Private Planet Goth [Solo]

[Thelma Goth]

Summerhaven, Dahrtag
The Core Worlds

Byron Devorak strode into the lobby of the Hotel Summerhaven, the many-colored layers of his Cloak sweeping the floor as he approached the front desk. "Hello, I'm here for a meeting," he said to the clerk, giving her a sharp-toothed smile from beneath his hood. "I believe we reserved the Raven Room. Could you show me the way?"

The clerk looked up at him with a bored expression. "Name?" she asked.

Byron was a bit taken aback by her lack of a reaction to his appearance. But she was used to seeing all manner of freakish personalities walk in and out of the doors; neither his fangs nor his fashion sense were anything new or noteworthy. "Byron Devorak. It is the Raven Room, isn't it?"

She ignored him as she typed on her computer, only looking up after she had confirmed his reservation. "Go down that hallway over there, third door on the left," she said, gesturing. "We ask that you please do not bring in any outside food or drink. And no weapons."

No promises, Byron thought with a smirk. He walked briskly past the desk, heading in the direction she had pointed.

The Raven Room was named for its dark color scheme. Black marble formed the surface of the table at the center of the chamber; the walls, floor, and decorative accents were all in varying shades of onyx and ink. Byron flung the door open and stepped across the threshold. The others were already seated, waiting for him.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as the door swung shut behind him. "Traffic was brutal."

Silence. Frowning, Byron took a moment to observe his colleagues. There were seven members of the Bizango, each wearing a cloak in a particular color. One shade symbolizing every season of life. Only red was missing, their chair empty. Anton Crowley was dead.

"Well, I don't know what this meeting is about, but none of you look particularly cheerful," Byron remarked, taking his seat at the head of the table. "Which one of you is going to tell me what's going on?"

Folasade rose from her chair to Byron's left. She was wrapped in a blue cloak, her face obscured by her hood. "We called you here to speak to you about some concerning recent developments."

"Ah, are you worried about the political situation?" Byron guessed. Things been chaotic enough in the Necropolis underworld as of late. Now that the Alliance had well and truly collapsed, they were left to their own devices, lacking crucial allies to aid in their defense.

"No, Grandmaster," Folasade continued. "I was referring to your actions after Han Werdegast's death. Your loyalties shift with the wind, and your chaotic choices have put our way of life in danger."

Ah, so it was one of those meetings. The kind that could've been handled in a holomail with reassurances and some ego-stroking. Byron suppressed a sigh. He could be patient with the ignorant. "I was loyal to Marya Werdegast until the moment I discovered Werdegast's will had been changed. He named Thelma as his successor. Marya didn't like that, and she took things too far. If anyone acted irrationally in that situation, it was her." He shrugged. "I was simply fulfilling my lord's wishes."

Judging by the vibes in the room, none of the other members of the Bizango cared about the late Werdegast's wishes. Especially if their personal safety and comfort was put at risk by honoring a dead man's will. After all, Thelma was an outsider. An unknown variable was difficult to control. In some ways it would've been easier if the ambitious and bloodthirsty Marya ruled over them. At least she was predictable.

"Was it Werdegast's wish that his daughter be assassinated?" Folasade inquired, her polite tone failing to soothe the spike of anger her question provoked.

"That wasn't my doing," Byron replied, his patience running thin. "As I said, Marya had become a liability—she was trying to kill Thelma, and she didn't care who she hit in the process. She even had the Chancellor of the Alliance in her crosshairs. Trust me, the assassin did us all a favor."

"What about your decision to let Anton Crowley go after he nearly killed two Jeedai?" interrupted Titus, a green-cloaked Trandoshan. "You could very well have placed us in the crosshairs of their entire Order!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Byron snapped. "Anton Crowley is the best of us." He regretted the words almost as soon as they left his mouth, and was forced to awkwardly correct himself. "Was the best." But it wasn't a question of power which had stopped his hand. Byron had long since surpassed his teacher in skill and ability. But Anton was like him in ways that the others could never be. Because of that, he couldn't bear to kill him.

"Now he is dead," Titus hissed. "At the hands of a Jeedai."

A tense silence followed. Folasade shook her head. "We are not satisfied with your performance, Byron," she said. "We want someone else to lead us. We want a new Grandmaster."

"My performance? You sound like a corpo." Byron laughed bitterly. "You think the Baron gives a damn about your feelings?" In his mind he could still hear Julianna's voice echoing, claiming that Han Werdegast was destined to die...

"The Baron wants him dead too! Search your feelings, master! His life is forfeit!"

He couldn't help but smile sadistically at the thought of pinning her to the pavement with his sword. Watching her bleed out was the only satisfaction he'd had that night.

"Be serious," Titus muttered, grimacing at the sight of the vampire's fangs.

"I am taking this very seriously," Byron snarled, snapping out of his reverie. "Unlike the rest of you, who worship with blind faith, I know the Baron personally. Remember, I am the one he will speak through when you ask him to replace me." His sharp gaze cut like a scythe as he glared at the others. "The real question is, which one of you is stupid enough to want my job?"

"We will let the Baron decide." Folasade gestured toward the door. "Come. Let us prepare the ritual."

 

[Thelma Goth]

To summon the Baron, a bocor must make a blood sacrifice. No cutting of the palm would do in this case; he would not accept such a meager offering. Titus paid a local farmer for an old pig destined to be slaughtered anyway.

One cannot casually conduct an animal sacrifice in the middle of a resort town. Luckily Summerhaven was surrounded by thick forests, which provided ample cover from the prying eyes of nosy tourists. Thus, the Bizango made their way into the wilderness. Night had fallen and it was wonderfully dark. Their colorful procession passed unnoticed by the squirrels and birds, who went about their business as nature intended.

Byron picked the spot, a clearing smack dab in the middle of the woods. He sprinkled powder on the mossy ground in the shape of the Baron's veve: a stylized Necropolitan tombstone flanked on either side by coffins. The symbolism was about as subtle as a brick through a window, but then so was the Baron himself. When he was finished Byron gestured to Titus, who held the squirming pig in his scaly claws. "Proceed."

A dagger flashed. Blood spilled on the powdered leaves, hot and earthy-rich. Byron's lips parted in a fanged smile, his mouth watering at the smell. He raised his eyes to the skies and spread his arms, his voice echoing through the valley.

"I call on you, Baron! I, Byron Devorak, your chosen. Come to me! Join with me!"

The change was swift and sudden; one moment he was standing tall, and in the next he lurched forward on his hands and knees, feeling as if he had been kicked down from behind. A strangled moan escaped his lips. He'd done this before, many times, with dark joy in his heart. But now, after Werdegast's murder, he was filled with resentment. Hatred, even, for the being he had once worshiped.

It did not matter how he felt. The foreign spirit took possession of him utterly, seizing control. Any defiance was immediately trampled, his body bridled and forced into submission.

The being which rose to its feet was a different creature altogether. Two souls looked out of his gray eyes. The bocors bowed in reverence to their patron loa, now occupying Byron's body. He flexed his fingers, relishing in the physicality of his form, then scanned the faces around them. "One of you is missing. I like my rainbow to have all of its colors."

"Mr. Crowley is dead," Titus answered, keeping his head lowered. "The Jeedai took their revenge on him."

"Ah, then you must have called me to find a replacement. But why do I sense that isn't the case?" The Baron's tone was mischievous, but with a threatening undercurrent. "Well, you have my attention. What is it you want?"

Folasade stepped forward. "We require a new Red Death, but that is not all. Byron failed to adequately deal with the situation, and his shifting loyalties nearly spelled our doom. We need a new Grandmaster..."

While she spoke, the Baron stalked toward her, slowly closing the distance between them until their bodies were nearly touching. Folasade's breath caught in her throat. She was trembling, frightened... and yet terribly drawn to him.

"Folasade," he purred her name slowly, tasting every syllable. "You want so badly to be of use to me, don't you? You long to be my chosen, to be mine. But you are not worthy."

She shuddered. The Baron spun on his heel, the many-colored layers of his Cloak sweeping around him.

"I made Byron your Grandmaster," he intoned. "Do you dare defy me?"

The bocors cowered in fear. "I-I would never do such a thing!" Folasade stammered. "Please, my lord Baron. I meant no disrespect..."

"Stop begging," the Baron snapped, then smiled cruelly at her. "As for the rest of you, cease this foolishness. Byron is my chosen. He speaks for me. His hand is my hand. You will obey his counsel and respect his decisions."

 

[Thelma Goth]

Even as the Baron spoke to them, he carried on a very different conversation within Byron's mind. <I know the secret desires of your heart. The things you won't admit even to yourself. I can give you what you want most.>

<And what might that be?> Byron asked.

<Thelma.>

Byron's pulse began to pound. He despised the Baron, but he was not a creature prone to hatred. Besides, he wanted Thelma far more - and the thought of the Baron's machinations touching her filled him with a sudden dread. <What would you gain by helping me win her heart, Baron?> he asked.

<The future of this world.> His mind was pierced by the Baron's sharp smile. <The empire she has unwittingly inherited hangs in the balance. If she loses control of the underworld, there will be chaos. That does not benefit you, nor will it benefit me. Through you, I will save Han Werdegast's legacy.>

<How? She doesn't love me.>

<She is drawn to you, but she fears you. Just as she fears her own nature. But with the right pressures applied at the right moment, she can be persuaded to give in. Once she surrenders to her hunger, the rest of her appetites will follow...>

---

​

Some time later...

​

Thelma stood in the ruins of her shop in the city of Lamont, miles away from Summerhaven. It was the last time she would ever visit the place which had once been her sanctuary.

So much had changed in her life these past few years. The massacre at the Citadel felt as if it had happened in the last century; her time in the NJO might as well have been decades ago. Now that the GA had fallen, even the status quo of the galaxy was little more than a memory, growing more distant from the present with each passing moment.

She sighed and walked over to the remnants of her workshop. Her sewing machine lay overturned and broken on the floor, blasted to bits. She stepped over it carefully, reaching the hutch against the wall. Bolts of fabric lay in the shelves and cubbies, stained with dust, soot, and carbon scoring. She rifled through them, finding a bolt of white satin which was miraculously intact. Tucking it under her arm, she opened a drawer and retrieved her old sewing kit, the little tin full of needles and pins and spools of thread fitting perfectly in the palm of her small hand.

Finally she sat down and began to cut the fabric. She didn't really have a clear idea of what this garment would be, but she knew her measurements by heart. The Force would guide the rest. She would sew this garment by hand, the way she had been taught by the Barbaroi sisters so long ago...

 

[Jaina Grayson]

scene got moved to another thread

 

[Thelma Goth]

Once the cutting was finished, she laid the pieces out flat on her desk. Her dressform had been destroyed in the shooting, but she had a spare one hidden away in a closet. She retrieved the mannequin and began pinning the fabric to it. As she did, the silhouette took shape, clarifying the image in her mind. Off-shoulder with slight draping across the bust, an empire waist and elegant mutton sleeves. It could easily have been a wedding gown...

She sensed a familiar presence approaching. Moments later, the door opened and in walked Byron Devorak. Thelma's brow furrowed. "You didn't tell me you were coming here," she called out. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," Byron muttered, picking his way through the rubble at a hurried pace to reach her in the back. "Nothing is wrong, my dear. I simply wanted to see you. Perhaps I should've called, but I came straight here..."

A feeling of apprehension began to churn in her gut as he stepped into the remains of her office. Byron looked disheveled and breathless, as if he had run all the way there. And his eyes... "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

"I said I wanted to see you, didn't I?" He flashed her a fanged grin, and the strange intensity of his gaze lessened. Flicking his magnificent Cloak behind him, he perched himself on the edge of her desk. "I just came from a meeting with the Bizango - that is what we call a gathering of the great bocors of Dahrtag. I am the Grandmaster of the Bizango, the Baron's chosen. But my fellow bocors wanted to demote me. Imagine!" He laughed. "Good thing the Bizango isn't a democracy. They had to summon the Baron to ask him to pick another Grandmaster. He refused, of course."

Thelma was unfamiliar with the internal politics and rituals of the bocors. She could sense the Dark Side in Byron, and assumed the same went for the rest of them, but she couldn't help her fascination. "Were the others angry?" she asked.

"They were terrified. The Baron is a wrathful loa, not to be crossed or trifled with. They were lucky he let them go unscathed." His smirk faltered, a shadow passing over his face. "I wasn't so lucky."

"Did the Baron hurt you?" Thelma asked, eyes widening with concern.

"Nothing so simple as that." Byron rubbed his hand over his thigh, weighing his words carefully. "The truth is, I don't want to be the Grandmaster anymore. Oh yes, I have so much power, all thanks to the Baron. But I can only use it in ways he approves of. I can move mountains, but only if he wishes it. I can kill my enemies with a wave of my hand, but only if they are also his enemies. I can even stop people from dying, but only if he wants them to live..."

She watched transfixed as a tear trickled from his pale gray eye. She never would have thought she would see Byron weep. "What is it?" she whispered, taking a step toward him and laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Mr. Werdegast," he murmured, taking a deep steadying breath. "Your great-grandfather. He was my boss, but he was also my friend. When he lay dying, I tried to use my power to save him. But I couldn't. And then I realized that the Baron wanted him to die." He met her gaze. "Do you know what it's like, losing your religion?"

 

[Thelma Goth]

"Yes." She sat down beside him. "I felt that way when I left the Jedi Order."

"I thought they cast you out once they found out what you were." In other words, that she hadn't left willingly.

She shook her head. "They bent over backwards trying to find ways to help me. They wanted me to stay. But I knew better. There was no chance that I could ever be like them."

"And yet, you're still fighting against your nature." Byron reached out to caress her cheek with a gloved hand. "Though it leaves you half-starved and too weak to defend yourself. No wonder you hide yourself away here..."

Though his words cut her to the quick, she didn't shrink from his touch. "I helped them kill my mother," she softly confessed. "Her nature made her go insane. I wish things were different for her. I want things to be different for me..."

"Stop fighting it."

"Don't you understand? I can't. I'll end up just like her--" She started to turn away, but he cupped her face, forcing her to look at him.

"Do you know the real reason why your mother went mad?" he asked. "She tried to be good. She would only consume the worst memories she could find, the sort of horrible things anyone would want to be rid of. What a martyr she was, helping all those people to forget, taking on their burdens - until all she could remember was the suffering of others. No wonder she went mad. It killed her soul."

"How do you know that?" Thelma whispered in disbelief.

"Search your feelings. You know it to be true."

Thelma closed her eyes. He was right. Or maybe she just wanted him to be right.

She could feel the power crackling in his Cloak as he swept it around her. But they didn't teleport away from the ruined shop. He simply held her close, wrapped in his embrace. She breathed him in, smelling the earthy forest and the crisp mountain air and the sharp tang of spilled blood.

"Feed from me," he whispered in her ear.

Thelma's lips pulled back in a pained grimace as her fangs descended, her body betraying her. They gleamed like metallic purple daggers against her flushed lips. A strangled whine escaped her. "No..." But any resistance she might have had was feeble. She had starved herself for so long... and for what? Was it truly just pride? Ego masquerading as morality?

"Find a happy memory. I have more of those than you might expect." He smiled at her. It was not the cruel and malevolent grin she was used to seeing on his face, but a kind and gentle curve of his mouth. It was more seductive to her than any suggestive smirk or caressing touch. "I want to give it to you."

That was all it took. The last of her resolve broke, will giving way to need. She leaned forward, tilting her head into the crook of his neck, and bit down.

 

[Thelma Goth]

Byron bore the sting of her fangs in his neck and the accompanying paralysis with bated breath, his thoughts racing. The Baron said this would work. Time to see if the blasted loa was right...

Several heartbeats passed, until at last Thelma pulled away. Blood darkened her lips and coated her teeth. She breathed deeply, seemingly in a trance as her malnourished body responded to the sudden influx of food. Her sallow skin became like smooth porcelain. Her auburn hair regained its coppery luster. The hollows of her skeletal frame filled out with new flesh, and the pinpricks of violet light at the center of her pupils glowed brighter than they ever had before.

She smiled, almost giddy... then frowned. "Byron. What did you do?" she asked hoarsely.

"You'll have to be more specific," he replied coyly. "And really, it seemed to me that you were the one doing something just now."

Thelma's brow furrowed. "I... I shouldn't have done that." She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, smearing the blood on her lips. "You shouldn't have told me to feed on you..."

"My dear, you were quite literally starving. Don't be so hard on yourself." Byron focused on the bite marks on his neck and used the Force to heal himself. "See? You did me no harm."

"I took one of your memories," she insisted guiltily. "A good memory. You've lost it forever."

"Everyone forgets things." He reached out to pull her closer. "Anyway, I forgive you."

She shied away from him. "You don't even know what the memory was of."

"Then tell me, why don't you?"

"A forest," Thelma began, speaking slowly as she remembered what he had lived. "It was dark and deep and dangerous. But you weren't lost. It was your home. You felt safe there, as you never have before." She let out a little sob. "It was your happiest memory, Byron. The happiest I could find. Now do you understand?"

Byron's smile had faded. Not only could he not remember what she was talking about, he couldn't sense the memory's loss either. There were no gaps in his recollections of his life. At least, none that he knew of. But that didn't mean he hadn't lost something.

A price had to be paid. There always was one with the Baron. Nothing he gave was ever free. But making Thelma his forever? It was worth the loss. At least, he hoped it was.

Once again he reached for her, and this time she didn't pull away. "I said I forgive you," he said, kissing her mouth. He could taste his blood on her lips.

 

[Thelma Goth]

Thelma felt boneless in his arms. She had been in love before, was even engaged at one point. But that was before everything fell apart. She could still remember what her betrothed had said. Maybe we shouldn't have children if they'll be like you. What was the point of loving, then? What was the point of marrying, if not for the future?

Though she had rejected him, she had taken his words to heart. Maybe she wasn't meant for love and life. Maybe she was meant to die out, to waste away alone. What she wanted didn't matter. The opposite of desire was death. But she wanted to live. She wanted a future. Children, a home, a husband. All the things which had been promised to her by her parents. All the things she had been taught to believe in, to hold sacred. To desire.

"Thelma." Byron stroked her hair, his voice echoing in the ruins. "I love you. I will serve you in every age."

"I don't want a servant," she said. "I want an equal." Her violet eyes roamed over his face. "Drink from me."

He raised his chin, his brow furrowing. "I ate earlier," he muttered. But beneath his smirk, she sensed his unease. He knew what would happen if he fed too much from her. He would become a Psy-Pire.

That was exactly what she wanted.

"Drink," she all but pleaded. "Then you'll be mine, and I will be yours."

"Very well. If you insist..." His fingers entwined in her hair, pulling her head back and baring her milk-white neck. She swallowed, feeling his breath ghost over her throat as he leaned forward and bit her.

Lifting his head a moment later, he licked her blood from his lips. He had taken barely a taste, nowhere near enough to turn him. "Well, now that we're even, what shall we do?" he asked.

Thelma kept her head turned away from him, unwilling to look him in the eye. "Take me to my great-grandfather's house," she muttered. "I want to be in a place less... desolate than this."

Eager to please, Byron leaped to his feet and wrapped his Cloak around her, teleporting them elsewhere...