear, because then his life till then would be but a facade. He had put on no guise, he was Darth Senthral. Not Darth Rhys, or even Llahvyn Oloverel. In being that Sith Apprentice, he would always have a lot to unravel. A lot to do, and no shortage of things to say. However, he knew when to speak and when not to. So now he spoke his piece, and when he received an answer, he would return things to his Master. If it was so required, he would hand them over immediately. In truth, his words required thought, even for himself they did.

There was time he had spent formulating the feelings he meant to express, and the time to come to a contentedness at the opposing ideals. He was ready to face them whenever, now or later. To digest what was said in return, and give his own response when the time was right. He was sharp in his ideals, and furthermore who he had become. His words expressed that, and his actions would more so. Whatever Lord Tennacus gave the Mandalorian he too would limit himself at that. That was his lesson, that he could have the same restrictions and still do what it was that was needed. He only had a small inkling of a semblance of hope that his Master did not believe this irritating, that it would not forestall the coming events.

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

Darth Senthral
Jhira Mereel

Tennacus was seated on one of the thick, deep-cushioned red chairs before a small table, one leg folded over the other. Despite the metallic plates of machinery which veiled over his mouth and nose, the Sith Lord was still present with a transparent glass pinched lightly between his fingers, of which a straw protruded from the cloudy brown liquid within. He thought plenty about what they could do with her, with little consultation offered to his Apprentice simply due to the fact Tennacus was still not entirely certain himself. They needed to know more about her, but what he did know had struck itself blatantly within the Dark Side, and it had urged him to bring her back one way or the other. She was different, and she was in conflict. The Force was within her, but both its shadow and light were dim. The scale could tip in any direction without proper guidance. She needed to be shown, and the Force would guide her from there.

But which way had yet to be seen.

Tennacus closed his eyes at the sounding of his Apprentice. His head reached back into the puffed cushion, and the Dark Side pulled him in silently. Apologies and boasts of sincerity were not needed; Tennacus knew his thoughts, his intents and his feelings. That was Senthral's one obstacle to overcome: to outwit his Master, and eventually assume the mantle for himself. The day seldom came to him in blurred visions, but Tennacus knew that it was inevitable. He was growing, and not only in strength. Tennacus had seen him conjure a storm from his own emotions; now he needed to control them to make the storm his own. Rather than interfere in the conversation for the moment, the Sith Lord merely opened his eyes, albeit with little enthusiasm in them, and watched silently as Mandalorian and Sith alike unfolded themselves before one another.

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

The Darth Lord who yet refused to name himself held court from a large, elegant chair. Deeply cushioned and solidly built, even his furniture was strong. That dreadful breathing added a counter point to the beating of Jhira’s heart. He drank something … ale or hard cider, perhaps? The glass appeared dainty, elegantly held in his large hand. Grey eyes surveyed her thoughtfully, analyzing, considering. Idly deciding when the pain would start, she feared.

But it was Darth Senthral, the one with the tormented Lolth Wolf, who spoke the fears she’d sought to conceal. With no Yslana collar, her mind was terrifyingly open to them; unguarded.

Naked.

Jhira dropped to a combat stance as the Apprentice stood … and began to disarm. Such actions presaged a duel upon ‘equal’ terms amongst Mandalorians. Here, she had no notion why he slid out of his armor and set aside his deadly blade. But he made no move; he didn’t initiate battle, spar or brawl.

Confusion danced across her features, though she watch his hands and stance, no matter how fast he talked. It would have been easier for them to understand each other, she felt, if they’d have properly fought. Clarity came in battle.

Facts and suppositions came at her swiftly; the rapid delivery of someone who’d thought deeply and long about what to say. Passionate; it was the first sign of life she’d seen from either of them. Perhaps the Apprentice wasn’t entirely numb, the sorrow of his master not yet having frozen his heart?

“You are never without your greatest weapon,” Jhira conceded carefully. It was a matter of some bittiness, amongst the armor-wearing crowd, that Forcies were forever demanding everyone else at a diplomatic meeting be disarmed.

This felt much like that, except she wasn’t going home to complain about it later.

“Self-defense,” was her perhaps incomprehensible response to his statement that he’d defend himself. While it could have been condemning, it was more in recognition of a tiny sliver of common ground. A hint, a scent, a faint hope of understanding their incomprehensible actions.

A studied, careful silence followed his flat statement that she was afflicted with the Force. Fear surged; a greater terror held in it being true, than in dying alone, unremembered in this joyless place. Power, just there, waiting for you. Denial, bitter and fierce; she shook her head and took a step back from him.

She reached out, as if to stop the tirade of words. But she knew better; she had trained young warriors herself. So she braced herself, and listened all the way through. Her brow wrinkled, and she gracefully indicated the chair he had vacated.

“I’ve no quarrel with a sparring match or brawl, Darth Senthral. Nor would I refuse honest discourse. But I cannot tell, here, if I’m invited to learn your heart through combat or your mind through words.” A crooked smile appeared, despite a tension that should have rendered every movement stiff and awkward. No; wounded, tired, hungry, she still moved with a preternatural grace. A few light steps, and she fell out of her combat crouch to stand poised and easy before them - if tactically placed so that it would take just a bit more effort and time for them to flank her.

“Though I think … we both define strength differently. And I begin to suspect that you know as little of Mandalorians as I do of you two.”

A beat.

“And I know less of the MAW.” it was clear she still did not truly equate them with those who had destroyed Rhand; she knew where they had been, when that was happening. An assessing gaze danced over the two Sith; passionate apprentice and BORED Master. But something in the Apprentice’s final statement clearly exasperated her, and so she addressed him again.

The body language seemed sincere, even if the hint of fear about him was baffling. Was all disagreement met with death? Perhaps he feared his master’s wrath, if his gambit failed to make her … do what? A shake of the head.

“The difference between us lies in how we value and perceive strength, and in when and why we won’t kill. Not that we do. Do you understand?” A quiet curiosity was in the final question, not contempt. Was it possible that he was so steeped in blood and destruction that killing on a scale of less than a planet at a time simply didn’t register to him? “Will you tell me what you hate and condemn about my beliefs?”

After giving him time to answer, her gaze passed to the elder Sith.

The bored Master, in his vast chair; the ‘smile’ she offered him was more bared teeth than anything else. “And I know there’s more to how you see it than raw, physical strength. I was clearly the weakest adversary down there, measured by practical standards.”

Her chin lifted, and hands spread to the side. “So what sort of strength do you value?”

 

[Darth Senthral]

​

Darth Tennacus
Jhira Mereel

Words pierced philosophers like the greatest blasters the galaxy could brew up. To take blows in conversation was nowhere near like in the heat of battle, but the similarities were there. One gave ground so they could learn how to get more, and one learned quite a lot if they observed just as well as they performed. Senthral knew these truths to be self evident, and would use them at any corner necessary. "Surely you don't look down on me for the powers I've fought for? You are seeming hypocritical in your denial Mandalorian. The Force is within yourself, and you scold me for the bravery of reaching out for it? Some warrior."

There was no time for a spar here and now, and he held great confidence he would not need the force to stand on par. A Sith was too a Warrior, strength and skill were both equally important, on as many ends as possible to cover. So he knew hand-to-hand and knew it well, in preparation for any possibility in battle. "There are lessons to be learned by watching others, working with others, rather than battling them. You will grow to understand me if that is your wish, long as you keep your views widened" An advisory against being narrow minded, as well as sighted.

Senthral glazed over her mentions of his ignorance, for it was truth. It was obvious truth and had need of no mention, he knew of the Mandalorians. At every turn he read all that he could about whatever it might be that he faced tomorrow. Preparation was key, but even in that he acknowledged there was still ignorance. No matter of reading on any free-thinking society or anything of the sort ever did justice. One had to meet those people's themself, and compare the experience with that earlier knowledge. Dark willing the Mandalorian before them knew this well.

"As you would have it, I do not hate your beliefs. Though I would agree that I do disapprove of them. Your willingness to save those you believe need saving will weaken them for times to come. That fact, does anger me, and yet still that belief of yours that brings it along does not deserve hate. Though never mind hate, what happens when you cannot be there for those that need saving? They die in their weakness, I've seen it, for I was both the rescuer, the killer, and he who needed rescuing - all in one."

An open nod towards his Master seemed to end the chat, he had stated his cause, and the reasoning for it. If the Mandalorian truly held any interest, than it could wait. He imagined Tennacus was not without his own words, and then it was on to whatever he had for them to do.

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

It went without say that the two in their conversation amused him. But it was amusing as it was intriguing, given how they clearly represented two sides of the same coin. Jhira Mereel may have had some sturdiness to her, but she appeared to regard the values in accordance to the Light. Perhaps she would not be as vulnerable to conversion to the ways of the Sith as he had believed. But the Force did exist in her, in some aspect. If she truly wanted to, the shadow of the Dark Side could have been draped over her.

Tennacus looked over to Darth Senthral , light nod of his head recognising his withdrawal for the moment. "She is a bold-hearted specimen, isn't she, Lord Senthral?" The question needed no answer. Tennacus never waited for one, in any case. His gaze turned back to the Mandalorian. She leaned further onto an understanding of the Maw. Knowing too much about the enemy could be as favourable as it was sufferable, but it mattered very little at that point.

"We are a stepping stone," Tennacus answered. The Sith Lord leaned forward, setting the glass on his leg. "What we are now is not what we will become. You wish to know of our ideologies, but it will not help you understand our motives. The diversity among the ranks of the Maw changes like the tides of the ocean in the cycles of the moon. You should not be asking what you are? but rather where are you going? That is the answer that could help you understand us most, is it not?" The Sith Lord sat back in his chair, sinking slowly into the deep fabric as his shape moulded into it.

"You should learn to understand the ways of the Sith above the shadow they hide within. Once upon a time our ancestors draped themselves in the cowl of the Republic, and from that obscurity they cast themselves an empire. Sometimes you need to look beyond the veil - grow accustomed to what is beyond it. Learn of what truly waits within, and of the phantom menaces that lurk with intentions you never thought existed. So let me ask the question for you: Do you want to know the Maw, or do you want to know the Sith?"

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

The younger Darth was skilled with words; passionate, brave and dedicated. Yet Jhira had not been prepared for how observant he was. That was the worst thing these Sith offered. They paid attention, in a genuine bid to understand. To explain themselves, and perhaps learn something in turn. Yet, agonizingly, the conversation seemed slanted, off, as they just missed understanding each other.

“Scold?” A moment’s confusion creased her brow, before Jhira realized the Sith had felt her irritation with galactic custom, and thus mis-heard her surrender of one of his points as condemnation or mockery. He was in her head. In her mind. Fear coursed through her, adrenaline heightening her senses. The Bodyglove reacted to her biometrics, folding more tightly around her, anticipating wounds and battle to come. Forcing an easy stance and rigidly controlled breathing, she took a few strides and leaned upon the vacated chair.

“Your powers are tools that cannot be taken from you. However irritating I find the double standard so often applied to diplomatic events, I was conceding your point, not arguing.” A shrug and a brief, tight smile followed. “Is it so strange to you, that we might have a few points in common?”

The Apprentice stood with the easy, confident stance of a true warrior; tall, powerfully built. He’d be flawlessly trained, since if he was not, someone would simply kill him. But Jhira, she was a specialist, and melee was not her forte. Still, she was a Mandalorian and would have preferred to gauge his character from even a painfully lost sparing match, rather than mere words. Understanding was the best hope she had of finding a way out of here.

The precise wording Darth Senthral used drew her wary attention away from reflection, and fully back to him. What did he mean? What did he offer? “Working with you?” Her smile flared, a dark, wry amusement lighting her eyes, inviting rather than mocking or condemning. “Do you have a job offer for me, Darth Senthral?”

The firm statement that he didn’t hate her beliefs drew raised eyebrows, and a moment of careful consideration. He moved on before she could comment or reply, speaking of how rescuing people made them weaker, and how everyone died in the end. It made him angry, in fact. Which was baffling. Especially when he spoke of his past. Curious, she asked, “Do you hate medicine?”

Unaware of the brush of power from the Master, of how it drew and draped the passions and purpose of the Dark Side over the room they dwelled in, Jhira still felt something. All her tangled, grieving emotions summoned to the surface, and left there. If the Light Side meant a lack of emotion, or if it meant a passionless, detached existence of grave principe and purpose, then it did not reside in Jhira. If the Dark Side meant despising joy, life and happiness, or if meant hating life, refusing attachments or love, and delighting in the pain of others, again, there would be no hint of it. But did it mean those things? If the Light Side meant honor worth dying for, loving worth killing for, and furious defense of her and hers, then Jhira was steeped in it. And if Dark Side meant loyalty beyond reason, killing for those she loved without compunction or guilt, or if it meant wild passions and a need for bitter vengeance, it formed the very core of her.

The Darth Master’s melancholy voice broke her intense focus upon the Apprentice, breath frozen as he demoted her from warrior to specimen. Settling into the Apprentice’s vacated chair, Jhira’s dark gaze settled upon the Master as he leaned forward to balance his glass upon his knee. Every movement of his was slow, precise. Concealing, she suspected, though she had no notion what he sought to hide, or from which of them.

A slow nod greeted his correction as to what question she should be asking: Where are you going? Before she could form a reply he melted back into his chair again, seeming made of blood and shadow. Oh, yes, she needed to understand the Sith, beyond the veil of their shadow, as he put it. A graceful hand gesture and nod admitted to that fierce need. As before, his words were poetic and compelling, all at once.

Leaning her arm upon the chair side near to him, considered his question.

The CIS answer would be to learn of the MAW.

“The Sith. I wish to know what you can teach me of the Sith, and more so, of your type of Sith.” There was no other route to freedom, save knowledge.

 

[Darth Senthral]

​

Senthral had ceceded his right to answer, and yet dwelled on all that the two had said.
“Is it so strange to you, that we might have a few points in common?”
Was it strange to him? No, he was alike to many individuals, Jedi even. To be alive was usually to have cause, and scarce were there causes that had absolutely no relation to others. In truth, it was well enough they held common grounds. That usually forged camaraderie, and though he only had Tennacus for an example as what that could be like, he thought it of no consequence. It was great even, comrades confided in each other, and understood things more closely, held shared ideals.

The next words to come were a bit harder not to answer, but Tennacus made it a fair enough simplety. He was the one with a 'job offer' not that he would put it that way. It was more than a job, a mission, something he would have them all do. Something to bring the Mandalorian closer to their point of view. It was not a bad one, and yet took much understanding. The Sith were far more complex than any Jedi would tell you, and bathed in countless years of history. Far more than countless even.

More now.
"Do you hate medicine?"
He did not. In a sense. Medicine was needed at times, disease was not something you could always ampley rid yourself of otherwise. Though medicine was an odd question to ask about, even if he understood the intent. Would medicine not weaken us as well? It already had. There was no point in fighting it now, they were bound to it, needed it. It would progress, and become greater, and more then they would be slaves to it. Though at the end of the day? He did not care. Medicine was medicine, a discrepancy he might one day have the ability to overcome. Even so, if he looked further into it, maybe medicine was for the greater. Sure it helped people and thus eventually made them weaker, but it also allowed the strong to become stronger. By extending there time beyond the diseases that might cut it short.

Eyes fell upon Darth Tennacus what had he to teach this Mandalorian? Curiosity often overflowed him in presence of his Master. He did not look forward to the day he may have to overcome him and slay him too fondly. Yet knew it would be neccesital to furthering their goals. Just as raising his own apprentice one day, and having them kill himself. So that power would ever expand further and further.

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

And there he had it: the final answer that he wanted to hear. Tennacus watched her in a prolonged silence, then turned his gaze to his Apprentice. The Sith Lord had enjoyed listening to them, learning more about her beliefs than she might have let off. Darth Senthral 's silence paved the way for the Sith Lord to intervene, giving that she had finally come to a decision on her question. He set the glass down on the table, content with what he drunk. It was mostly the sharp sting in his chest he drunk it for, and half a glass of consumption had certainly provided that. Now his focus moved to giving her an answer.

"My type of Sith, you ask? A very specific question on your part." And it was. What did she think his side was? Did she think him a different breed, or did she believe he was just another statistic in their ever-existent concept? She had said she wanted to hear about the Sith, and so he would teach her.

"There are so many an avenue of the Sith to go down," Tennacus started. "But I believe the most relevant information to you is associable to the situation you are in now: with Lord Senthral and I, who your curiosity most dwells in." Tennacus waved his hand in the air lightly, gesturing to his Apprentice. "Lord Senthral was once a Jedi, but he was able to escape the blinding Light and see the ultimate truth in the Dark. In his moment of revelation, he overpowered his brother and achieved victory. Through victory, my chains are broken." The Sith paused, allowing Jhira Mereel a moment to let that sink in. "What you see before you is no ordinary man. He is a Sith, and the Force is strong in him. One day, if the Force so wills it, he is to surpass me and assume the mantle for himself. That is our belief - our way of life - however sacrificial it may seem. We exist primarily to become stronger. As his Master, it is my duty to provide him all the necessary means to kill me; and yet, it is also my duty to try and stop him when that inevitable day comes. Whoever walks away from that battle will ultimately be the victor, and will have grown ever more powerful because of it."

Tennacus waved his hand again, this time gesturing to the mounted painting on the opposing wall. It portrayed a man draped in dark fabrics, his eyes burning with orange starlight, and his face a ghostly pale. Eternally captured in that moment, his gaze was ever piercing, even in death. Even that could not stop him. The Force shall set me free. "You ask me of my type of Sith, and that is it. The Brotherhood of Darkness once believed they had it right, but our failure was by our own hands: hundreds of hungered Sith all wanting to exceed their brothers and sisters in arms. It was Lord Bane who had a revelation on how to save us. You may have heard of the Rule of Two, his greatest legacy. It may not exist as it did before, but as a Sith Lord I uphold its values and understand its teachings. Death may one day become of me, but I will live forever on in Lord Senthral, just as he will in whosoever surpasses him. If you submit yourself to the Dark Side, maybe that person could be you."

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

Just for a moment, Jhira thought Darth Senthral would answer her question directly, despite having indicted he wished his Master to speak now. But no; there was such courtesy, such respect, in his surrendering the focus to Darth … Well. She might never know his name.The subtle shifts of expression made her think the Apprentice was thinking, not just reacting defensively or already arguing with her in his head. But he did not share his thoughts upon the matter, remaining steadfast in his decision, even when her gentle, bemused teasing about a job offer reached him. Whilst she saw no answering light of humor, of appreciating the irony of the comment, he had seemed almost to reply. That keen mind considered even her final question about medicine carefully; expression thoughtful and courteously focused. But he did not speak, only directing her attention to his Master with a glance.

The massive, shadowy figure surrendered his glass, despite it being only half-empty. At his pointed query as to her very specific question, she nodded agreement, relieved the precision of her statement was understood. The label of Sith felt just as confusing and complex a concept as Mandalorian or Jedi, at least to an outsider like her. An actual race (with profound variants), at least two distinct and ancient cultures of which one might be born or be adopted, whether or not they were even Force Sensitive. Any one of half a dozen or so different Empires, again of which a person might be born or join, and may or may not be Force Users at all. At least a dozen different Force Orders, and a smattering of folks who thought any Dark Side User was automatically Sith.

The revelation that Darth Senthral had been a Jedi snapped her gaze back to the younger man, suddenly hurt for the twice-abandoned man. Shabla Jeti.. He had most assuredly been in need of saving, and no one had come for him. Jedi … who would have had an actual chance of both finding him, and freeing him. Who would have known where he was, if only they bothered to look. She let the anger burn deep inside, obscuring the terrifying, inevitable thought that no one was coming for her.

Stillness swept over her, at the news that the calm, controlled young man had killed his own brother. Had he done so with passion and fear, or with the same composed courtesy that observed her? That had, perhaps, watched Rhand burn? Forcing haunted eyes back to the Master, his stark pronouncement rang within her; deadly, seductive. Through victory, my chains are broken. The yearning for strength, victory and freedom were enshrined in her culture, in her heart, in her very soul. “There’s a whole lot of Mandalorians who believe that,” she said quietly, during the soft pause provided.

Attention was once more drawn to Darth Senthral, as it was explained how he was being asked to sacrifice what appeared to be the only nurturing relationship he’d ever had, in the drive for more and more strength. To train someone with the intention that they kill you someday brought conflict of interest to a whole new level. Why? What was the strength they so desperately sought supposed to achieve? As Darth Senthral had suggested, Where are they going?

Darth Bane was immortalized in profoundly disturbing, deeply haunting portrait upon the wall the orange eyes seemed to burn into her, even now. A story she’d heard from a slightly different point of view, not long ago, of the choice to go into deep hiding. The decision to codify the self-destructive tendencies of the Sith, so as to produce only one perfect warrior. Was that the goal? To go from many, to two, to only one? Directly opposed to the Mandalorian use for strength: to protect the Clan. To go from one, to two, to many.

The irony did not escape her, how often the many turned upon themselves. It seemed a flaw inherent to sentients, rather than to a single philosophy.

A shudder rippled through her, as he spoke of living on through Senthral. It was very much a father’s belief, a Mandalorian ideal, that your spirit returned to the Manda of your Clan. What he suggested here again skirted so very closely to what she believed, yet painted it with loss and betrayal, without any accompany joy, love or passion. An empty triumph. A faint, terrible despair drifted through her endless, enduring fear. Tired, Jhira was so tired of being afraid of them. Worse, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to kill Darth Senthral anymore. And she surely never intended to kill someone she trusted and held affection for!

How, why were these two anywhere near the MAW? They seemed, to her, to carry opposed purposes and techniques.

A hand lifted, requesting a moment of time. “Please,” the courtesy came naturally, given the respect with which they interacted. “You go too swiftly for me.” A graceful gestured indicated the universe beyond the suffocating, red and black room. Livid purple and green bruises ghosted to life upon her skin, defying the color scheme, promising a life outside of these cool horrors. Remnants of her long, punishing fight at Rhand, echoed by bruises along her face and throat, and more serious wounds stabilized only by a mend patch and the science in her Bodyglove. A silent, pain-filled reminder of just how much these two civilized, sane-seeming mean would sacrifice in the name of victory and strength.

“Is an attachment to the Dark what creates a Sith, in general? Or the push for endless strength? But it is the thought that betrayal must happen between you, so you codify it, that creates a, um. A Bane-sith?” Her gaze flickered between the two.

“Will you define the differences between Light and Dark?” she asked. Other than shouted trash talk upon a battlefield or drunken misery, few Force Users ever really explained their devoted stance to one or the other. Or even what they were.

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

Emotions seemed to crawl through her like the midi-chlorians she seemed to possess, both of which yearned to reach up to the surface and set loose in a union that would triumph over her fate and start it anew. The way that Tennacus stared at her appeared to be more as if he was looking into her, rather than at her: the window into her soul, if one may, where the reality of her situation reminded her that she was alone in that strange facility, left to the will of the enemy, who apparently were more accommodating than representatives of their faction let on. Despite the seemingly still Sith sat within his chair, his mind was ever wandering, sailing across the waves of the Dark Side to try and emphasise those emotions she buried within herself: anger, hate, vengeance. He was vocally inaudible, yet his voice manifested itself in her mind, if only for a fleeting moment. The words swept like a passing wind, but they should have scarred her until she could learn to push them away or embrace them as a whole.

"No one is coming for you. You are alone, left at the mercy of your enemy, while your allies flee selfishly to freedom. That is the reality of this existence: the weakest pup is left to will of the wild, but the wild will only make him ever stronger."

Back within the room, the Sith Lord pursued her question with a pause of interest. She should have been thankful she did not ask such a question to some engrossed scholar, for they would have likely lectured her for hours on a thousand opinions and more of men who only knew what Jedi and Sith alike wanted them to know. If one truly wanted to understand that question, they had to dedicate themselves to one or the other. Only then could they understand the true meaning of both.

The Force shall set you free.

"The Light is harmonious," Tennacus started. "It teaches one to embrace life and rejoice in death, for such things are only natural. It teaches one the path to selflessness: to put peace above their own well-being, knowing that they may live or die serving to protect it. The Jedi embrace the Light under such beliefs. It gives them purpose — makes them believe that they are strong in resisting the temptations brought on by emotions that promise pleasure. Emotions that make any common living being easily misguided by following the passions of mere mortal men: wealth, conquest, ownership — companionship.”

Tennacus stirred in his chair, reaching his hand into the interior of his jacket. He emerged empty-handed, but the Force carried the hilt of a lightsaber along its waves, suspending the black metallic cylinder before the Sith who wielded it. In a movement of his fingers Tennacus manipulated the Force to disassemble the lightsaber, leaving a floating bundle of shrapnel orbiting a crimson crystal. It’s hue was deep — cold to stare at.

“And then, there is the Dark. It is the epitome of a Sith’s potential: what makes them strong, fuelled by everything we consider natural. Life, death, passion, emotion, hatred, rage — jealousy. All things a living organism naturally harbours, and so they are embraced as such. The Dark offers absolution in the power that one seeks: a way to turn that which is so natural into a means of guidance. Unfortunately, many who embrace it become selfish in their goals; that is the way of the Dark Side of the Force. The Dark Side is that which the Jedi fears most: the emotions of mere mortals turned into a weapon. Greed for knowledge provides a follower of the Dark Side the harsh realities of truth that can be turned into power. The Light cannot accept this, because such things that have already happened, like death, are believed to be the will of the Force. The natural order of things. Yet the Force allows it to happen, anyway. The Dark allows one to embrace another, and become ever so afraid of losing them that they submit themselves to the shadows and learn the ability to overcome the natural order. Those who follow in the path of the Dark Side are free to do with themselves as they please. Their only fear is that they may become their own undoing.”

Tennacus leaned forward, lightly pushing his hand through the air. The humming crystal floated across the table, coming to a halt just ahead of her. If she stared into it, she might have just seen such power. Herself, perhaps, at the height of such magnificence. “Tell me, young Jhira: which do you believe is most just in its followings?”

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Resist. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

The Master’s piercing gaze ensnared Jhira, swallowing her whole. Eye-to-eye and soul-to-soul, locked in a silent struggle. Drowning her in a bitter rush of anger and hate. The burning need to avenge the wounds she could not prevent. Rage pushed her to mindless action, yet the breathless recognition of an alpha predator on the hunt stunned her to instinctive, wary stillness. The bored indifference which had so angered her was revealed as a mere facade.

The Master hunted; he hunted her soul.

The Darth Lord’s voice whispered the heart-breaking truth into her mind, No one is coming for you, each poisoned word thereafter further lacerating her soul. Loyalty strained, stressed by that devastating sense of abandonment. A tremor started in her toes, throat locked closed on a scream, as the horror of hearing him within her own mind brought forth how fully helpless she was before the sorcerous power he wielded. Courage fractured, not by the risk of an honorable death, but the risk of falling.

Eldritch rage boiled within, feeding on her pain, fear and exhaustion. A life-time of loss sent a furious snarl to her lips, rather than tears to her eyes. She would not fall to an aruetti; would not let her honor crumble, though he denied her the clean death she’d sought. The cold promise of vengeance, of work unfinished, gave her the strength to endure a single moment. Another breath and the reminder of whom she truly hated got her through the next. Hands clenched, the instinctual urge to lash out barely checked. There would be but one chance at vengeance or escape; she dared not waste it.

the weakest pup is left to the will of the wild.

She had her answer as to why her, and she hated him for it. Weakness that could not be overcome, fragility that endured, was every bit as despised amongst the Mandalorians as the Master might wish. Hated, too, that she’d been left without a backward glance, without a moment’s consideration. A lifetime of taking in the lost, of standing strong when others failed, and yet she’d die here, unnoticed, unmourned, forgotten - and for nothing. Rhand was lost, not even the temple’s destruction achieved by her hands.

the weakest pup is left ...

A mercenary, just a mercenary. No vode had stood beside her on Rhand; only aruetti. It didn’t matter in that moment, that she knew their retreat had been the tactically correct decision. Bitter anger consumed her from within. The fact that COMMs were jammed, that she’d been drug into the earth mere moments before the temple become a mushroom cloud suddenly didn’t matter; didn’t excuse that none of them grieved her. That she was nothing to them.

A final promise and temptation:

The Force shall set you free.

Jhira trembled, caught in the whirlwind of summoned emotion, the agonizing hope in that whispered seduction a dagger in the heart. Free … to return to her children. To hug Lori-goof and drink Omen’s Tihaar; to fight with the Karjyr, laugh with Mia, tease Vulcan. Argue with Ijaat. Devastating hope, that all she needed to regain them all, was to betray them. Another memory rose, and her fingers drummed an old war chant against the chair’s arm, steadying her.

The Master spoke aloud at last, freeing her from his gaze. Raw emotion yet knifed her; sweat trickled down her exhausted body. The avalanche of pain pushed her beyond fear at last. Poised, graceful balance returned as she relaxed into the chair. Defiant, rejecting helplessness, Jhira’s battered fingers curled around the Master’s unfinished drink.

He spoke of the Light, in terms that made sense to her, even if she despised the hollow emptiness of it. Death was never to be rejoiced in. The joys of life were not to be feared; the people that give life meaning were to be cherished, not rejected. Lifting the Master’s drink to her lips, she moistened a mouth gone bitterly dry. The Darth Lord listed what the Light feared, and she attended to the order he revealed them in:

wealth, conquest, ownership — companionship.

Jhira could never live so; she loved as furiously as she hated. Her drumming hand went still, a single, high call echoing through her memory, an image frozen in time.

A brush of power lifted the Master’s Light Saber free of his robes and broke it into a halo of indecipherable parts, only to reveal the cold, dark gem within. Cruel and passionless as the Jedi, or so it appeared. Cold, so cold. Heartless. She shook her head, baffled, when he listed the desires of the Dark:

Life, death, passion, emotion, hatred, rage — jealousy. There was none of that in him, none that she could sense. Emotions turned to weapons. Power as absolution? Being guided but not ruled by the passions. How the Light could not abide the Dark’s war on death?

The Darth Lord’s war on death?

Another sip, and Jhira’s voice, strained and breathless, whispered free. “But not love?” Passion, companionship, ownership, even fearing the loss of a companion were acceptable. But he never spoke of love. The evolution of selfishness to over indulgence to half-crazed made sense to her, especially in light of what happen at Rhand.

And Mandalore.

Csilla.

Too many Sith who’d been driven mad by the lust for power and the constant seeking for experience and the lesser emotions, whilst still denying themselves the greater. The crystal swept towards her, mirror bright facets sending lured crimson visions dancing across her mind’s eye, terrible and great. Eyes drifted closed, but the visions yet remained, like the scars upon her soul.

Tell me, young Jhira: which do you believe is most just in its followings?

Another sip of her wine, and she pressed back in her chair, curling her legs beneath her. A languid gesture of the cup saluted his acumen in questions answered and asked.

“Not with the MAW; they are all mad, by those standards.” a smile flared, since they clearly were mad by hers, as well. “Nor with the soulless Light, cutting out of its wielders the very things that would make them trustworthy custodians of power.”

Breath frosted over the glass as she rolled it between her palms. “So close; the Dark is so close, but it turns you on the ones you love, like Death Watch.” She gestured between Master and Apprentice. “There is trust, here; trust and respect and maybe even affection. And yet you both have sworn your honor to turning upon each other someday.” a baffled shake of her head.

“Strength. It always comes down to that.”

“Are you sure defining it so narrowly is necessary?”

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

No - Tennacus had never mentioned love, had he? As fundamental as it had been to one of the most impactful eras of the Sith - to how grossly it could fill one with tenacity to reach greater power - the masked Darth had seemed to forget about it entirely . . . or steer clear of its mention with righteous intention. He had his reasons, and they were his own. His silence on the matter regarding its lack of presence amongst his words should have hinted that he harboured no interest in discussing it. She may have intrigued him enough that he held her potential with certain value, but at the end of the day she was no Sith. If not yet then perhaps not ever.

His head cocked at her next question, but he focused specifically on the comfort (or was it confidence?) she exuded in her actions, helping herself to what remained of his beverage, sinking herself within the deep cushions as if this place were her second home. The floating gem served to channel her inner conflict, pulsating at the promise of sudden release, only to quell in its light when she seemed to calm herself from the emotions buried within. Tennacus relayed such conflict in his own thoughts, breaking them apart like an equation which needed to be analysed symbol by symbol. He got the sense that she had empathy to the teachings of the Dark Side deep within her, but her words soon spoke of its unfortunate flaw.

She didn't know it, but she had answered the very question that she'd asked him just moments ago.

"Absolutely," Tennacus answered confidently. "One has to become strong to survive in this existence. Not just in the body, but in the mind." The crystal started to rotate slowly at a twirl of Tennacus' silked digit. Its inner glow emanated like a watchful eye, scanning her every time its surface came back around to face her.

"I had a Master, once. Darth Vicsus, his name was. We followed the lineage of the Rule of Two; both of us accepted the consequences and necessities of its path. He was a Hyslarian, and he was undeniably gifted in the Dark Side of the Force. What he lacked in lightsaber combat he made up for in his renowned wisdom and knowledge, studying extensively in the ancient arts of Sith alchemy. Holocrons he favoured above credits; ancient tomes he protected more than himself. Had he not been so submerged within his internal thoughts, he would have seen what was coming."

The crystal vibrated, as if straining against its own weight. Fissures whipped along its surface. The Dark Side surrounded it as Tennacus clawed his fingers. "But he was not strong enough to prevent what would come of him. He forced me to open a rigged tomb, knowing full well that it would most definitely threaten us. I think that in his own way, he wanted it to kill me, coming to realisation that he could not do it himself. But in that final moment I turned the tide in my favour. With his dying breath he claimed it to be the will of the Force, ever prideful in his belief that I could not best him without it. All that remains of him lies within that crystal. Bled by his own will, now fated to conclude its existence."

Tennacus squeezed his fingers into a tight fist. The crystal cracked, splintered and hummed wildly, wobbling along the tides of the Force which both held it in place and served to crush it. In a final thrust through the darkness, it was reduced into a mass of splintering shards clouded by red dust particles. What remained of its fragments crumbled and withered away, along with the elements that once housed its power.

"The Force does not favour the weak, Jhira Mereel . Even in the Light it carries only those further into triumph who are able to handle such power. Those who cannot comprehend what miniscule sensitivity they harbour are left forgotten. That is the way of both the Light and the Dark. Employ the strong to defeat the strong. That is its will, and we are its students. Nothing will ever change that."

 

[Darth Senthral]

​

"I do hope your lack of understanding further enables that curiosity of yours, and does not throw you from the dark." Senthral had said these words in response to Jhira Mereel 's last. Then he allowed his Master to continue on in the lesson, watching, listening. he had heard snippets himself of Darth Tennacus 's tale. His previous apprentice was one he reminded himself of whenever he felt overly ambitious. Stories gave you insight on how other's perceived things, and how you might yourself.

His Master's final words rang true, and he sought to add to them in that. He stepped over nearer to the Mandalorian, turning his head slightly to view Tennacus' actions. As if also subject to the words, though of course he was. An apprentice did well to listen well, and see just as well at that. "The Dark only turns you on those you say if you allow it. Also, perhaps how you view it. I loved my brother, and yet as a Jedi, he met death by mine own hands. This was not simply for power as you say, but because he allowed no other way. A Sith can improvise upon the path ahead, if they are so allowed to."

"I was not granted such allowance, unfortunately there was no other way to save my brethren. He would not join me, and if I had left him alive, his life would be devoted to a useless hunt after someone stronger than him. It would perhaps be odd of me to say, but do you not think I freed him from that path? It was out of love I did so, rather than allow such suffering. Sometimes the galaxy pits us against each other, and we've no other choice but to cut holes in one another till the other falls."

Senthral knew exactly his next words, and yet stopped to ponder upon them. He knew what was necessary to say, but would it bring clarity where he hoped it would. "Already there is conflict within you Jhira, I will grant you a small kindness so you may understand why that is necessary. Power is the decider, but this does not mean there are no views aside from it. Is there not solace in choosing to take my Master's life, or him mine, for the sake of something we both decided upon? Atimes we must kill those we wish not to, I take great comfort in knowing that it is both our choices to follow the Rule of Two. We will die then, not bitterly by our enemies, but by our greatest comrades. We guarantee a death worth giving up life for. At the hands of someone we respect. To me, it as an assurance. Power is the end, but you would to well to also know the means."

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Resist. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

Darth Tennacus seemed troubled by her thoughts upon the betrayal inherent in the Rule of Two (or maybe all Sith, she simply wasn’t sure how much of what she was learning generalized.) Against her will, a small smile escaped to comfort the tormented man. “I will always ask the next question, Darth Senthral, so long as you are willing to explain. Mandalorians have a long and bitter history with the Sith. These things have long wounded my people, and baffled me.”

The Master spoke then and both turned their attention to him. “And moral courage.” Jhira added thoughtfully, to the physical and mental strength the Master referred to. “Body, mind spirit.” Her gaze danced from Master, to Apprentice, then was snagged upon the haunting jewel. Visions danced upon the darker facets, the brighter eye a brush like touch along her skin, despite the Bodyglove she wore.

It ought to be terrifying; tomorrow it would be. But right now, it was just one more impossible thing.

Darth Viscus was made known to her; wise, knowledgeable. Jhira tried to picture this ancient alchemist dominating the man before her and simply could not. But even as she was puzzling this out in her mind the steady spinning of the doomed crystal turned to tortured. Fissures erupted as the Master spoke of his Master’s betrayal.

There was pain there, in that death. In the intent to slay, but more so in the Master not understating how long he’d lived simply because this one had chosen to stay his hand. Of it’s own will, her hand reached up to cup the shattered remains of the man’s soul. Even as she touched them they faded to dust and vanished. Gone, at last. Freed from this strange, necromantic half-life. “More than anyone I’ve ever met. You hate death.”

Sharp gaze returned to the Master, as he stated what most Force Users and the two largest Force Traditions believed: That only Force Users mattered. Only he had a reason, this time. Not hatred or contempt: practicality. That the Light and the Dark must forever be at odds. “And must you fight each other? I mean, aside from history and grudges, does the Force itself demand that conflict?”

Darth Senthral reached out to offer an answer, expanding upon the loss of his brother. A bitter tale; Jedi and Sith. The fear that one of the crazy ones would get his brother first. The concomitant horror of killing his own brother that followed. “I am sorry for your loss. The Jedi are so principled that I’ve often found them more terrifying than most Sith.” He, too, spoke as if this profound division was built into the basic fabric of the Universe.

“Sometimes the galaxy pits us against ourselves,” she agreed quietly, the past haunting her. “As when two sets of Mandalorians went mad, and began to purge our own.” With a shrug, she finished the wine. Jhira studied the room, and if a side board was apparent, would fetch a round of water for everyone with no more ceremony than she would at home. Yet she never stopped listening to the young man speak of why he found honor and purpose in his promise to try to kill his Master. Jhira was too much of a Mandalorian not to understand Darth Senthral’s thoughts. He wanted an honorable death, or at the least to assure such for his Master. “Given what your allies are like, I can see how it is a comfort to you to ensure neither of you fall into their hands.”

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

Darth Senthral spoke well, although Tennacus never verbally complimented him. Still, there was a long stare at his Apprentice; the Master, in his silence, offering applaud to a grand speech. Better to die at the hands of someone you made powerful, Tennacus thought. Even that was unconsciously Prideful: to be killed by the one being whose power came only by your doing, sewing into one's fate their own undoing. Poetically sinister, but the Sith revelled in such strange ideologies. Maybe if Jhira Mereel pondered more on the thought, she would have come to the realisation: power surpasses power.

"The Force serves to balance itself," Tennacus started, his eyes ever watchful as the Mandalorian helped herself around the room. It amused him: her comfort among them. She fought so powerfully an internal struggle to not submit herself to the Dark, but she had no quarrels in dining - and serving - its hosts. Unfortunate histories demanded their two opposing followings a bitter, strained aspect of cooperation, yet she was a living example of how they might coexist.

Tennacus reached out for the water when it arrived, taking the glass to settle it on his folded knee. He sat back and upright in his chair. His eyes sharply narrowed, and his stare seemed as if it had carried him to see vistas that were not before them. "We all know the old story," he continued, "of a boy who came from the slaveries of a rundown planet, and rose up to scar his name in history." Even before he said the name, having it in his thoughts made him feel a surge of strange power. His blood ran hot for a fleeting moment, making him stir among the cushions. Ever so smoothly beneath the muffled breaths escaping his mask, the words ushered as clear as day, almost as if something else guided them away from his lips. ". . . Darth Vader."

Tennacus leaned forward, taking his straw from the table to drop it into his glass. He gave a moment for the name to settle itself amongst the room. The candlelight swayed awkwardly in a silent wind. "The Jedi saw him as something of a legend made man. A young boy who could bring balance to the ever swaying Force, struggling to compose itself in the straining pull between the Light and the Dark. They saw him as a beacon of hope that would burn away the darkness of the Sith; and in some sense, they were right. They were, however, also very wrong." The Sith lifted the glass to push the straw between the plates of his mask. In one mouthful, the Darth had drawn in over half the glass before he set it back down.

"You would think as knowledgeable practitioners that they would not be biased in their assumption; but like us, their greed to believe he was fated to walk among their favour was guided by an ignorant vision of their ideology. They did not account that balance serves to even out both sides. If by some happenstance the rumour of his conception is true, then Darth Vader did exactly that. He removed the Jedi from their seats of power, stripping them down to the bare foundations just like he did us. The Force balanced itself through him, removing both the Light and the Dark, albeit not simultaneously. The Jedi failed themselves, boasting he was their saviour, not accounting for the fact that the Force would serve to balance itself through their annihilation, too. Do you not see the hypocrisy in their beliefs that they were above us? That, despite all their wisdom and understanding of the Force, they failed to see that it corrected itself by bringing an end to their long-standing order, too?"

Tennacus turned his gaze back toward his Apprentice. "Lord Senthral and I may have to one day cross our blades, but we accept that fate rather than try to ignore it. We accept that we cannot be simultaneously equal, lest the Force rids itself of both of us rather than favouring one. Our order may come at the expense of innocent lives, but the Force must see these deaths necessary, or the Sith would have surely perished a long and dark age ago. We are necessary."

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Resist. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

The pride and content in that long, approving look from Master to Apprentice was physically painful, to Jhira. Given the obvious respect - dare she even say affection - between the two men, their death-pact wounds more deeply. For all she understood their dual reasons, that refusal to allow mercy for the one creature they cared about precluded any idea that their reasoned, gentle handling of her was a kindness.

Or typical.

Oh, she could see and feel the lure of what they chose. The profound sense control in thinking you might choose who would kill you. Of making sure your death mattered; had she not chosen to challenge the Force Wraith to just that end? The pride, if and when the Apprentice succeeded the Master might well ease the blow of death. It was as if each sought to be a masterwork weapon, and felt they could only achieve that final honing if they quenched the blade in each other’s blood.

Power. They sought not merely strength, held in wait to be used at need.

But raw power, whose use was its own, necessary purpose.

Thoughts were torn away from the painful dialectic laid out before her when the Master once again answered her questions. Hearing that this unknowable, merciless power sought balance visibly chilled her. The water they shared eased the sense of alien and strange, a ritual so universal that the Master had accepted his glass as easily as she’d served it. Only as he drank the cool water did she begin to wonder at it. How were they both so calm? Where was the near-paranoia and insane rage that were all but synonymous with Sith, in the outer world?

Maybe he was as tired as she was.

But then he focused and became sharply, starkly present. Passion and hunger infused the name he spoke, and a dark, deadly breeze flickered the archaic candles. The chill grew deeper, prickling her skin as an eldritch wind summoned pressed her back into her chair with visible force. Cold, spectral fingers twined in deadly intent through her hair, sharply tugging tendrils free. A shudder passed over and through her at the icy touch, her keening horror of the Force locked in her throat not from strength of will, but simply because her soul was shrouded in despair.

Was this whom he so desired to bring back from the dead? The ultimate test of his strength?

Mesmerizing, the passion and sorrow with which the Darth Lord spoke of the near-mythical being who had managed to betray absolutely everyone he’d ever known was oddly horrifying. The story the Master wove, of Jedi arrogance and Sith power-lust, of betrayed love and severed trust whispered to her that no one at all was safe against such a vast, unfeeling thing as the Force. Horror, too, was slowly stifled. Only pain and anger were left.

The Force had no heart, no conscious, no mercy. And yet … it hungered. It hungered to bring down realms. Light or Dark, it yearned to destroy those who gave it agency.

A Sith. In the end, the Sith were the true nature of the Force. Her eyes closed in aching weariness, and she mourned for her son. For Omen and Lori and Ijaat. For little Silver, so filled with hope and passion. All these loved ones, doomed to be destroyed by a power who cared nothing for them.

Honor, and only honor, gave frame work for anger and pain. Forced the seething emotions that would not quell to serve her purpose, and not its own wild impulses. Her aching eyes opened slowly, and settled upon the doomed man before her.

“The Jedi …” her head shook, dispelling a lifetime’s list of personal grievances in favor of a more general concept. “Are nearly as divided as the Sith. Most are cold, cruel in their sense of personal perfection. Principled tot he point of evil. I cannot tell if you share that one flaw, of a principle so vast it destroys what it was meant to protect,” her gaze flicked to the cold, cold man who had captured her. A graceful shrug, as she pressed back into her chair, as if to ward off another ghostly touch should her words be deemed heresy.

“I find cold indifference to suffering and wasteful death to be equally without honor.”

The strange notion that a strict hierarchy between Master and Apprentice protected them from the fickle will of the Force drew her mind back to another question. One far less harrowing to contemplate than his horrific, relentlessly logical,

We are necessary.

“So it chooses? It has will? This cold, callous power that devours its own children. That destroys all of the love and kindness out of those who wield it, be they Jedi or Sith. It wants the hate? The pain and misery?”

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

She was leaning towards something: an unfortunate truth of both the light and the dark. Tennacus did not immediately feed on it, instead taking a moment of silence to drift his consciousness through the Force to feed of her hidden emotions. The longer their conversation carried on, the more he begun to read her, drinking in the pain, passion, and fear brought on by such emotional attachments. And the Sith Lord only chose to expand on them, projecting the dark side of the Force onto her, hoping to saturate her distressing conflicts until they soaked over her mind with a willingness to ensure such fates would not befall anything she chose to cherish. The promise in the dark side was alluring; its power was infinite; every era unravelled another thread of wisdom never detected. She could take such power, if she truly longed for such greatness.

But her will was also strong.

"One who obtains power always comes to fear losing it," Tennacus repeated, the very same words his own Master had told him. "A fundamental flaw that the Sith suffers. The concept of trust usually extends as far as one allows it. Until it serves them in some form or manner, much like how the will of the Force entrusts us with it, only to take it away."

The Sith Lord had dwelt within his chair too long. Like a king who grew too idle upon his throne, he hungered for a different climate. And so he rose slowly out of his cushioned chair, standing tall and broad: a towering silhouette of the dark side. The energy in the room suddenly changed. The air was dense - too heavy for the light of the candles to bear. Flames perished beneath an intangible force, swallowed by a shadow who moved silently across the room.

"The will of the Force makes as much sense as it does not. The light can beckon over a thousand years of peace, only to be drowned beneath a thousand years of shadows. A true Sith will understand this, and learn how to maintain their survival when the scales tip against our favour. Our oppression has always been inevitable, just as that of the Jedi. But much unlike them, there are those among us who are cunning, favouring obscurity and discretion over obnoxious boasting in power. If you truly wish to understand such a power, there is only one place we can go to teach you it. But I warn you: the netherworld of the force is a realm of impossibility and knowing. Those who dare to walk the bridge between worlds will understand that the force will teach you just as much as it will torment. Such is the way when you are lost in your beliefs."

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: unknown
Objective: Endure. Resist. Subvert. Escape.
Equipment: Cybernetics | a black robe.
Tag: [ Darth Tennacus ] [ Darth Senthral ]

The room chilled, pain savaging through Jhira as her thoughts dwelled over-long upon those she loved so fiercely. All the fury of a raging lioness defending her young stormed through her, built upon a mountain of defiant grief. Those precious few she’d snatched from destruction and sheltered form the storms meant everything to her. Layers of scars woven through her soul like tempered steel, trapping love and hate within. Passionate defiance, a joy in life few could match balanced on a knife edge of keening fear. Her ferocious need to protect goading her forward. Always forward, at any cost. Love and hate dwelled so profoundly within her, held at an exhausting peak by the Dark power rushing through and around her. Body trembled, water droplets spilling from the glass in her hand. Breathing grew ragged as she fully embodied and experienced the primal emotion summoned. A burden or a feast, for the Sith Lord empowered by such raw, pure sensations. Jhira was anything but cold or remote. Passion given form; pain and fear and love were the Light and Dark of her soul.

And oh, she craved power as only the wounded could.

The Master spoke again, his words etched into her mind, bleeding into her soul. She could not argue; she’d seen what the powerful feared. The only thing they feared - loosing power. Watched from the outskirts, as the the Sith who had allied with the Mandalorians betrayed them. Jhira had not wept since the death of her world, but the torment between wanting the power to safeguard those she cherished and the knowledge that reaching out for it inherently led to her betraying them pushed her to the ragged, despairing edge.

The way trust was defined provoked a faint head shake. Trust and loyalty were the foundations of her of her world. What would it be like to have no one to trust? To measure every association, every movement, every person in your life not as if they had no inherent value, but only value in that moment?

The Darkness stirred, a ripple of despair and passion flowing from the regal Dark Lord as he stood. The light was devoured, flames snuffed out one by one; the air bound Jhira with a metaphysical weight that threatened even her breath. Shadow and grief rippled through the room, blinding her eyes yet she felt him as he crossed the room. Feared she’d always feel his touch, the heavy, hopeless grief of his existence. An eternal wound, passed from Master to Apprentice, doubling and redoubling with each bitter ascension.

Light or Dark, peace or war, healing or death; like some incomprehensible natural disaster or despicable god, the Force tortured those around it. Straining to force in air, heart pounding as the unshielded power of the Dark Lord’s aura shadowed everything.

Everything.

It was hard to focus on his lesson, in an academic sense; only this time, it wasn’t her mind he sought to reach. Instinct provoked her, pushed her to either acknowledge his dominance, or prepare to die defying him. He was true Sith, measuring out his power according to a pattern only he perceived. Hidden, but touching everything, as she breathed in Darkness and rage with every breath.

Defiance roared to life. Angling back her head so as to force herself to see him, to drink in the absolute power he held over her. Pain and torment, in exchange for knowledge and what wisps of power she might understand. But movement, oh movement away from this hidden, hopeless place! Pain-soaked hope shimmered to life. Another breath of the heavy, poisoned air burned through her lungs. Could you become drunk on it, as men had been known to become drunk on passion or rage? Hands clenched until crescents of blood appeared on her palms. Head spinning, lightening in her soul, she managed a near-breathless murmur.

“The netherworld? Not a problem.” A faint smile curved her lips. She wasn’t lost, not yet.

Jhira yet fell into the Abyss.