Public Pride Is a Poor Shield : Jutrand Academy

[Avarice]

Tags: Zeptepi Zambrano | Open to Sith and Sith-adjacent characters with a plausible reason to be here.

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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.

 

[Zeptepi Zambrano]

Avarice

'Inspections of the initiates.' The educator loves and hates the whole system. She would rather throw all the hungry prospects into an active volcano, and whoever is the sole survivor, deserves to be handed down the ancient secrets of the Sith. Far too many are simple pawns. All the pompous delusions of grandeur imbued within the psyche of these underlings! How they feel themselves superior and yet knew little of the reach of true Darkside power. But the Empire demands that even the pawns be respected, they are afterall going to die for the Emperor. They deserve ice cream with dinner.

The young General Zambrano had worshipped her Father, Darth Carnifex , from the womb, and welcomed his influence upon her very development. He and Darth Prazutis , a universal most notorious Dyad, had together torn through the veil obscuring diabolical secrets of the Darkside Force. The daughter of a Nightsister, learned in fantastic primeval Magicks, apostasies toward the natural order of Physics, but resulted from the very same Laws although twisted, not much truly impresses her around regular Sith.

She can teach them all she wants, but few will actually master the arts to the magnitude of total control of the Darkside as a true enigma. The blessed blood of such Lords coursing through her veins, and the rituals she underwent, eternal life, proclaiming her devotion to the Eternal Dyad, she has hope for her own expansion of knowledge to the greatest of evolution the Sith have ever produced.

But for now…the universe demands…inspections. As she walks through the training grounds, the General Zambrano sighs to herself, not caring to keep her lack of intrigue a secret from any who might have been watching.

"Who are your troublemakers today?" she asked.

The cyborg drill instructor rattled off a list of names identifying the Acolytes within the arena. "Do you want me to run them off?"

"Oh, no. Let them decide who continues on with their training, and who submits an application to the camps, to flush out escape slaves." Zeptepi paused and corrected her language, "Prisoners," she decided. The term slave hit a sour note among practically every system the Empire…conquored…governs.

The Cyborg chuckled, and zoomed his focal lens onto the acolyte in the center of the pit.
​

 

[Malrik Dren]

The Academy reminded him of another fortress. Not because it looked the same. It didn't. The stone was different. The banners bore another empire. The language spoken in the courtyards belonged to another age. But the eyes… Those never changed. Young men convinced they would conquer the galaxy before the decade was out. Young women already imagining the titles they would one day carry. He had seen those eyes before. Hundreds of times. On worlds whose names had long since disappeared from navigation charts.

Malrik sat among the weathered stone benches overlooking the arena, content to remain another face in the crowd. The silver-haired apprentice below fought well. Good balance. Well trained. Patient enough to let his opponents make mistakes before punishing them. That alone made him worth watching. It was, after all, why Malrik had come. To watch. To learn.

His attention drifted from the blade work to the small collection hanging from the victor's belt. Clasps. Rings. Torn strips of cloth. Trinkets stripped from wounded pride and worn as decoration. A curious custom. "Interesting," he murmured, more to himself than anyone nearby.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Malrik Dren Zeptepi Zambrano ​

Avarice seemed disinclined to stop, at least not until his little crowd had dwindled and every eager challenger had been properly thrashed and returned to their rightful place beneath his boot. Each defeat only appeared to sharpen his amusement; another trophy claimed, along side another sith-ling striped of their pride left kneeling or sprawled somewhere upon the sands of the fighting pit.

He had no intention of ending this little game of 'king of the ring' unless some would-be authority finally revealed themselves and attempted to spoil his fun.

Perhaps this was simply the nature of the Sith, however… strength invited challenge, and every public display of superiority drew hungry eyes. They would circle, measure, and wait for weakness to strike; then descend upon one another without hesitation.

Avarice merely had the courtesy to make the invitation explicit and open.

"What's the matter… are you scared~?" he taunted lightly, his gaze roaming across those who still lingered at the edge of the pit.