Prelude to Cruelty

[Ras'kala'han]

Lorrd​

University World of the Dominion​

​

Antherion waited, his expression cool. He was in a safe place, what amounted to his private study on the world of Lorrd, a planet that proved to be an axis of constancy when his plans and ambitions whirled and changed with the madness of a chaotic Galaxy. It was a rather external chamber in the presidential palace, the third floor up, with one high door and one transparisteel window, opaque from the outside, styled in elegant arches that came to sharp points, embellished with fittings made of lacquered, black wood. When he had staked it for himself, he had begun the gradual process of securing it, of purging it of listening devices and security cameras. His desk faced neither door nor window, instead positioned in the corner.

When he had abandoned the world for some wanderings after the disappearance of a man he considered a worthy and powerful Sith master, he had left it closed. When he had fled the planet to avoid charges of treason - no, to avoid a sentence of death - it had been fortunately undisturbed after the discovery of a particularly violent failsafe device. Now, smuggled back to the world once more, it made an excellent room to wait.

The androgyne wore simple, black robes; he wore a scholar's regalia. His cloak and hood hung on him less like a wayfarer and were styled more like that of a cobra, and he wrapped them around him as though trying to recede back into the crevice of the room and disappear into shadow.

Outside, "Senator Paxton Bon" was giving an endearing speech on democracy and its virtues from a palace built on the backs of slaves, to a world that had prospered under the weight of oppression.

At first, he had resented that this young man was to fulfill the role he wished to. It sparked that ineffable flame of envy that grew from knowledge that something should rightly be his. But, in meeting the young man, this nameless and masterless 'Slave,' he had been rather endeared to the thing. It was... a powerful adept, and its ambitions were hedonistic and self-serving to the point where he was not threatened by them, but rather felt that they could be channeled to useful ends.

Indeed, he had foreseen a measure of the future - this one was one marked from his visions, touched by prophecy. A blackened corpse, exploded from within, with a point-toothed smile dancing circles through the Galaxy. Fire sprung up wherever he touched, blossoming until whole planets charred and crumbled. Only when he heard the laugh was he certain that this was the one. His premonitions told him that this one would live fast, die young, and, beauty of his corpse aside, he wouldn't be going alone. No, he would die alongside billions.

For the most part, Antherion had been content to sit back and watch, and share the occasional glass of wine if time allowed - albeit the other one seemed insistent on mingling everything with unsavory pollutants. But when he had been told that he planned on scouring, of all worlds, the citadel of the presumptuous hypocrite-child-king himself, Ession, heart of his enemy and obstruction to his plans? He knew then that it was time to fully commit.

So he waited at his desk, waited for Senator Paxton to finish riling the crowds to adoration, and for [member="The Slave"], hated and murderous, to come trade words.

 

[Darth Empyrean]

As Paxton finished his speech, the crowd came to a rolling applause. One of unfounded idealization of who he was, who he appeared to be. To them, he was a symbol of prosperity, to forever lead the future with torch in hand, and balance in the other; to bring justice to the wicked and lay claim to what was rightfully theirs. Of course, neither of those were true, in all truth he was the sickness inside them; the parasite that ate at the liver and let it regrow only to feast once more.

He thought himself a punishment. If they had not sinned, why else would he exist? There was no other answer. None he cared to imagine at least. The Slave was God’s punishment on the galaxy for its unrighteous behavior, The Force personified a creature so malignant in nature that it was he who’d bring prophetic destruction on the unculled masses, to forever show them the error in their arrogant ways.

Not that he was the sanctimonious though. He simply thought it a casually interesting thought; but one he couldn’t hardly believe in himself. Though that didn’t detract from any semblance of the truth.

As the door to his office slid open and he saw the pale face of his friend, a soft grin formed on the corner of broken lips. His voice carried ahead of him, but with the same weight as his step into the room, one quiet and careful;

“Antherion.”, he said; the subtle hints of a predator falling of his tongue.

“Enjoy my speech?”

│ @Antherion │

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"Of course I like it. Even if I was bored, or envious that you stand where I had hoped to, just knowing that the ticking time bomb that is you was set at their doorstep and taken into their home would be enough to warm my cold, black heart." Antherion exhaled slightly. He did feel that twinge of envy, but it was a streak of color, a single shade in a rainbow, a thread in a great weaving. It would not be enough to cover his eyes; this nameless man was a precious resource - perhaps even a clear-eyed peer. "I am not bored, though. You tell the most beautiful lies."

Antherion pressed his hands together, as though in prayer, and reflected for a moment.

"But the truth will satisfy me even more. Tell me we're close. Tell me how soon, we'll be able to look out over Ession and see a screaming wreck of carnage. Tell me how you'll burn it all..."

"...and tell me that you'll let me be there to dance on the ashes."

| [member="The Slave"] |​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“Soon.”, he said with a slip of a grin.

“Day by day I grow more and more bored. The entire festival that this was only a few months ago seems dreary in comparison to now, what with all the work and politics they expect of me.”

He spoke as he walked towards the desk, slipping a crystal cork off an equally ornate glass bottle and pouring out some fanciful alcohol into a separate glass. Bringing it to his mouth, he swirled it, let the presence it held waft into his inhale, and then drank it slowly. With every passive motion, it was obvious he was still in the Paxton Bon styling, with nearly archaic actions that spoke more of some decadence stricken philanthropist than the horrible monstrosity that he truly was.

His gaze fell back onto [member="Antherion"] with the same sly and sickening grin it help prior. White teeth glistened carelessly in the dimness of the room before he spoke; an almost playful tone that seem lubricated by the drink he downed only moments earlier.

“And of course I’ll let you be there. What sort of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

A momentary pause before he sipped the drink once more.

“The death cult comes by the day, and number in the tens of thousands as of right now. It’ll be more when everything's said and done.”

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"Frankly, I'm almost glad to hear that you're bored... should I call you 'Paxton,' friend?" The pale figure drew his cloak around him, crossing one leg over the other, wrapping himself in the small comforts of darkness as he watched with hidden apprehension born from a distrust he assumed to be mutual. "It means that when the fire rises, what the Galaxy will see will come from the rawest sort of hunger. It will be even sweeter to see the death cult's wishes granted."

"Though, there is something else, something equally pressing I need to discuss with you, friend." The word was stressed this time, in a pointed way. Antherion disliked this situation, as it was going to be the second time that he needed to throw himself on the mercy of a creature with no mercy. No, he could do it, he could provide for himself... but it was better to not do this alone, better to do it with assistance.

"I could have hidden in the territory of either of the Sith Empires, I could have assumed some sort of functionary role, but more than remain untethered, it was important that I meet with you. To get assistance with one thing more vital than even the destruction of Ession."

Antherion paused for a moment, letting his cloak slide to the floor. In a simple, black tunic, his pallor, the burst veins and bruised, shadowy eyes, the tired form interwoven with machines were all plainly visible. "This body is dying. I want you to help me make a new one."

| [member="The Slave"] |​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The ultimate going away party.

The thought of it tickled his fancy, coaxing out the iconic and devilish grin he had flashed so many times before. As Antherion spoke, he tuned out for a few moments perhaps to stroke his ego, perhaps to delve into a small fantasy he imagined for himself, all before the mention of needing to meet with him came to the forefront of the conversation. Faster than anything else to demand his attention, was to imply you needed him for anything.

He loved that.

And yet, as much as he had hoped for some quaint favor, money perhaps or even the death of someone powerful; he hesitated as the request met his ears. With his grin fading, and his amber ridden gaze moving to the desk at his side, he went silent for some time. Pulling out of the top drawer of the desk a small cigarello that stank of spice, he set the the drink he held down just long enough to illuminate his face in the soft glow of a lighter.

The finer details of his face disappeared behind the smoke before he leaned against the elegant wooden frame of the desk, letting it take the majority of his weight as he watched Antherion. A rogue motion with his thumb to scratch his cheek and he began to speak once more;

“A body. You want a whole new body?”, he said, not with disbelief but more in a very stated fact fashion. It was obvious his question was rhetorical.

“Those aren’t exactly the easiest to make, Antherion.”

│ @Antherion │

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion was, although he buried it, perhaps at touch irritated at the smoking, the drinking. Was he not enough? As far as he was concerned, being around him should be the ultimate drug -- as far as he was concerned, the only thing to match the euphoria of being him in spirit was to be near him. It turns out that booze and spice were slightly more popular than basking in his radiance.

He offered a slender smile and waved his hand slightly, parting the scent around him in favor of clean air. "Aren't they, though? All it's ever taken is two people and some time. That slave empires grind out their chattel in favor of tacky monuments, that you pile up mountains of corpses for your own amusement, it's all proof that life is the cheapest thing there is."

He tilted his head, rapping his fingers against the hardwood desk in rhythm to silent music. "I have cloning cylinders; I have my own corporation. Bodies are easy. I don't just want a body, I want to live as art in motion. And you are an artist."

He extended his hands, palms upwards. "If time is an issue, or money, I can provide you with either. Beyond that, I believe the only question that remains, is whether I can make it worth it to you. What you get out of what you give. So tell me: what do you desire? Life is cheap, but I will pay anything for life perfected. Anything you want, I will give."

| [member="The Slave"] |​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave turned his head through the cloud of smoke, and watched the darkness at the other end of the room as he considered just what it was that he wanted. Even past that, what he perhaps wanted was outside Antherion’s ability to get; despite his confidence in apparently being able to get it. A few moments passed as the spice laden smoke filled the confines of the room before he snuffed it out in a nearby ivory ashtray.

He stood from his spot and began walking from the alabaster friend, a faint mirror of his own image it seemed. With arms crossed, and his drink in one of them, he finally did a slow turn back towards the abomination with a cruel grin. A grin that showed he knew what he wanted.

“If it’s an artist you want, then its an artist you’ll get, Antherion.”, he said with the softness of the morning dew.

“But as for my payment…”

He drank what remained in the glass and pressed it back on the desk with a slight slam. Golden eyes glanced back up to him as he began to speak in a more hushed, far more disturbing tone. If Antherion sought a deal with the slave, then he’d have to offer something to the devil.

“You’ll submit yourself to an… experiment of mine. It’ll be built into your new body, an integral part of it that should never be removed.”

“And should you ever die, you become mine. Permanently.”

│ @Antherion │

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion was a cold creature, a serpent, a predator. He could feel no compassion for those crushed under his feet, for it was outside his mode of being, he could feel no love for another that exceeded his love of dominance. But he could still sense danger, especially right before his eyes. And he still could feel fear. It was a tiny fear, a small, burning flame buried beneath the smothering cloak of reason and training and the thick fog of four thousand years of nightmares and dreamless sleep.

The ancient young man's hope for the payment was something easy, tangible. Not some invisible string hanging over his head... though depending on the nature of what he solicited, it may be worth it. He spoke languidly, plain and pointed.

"I don't like surprises, slave... well, in other situations, I might tolerate them. Though this is not such a situation." Slave, yes -- a slave to his own desires and impulses. The sort of man for whom slavery to could only mean suffering, humiliation, solely being exhausted at every most fundamental level and finding the cold husk discarded as useless, the exact opposite of everything that he desired. "What experiment? And more importantly, as far as I've known, no physical vessel is eternal. Will I be inevitably signing my spirit away to you?"

"I'm willing to give much for a worthy vessel -- but not an unknown quantity. If we're to do this, let's settle what the body will be, and have things be clear between us."

If this upstart hedonist wanted to make a slave of him, he should consider killing him here and now for his presumptuousness. Anything didn't mean anything. There were lots of things when he spoke that he said without saying. Well, that and that he was perfected, which many lesser beings interpreted as being an egotistical, lying hypocrite.

"After all, I want what works best for the both of us."

| [member="The Slave"] |​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

His expression was frigid, calculated, never giving an inch to the games The Slave played; but his words told him enough that he wasn’t inclined to give him just anything. If a body wasn’t enough, then he’d offer something equally powerful;

Honesty.

“You would, but what is a soul but a fickle metaphysical thing we never really notice?”

He grinned at the obvious scrutiny he gave the idea.

“In truth, Antherion, I intend to connect you to a conduit; an obelisk I’ve been designing for some time. With it, you’ll notice the ability to exert greater, more refined control over the force with little more than a wave of the hand should it actually work.”

A pause and a readjustment to a standing position, his words came back to back like shots from the dark. Each carrying a poison of their own that hinted at the darkness that dwelled inside him; a peer into the abysmal sin that he was.

“However, the obelisk runs on souls. If I make you a body, and concurrent ones following it, and you ever die; then you join the well that once gave you life.”

“How does that sound?”

│ @Antherion │

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"You may not notice your soul, but I doubt you have one, darling. For me, my soul is more real than this decrepit corpse that I have been forced to inhabit for twenty years too long. To risk it is to risk everything."

So, what was the trade-off? That, when he dies... when he loses the will to continue his existence, to sustain himself in the whirlwind of souls that fuel the darkness, that he too is devoured? He is the darkness that devours, and the darkness had its answer.

"And yet... I will. Because I have no plans to die -- and I have no desire to continue disgracing myself by existing as weak. If am truly that small, let me dissolve into oblivion. If I am worthless, then, consume me whole and spit me out - if I am bendable, slave, bend me, and if I am breakable, break me. That is the contract I made with the Galaxy in my birth, it is the price I pay to be strong."

He smiled the smile of a jackal, the smile of a vulture. "I accept your offer." The darksider extended one hand. "Experiment on me. And if I die, my soul and body, my beginning and end belong to you."

"When you see me arising in my glory, know that I will be reminding the Galaxy of the sin that you created. We are shadows casting shadows on the glory of forever. This is our covenant."

He refused to have it any other way.

| [member="The Slave"]|