Tags:
Zeptepi Zambrano
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Open to Sith and Sith-adjacent characters with a plausible reason to be here.
By late afternoon, the old pit had gathered another little court of ambitious children and hungry spectators, all drawn in by rumor, pride, or the sick need to know where they stood. Red sand clung to black boots and darkened hems. The cracked stone railings held their line above the arena, half-collapsed and heat-warmed, while the last ragged strip of Academy banner stirred against its pole as if it wanted to tear free and be done with the place. No instructor had come to ask why so many students had drifted from the proper grounds just yet. No would-be Proctor or sponsor had descended to restore order. That distinct absence had become permission for these ambitious, bloodthirsty rabble to prove something.
Avarice stood near the center of the sandy pit, silver hair bright beneath the lowering sun, one hand resting at his side, the other lazily turning a saber hilt between his fingers.
He had become a vexing challenge to every plucky upstart Sith hoping to carve out a name before the proper trials for this semester began. Avarice had been publicly denoted as one of
Darth Carnifex
's would be apprentices, attendants, pets, or chosen things, depending on which jealous mouth had carried the rumor last. Some had seen him moving in the shadow of the Butcher King like something leashed only by preference. Others remembered him here, trading violence with
Varin Mortifer
in the red sand before Varin's name had grown too large for the Academy's little games.
That made Avarice seem useful, and it made him
hated. Better yet, it made him something the hot blooded students could not quite ignore.
His crimson gaze moved over the gathered faces, pausing on those who looked away too quickly, then on those foolish enough not to.
Avarice let his gaze drift over the gathered faces, pausing on the ones who had already tried to claim the pit for themselves: the boy with the bruised knuckles, the girl who no longer smiled when he looked her way, the tall one who had learned that size made a poor argument on its own.
"Come on, then. Surely one of you has grown braver since breakfast... Although some of you left with a better understanding of your place."
The saber hilt turned once between his fingers. He had collected small trophies from each challenger he defeated, prying off clasps, rings, broken beads, torn strips of House-colored cloth, and any other little vanity they had been foolish enough to wear into the pit. Avarice wore their losses as to add insult to injured pride; a vexing a reminder that pride could be taken apart piece by piece and made into decoration.
