First Reply Sith Blood Spilled

[Miasmær]

Location: Loovria, Sith Order Space

​

Miasmær paused at the entrance to the inner sanctum, door cut from its frame and in pieces behind her. Among its remains were four red-clad body guards, their vibroblades laying about them in the clutter of destruction and blood. Before her was a man, standing silhouetted by sith artifacts of unknown age; Darth Lextalionis. No Kaggath had been issued, no war declared, no challenge delivered, Miasmær had abandoned all pretext, all ceremony, all good faith in order to end the fued she had started since her first days in the Sith Order. Before her she saw a slaver, a tyrant, a beast, a manifestation of her traumas. No words would be exchanged, they both knew that.

On the far end of the room her opponant would, without sound or ceremony, activate his lightsaber pike.

Miasmær breathed deeply, sweat caking her body from over an hour of fighting. She had slain troopers, slavers, and the best guards this man had to get to him. With ragged breath, her body shaking, she would raise her own saber in response. Then, with a ragged throat-tearing scream she would charge him.

He would fall back a step, falling into a defensive position as he would maneuver the greater length of his weapon to keep her at bay. She, in return, would bring her saber up to deflect his incoming blow; halting her approach. Two more lunges from the man would be deflected before she would fall to the floor, a hunk of metal ripped from the wall by her opponant's kinetic will soaring overhead. Rolling to the side she would barely avoid a searing gouge through the floor, launching herself to her feet with the force she'd swing wildly at him. Her blow would be deflected, but she would reach forward desperately grasping for the metallic staff of his pike.

At first as her fingers wrapped around its cold exterior she thought to rip it away from him, or maneuver it away to stab at him undefended. Yet the slick metal would slide beneath her fingers and she would scream in rage and agony as the blade would pass between her fingers; not severing any of them but burning them severely as she just managed to let her grip go in time. The man, silent, would reach forward and slam his armored cybernetic fist into her jaw. Crack, her bone would give way under the assault and send her sprawling on her back. Yet even as the black-cloaked figure would lunge the pike down, Miasmær would continue her momentum by propelling herself through the force. After sliding back a meter, her body, propelled by the force and her mind, would launch to its feet and fall into a sprint as she'd charge him once again.

This time as he stabbed forward at her she would lean backwards, the red blade soaring mere centimeters above her head before being ripped down. She'd bring up her elbow, knocking the shaft of the pike away as she'd dodge its blow, bring her saber up to score a molten tear through Lextalionis' side. The older man, breath ragged and ringing with a metallic cybernetic hum, would hiss inwards in pain before Miasmær would be crushed into the floor with sheer kinetic force power. Stunned and pinned she would take a second too long to free herself, the pike piercing her shoulder. She would scream as rage and pain would course through her thicker than blood, and kick with all of her force-enhanced might into the man's leg. Her foot would make contact with the side of his knee, causing it to buckle and for him to fall down to kneel above her; not having a chance to pull the pike free or to the side to tear her arm off.

Miasmær's blade would be up in an instant, cutting the arm clutching the pike clean from Lextalionis' body. He would feel nothing, the cybernetic arm falling to the side. Instead he would stand, kicking her. The impact would push her forward, the saber cutting farther down her shoulder and through her collar. She, tears filling her eyes as each ragged breath came in quick animalistic succession, would grab the pike and throw it across the room. Lextalionis would attempt to reach out to call it back to him, but hesitate as he attempted to use the removed arm. Finally spotting her chance Miasmær would lung, plunging her own saber deep into the Darth's torso, before ripping it upward and cutting his skull in half.

She would watch, stunned, barely conscious from pain, as the body would fall to its knees. A smoldering scorch mark from chest to scalp would glow at her, barely illuminating the alien skin beneath the armor, before the corpse would collapse.

Miasmær, would stand panting above the body of her victim. Her breaths short and raspy, betraying the rage and pain.

Miasmær, would stand victorious at last. Months of being ridiculed for her previous assault on Loovria, months of being told she was too insignificant to accomplish her goal.

Miasmær, would stand alive.

Miasmær , would stand free.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

From the entrance she had so expertly made, a ragged corpse stood.

Slowly, he began to clap.

"Through victory, my chains are broken."
​

It was such a simple thing, the Sith code. The belief that the Dark Side granted one release through the spilling of blood was, of course, childish, but it certainly had its uses. Darth Nefaron knew all too well that there was no release, but an endless spiral that only continued to grow one's power as ambition. The Sith before him had taken that greatest of leaps, and naturally, he would applaud such a marvelous display.

"Truth be told, I thought it would be you who lay dead. I am rather pleased that I was mistaken."

Nefaron's hands fell away, folding behind his back as he took a few careful steps forward. His dead eyes wandered the room, examining the many artifacts that Darth Lextalionis had gathered over the years.

"I would say Lextalionis was an old friend, but that would be a stretch. It is rather unfortunate that we were unable to complete our transaction, but at the very least, you have saved me a great deal of haggling. That is, if you would grant an old man but one of these artifacts. A simple thing, really, a bauble that one of your skills would hardly find worthwhile."

Naturally, he was lying. No Sith sought out simple trinkets, not unless they carried with them great power or caused a rival to suffer. That was the case here, but he wanted to see how the young Sith would react first.

"Then again, who am I to deny a champion her spoils? One who survives the slave pits, it can hardly be ignored after all. Lexalionis was rather clear that you were nothing more than a curiosity that he wasted his time on, but clearly, he was a rather poor judge of character."

The Corpse Lord's eyes fell on the fallen Sith for a moment, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lipless maw.

"Where are my manners? You might know me as Darth Nefaron, and may I presume that you are the one and only Miasmær?"

Miasmær ​

 

[Miasmær]

Location: Loovria, Sith Order Space​

Miasmær breathed, barely. Each breath, each time her chest raised, sent searing pain through her shoulder where the saber had nearly removed an arm from her body. The arm, limp and useless against her side, twitched occasionally as it attempted to carry out what shreds of information made it through Miasmær's destroyed nerves, either intentional or ghost signals made by the body panicking. The voice behind her was unnerving, the way it sounded was not that of a normal man, and its presence only enforced that while she may live she was not safe.

Slowly Miasmær would turn to face the newcomer, her night-black eyes meeting Nefaron's in defiance. She remained silent, listening quietly as the Sith spoke his piece. The whole time her took him in, his dress, the way he held himself, and how none of it fit a living corpse. What few she had seen had been shamblers, barely kept alive by some parasite, disease, or alchemy far beyond her understanding. No, this one was far more dangerous. The force squirmed inside her, plucking at her emotions as she reached out to feel Nefaron's presence. Run, it screamed. Every instinct she had recoiled from his presence in the warp, driving her to flee in an animalistic panic.

Yet she stood, quietly. His presence was overwhelming, his mastery of the force far outstripping hers, yet even at a surface level Miasmær felt she may overpower him physically. If she got the chance.

"I do not know you." would be the first words to leave her lips, a truth but one meant to offend. The Sith lords she had known of through her previous masters' teachings hated irrelevancy, especially in the Order where one's name and reputation carried so much power. Granted... she had only ever met a handful of Sith in her life. Her previous masters sequestering her away from much of Sith society.

"I did not know the rat spoke of me." she would continue, her voice dripping with hatred "I do not need flattery. Take your bauble."

She had wanted to challenge him, keep everything Lextalionis owned for herself. Yet, she was not stupid. Certainly in her prime she could possibly stand a small chance, but it was taking everything she had to prevent her whole body from shaking. Instead she would watch, see what he took and try to determine why. Why was something so important to come to some backwater world and barter with a Lord many didn't even know existed. She was not stupid enough to believe it was unimportant.

So Miasmær would step aside, a slight limp in her forced movements as she would stride to the other side of the room. Her eyes, unblinking, would be locked on Nefaron waiting for the slightest movement against her. At her side her fingers tightened against the hilt of her deactivated saber. The rage and pain drove her to action, to strike, yet she channeled this into a tense readyness to counterattack; a serpent coiled and ready to strike.

Darth Nefaron

 

[Darth Nefaron]

Oh, this one had fire in her.
​

Nefaron could not help but smile at her honesty; it was refreshing to converse with one who had little desire to observe the old platitudes. When she strode out of his path, the Corpse Lord made his way into the center of the room, arms remaining crossed behind his back as he examined the dead Sith's collection of artifacts and trinkets. Most were worthless, at least to the Corpse Lord, but he had managed to stumble onto one that had once belonged to the Dark Lord, what seemed like a lifetime ago. It took Nefaron a moment to locate it, but eventually one of his arms stretched out, and within a moment a simple necklace flew to his palm.

He did not fail to notice that the other Sith in the room tensed up. She wished to taste blood again, but her mind kept her hands at bay.

"Flattery? I think not, you have proven yourself to be a worthy member of our order this day. It is only natural I praise such a triumph!"

Yes, Nefaron knew all too well that Lextalionis was hardly worth being called a Sith. All he did was wait for the day a lowly slave girl came to cut his throat, and for what? All his preparation had left him dead on the floor, while that very same slave now stood over his corpse. Still, better to keep this newest addition to the Sith roster nice and angry, test and see just how useful she may prove in the coming war with the High Republic.

"By every right, you would be called a Lord of the Sith. But one must wonder what other ambitions you hold now that this chapter of your life has closed. Are you satisfied with the scraps of that dead fool, or do you wish for more?"

The Corpse Lord held the necklace up, examining the bright red gem at its core as if ensuring it was indeed genuine, before allowing his gaze to drift back to the killer across from him.

"You wonder why I bother coming to this pile of dirt for something so simple. But this mere bauble could do infinitely more damage than your lightsaber ever could."

It was then that the Dark Lord took a step in the girl's direction, the necklace now piled in his hand as he approached her. He made no move to draw a weapon or attack her, but this was indeed a test. Killing Lextalionis had required great effort, but it was not the place for a Sith Lord to allow something as simple as exhaustion to claim them, to keep them from delving ever deeper into the mysteries of the force.

"Reach out. Do you sense it? That power? That lulling song that is ever so sweet? It is the Dark Side made manifest, taken into physical form in something so small. Forged by a Sith who allowed themselves to believe love and obsession to be the same. She wore this in her day and enslaved an entire world to her worship, that is, until she met one whose desire to dominate exceeded even her own. But imagine that kind of power, the power ot bind millions to your will."

Though he did not directly offer it to Miasmær, Nefaron's hand did extend just a bit more, revealing the necklace in all its splendor.

He was asking her a silent question.

"What is more important, the freedom of others or your own power?"

Miasmær ​

 

[Miasmær]

Location: Loovria, Sith Order Space​

Miasmær would watch him, her pitch black eyes showing nothing but the bubbling rage she held within in. When the necklace would be revealed her eyes would lock on it for a second, her expression forming into a sneer as her gaze would return to Nefaron and in mocking tone rebuke;

"Petty bauble. Any sith who requires enchantments and spells is weak, if not incompetant. What use are things when we have the truth on our side." She emphasized "My servants know this; the galaxy is a bleak, cold, ruthless place. We have had to fight for every inch of land, every speck of comfort, and every great deed. We Sith know this, we embrace struggle, embrace violence, and we see the force for what it is; a tool to be bent and shaped like any other. My servants follow me because they know if the Jedi had their way; peace, boredom, stagnation, no sapient species would have shaped iron, split the atom, or bent the very universe to our whim to travel the stars."

She spoke with zeal, the fire of indignation illuminating every word "What use have I of sycophants and admirers? Dead weight to drag me down to their level of mundanity. No. My followers are tools, who follow not from some enchantment but out of a passion for truth. Is that not the first step? The truth that peace is a lie?"

Miasmær would begin to stand taller, her saber flashing to light by her side "There is only passion, there is only struggle, and through that I gain strength." She would cough, blood staining her lips as she would lock eyes with Nefaron "And through strength I gain power." Slowly she would push off the wall, no longer using it for support as she would stand defiantly before the Sith lord "Through power I gain victory." She would gesture to the dead body of Lextalionis with her saber, before bringing it up and pointing it at Nefaron "Through victory, my chains are broken. No longer do the falsehoods of peace, love, or adoration sway me Sith." She would spit back at him, denying his temptations "The force has freed me."

Just as her speech would reach its crescendo, her body's strength would wax. Knees buckling, she would collapse back into the wall while keeping the activated blade between herself and the Sith lord before her. With heavy breaths she powered through the pain, trying to recuperate her strength should Nefaron seek to take his chance and slay her here; after all it is what she would have done.

Darth Nefaron

 

[Darth Nefaron]

To his credit, Nefaron actually listened to the rationale of this newest contender.

His hand withdrew, the trinket disappearing behind his closed fist as he watched the Sith rise, raw fury and spite the only thing keeping them awake.

Yet in the end, it was not enough.
​

Within the Corpse Lord's pale eyes, there appeared to be a hint of amusement, the glow from her saber illuminating the rotten features beneath the Dark Lord's cloak but doing little to deter him. Yet he did not call for his own weapon; instead, a chuckle slipped into the dead air between them.

"Oh yes, you appear quite free indeed."

Taking but the slightest step forward, the heat of her saber hitting his pale skin, Nefaron inspected Miasmær's wounds for a moment, though he of course made no move to actually help this rival Lord, for that is what she had become, regardless of her own willingness in that regard. All Sith were dangerous, yet those with true conviction often proved to be the ones who forever scared the galaxy, those who were talked about even now, thousands of years after they were defeated.

"Do you want to know the truth? The real truth? That vaunted belief you hold in our code is worth about as much as this trinket you wrongly discard. You and I are the same, slaves to the Dark Side, slaves to our worst emotions. For all the hypocrisy and false nobility of the Jedi, they have correctly seen that we are not a force for enlightenment or self-improvement. We are killers, plunderers, tyrants, every horrid image that the lesser beings of the galaxy see in their minds when they hear of us is often true."

This begs the question, why commit oneself to the Dark Side if they are willingly placing the chains of servitude around their own neck?

Miasmær didn't see it yet. But she was young; there was still time.

"We are monsters, you and I. Deny it all you wish, but you have enslaved your followers to your will and desire nothing more than to spill blood. Your path is self-destruction, and you have every right to walk it. But if you truly wish to have victory, final victory, then there is much to be done. Our revenge upon the galaxy will not be complete until the very concept of hope is purged from the minds of the masses, for that has doomed all other Sith in our long and storied history."

Nefaron paced away for a moment, standing over the fallen Sith that had been cut down only moments before. As if out of habit, Nefaron gave the body a nudge with his foot, though it was obvious he was deceased.

"Do you know why Lextalionis, weak and pathetic as he was, was so useful? Because he thought he was to be the greatest of us all. To be the Lord who would, one day, wipe out the Jedi and build an Empire to last a thousand years. He had sycophants, and as hard as it is to believe, he had admirers as well. They, too, are useful, for letting one believe that they are in control of their own destiny makes them far more willing."

The Corpse Lord looked back at the wounded Sith as if suggesting she may be one of those he spoke of. Yet he said nothing more of it; instead, he offered something else.

"I could kill you right now. You are weak, wounded, and your knowledge of the force has been limited by this fool. But I think it's better to let you live, if only so that I might seek you out again and see your progress. Believe what you will, but if you choose to believe that you alone are capable of everything, then you will end up as a pawn in another's game."

Miasmær​