Faction Sith Order | A Horse With No Name

[Orys Draste]

Aboard the Mors Mon
902 ABY

The Mors Mon was to be the staging ground for a grand 'choosing' ceremony. Where the ancient peoples of feudal worlds chose horses, and the Mandalorians chose Basilisks, the Sith would choose a starship today. Project Herald, overseen by the Emperor and Orys Draste, was an effort to update the 'Superiority Fighter' category of the Sith, and done so they had. The ships were unruly beasts, possessed by synthetic amalgamations of spirits otherwise chained to their new mechanical bodies. Their engines sputtered, as if fighting against the docking clamps that kept them in place.

It was a herd of war horses given the form of weapons, and each one had already claimed the lives of at least two pilots - Aces who didn't have the mental or spiritual fortitude to handle the behemoths before them. Orys stood alongside the executive team, those who were tasked with marking down each of the violent spirits and their tendencies, the way they killed their own pilots, how they fared in combat. The worst of them would be set aside for Sith Lords, but the ones who couldn't perform were lobotomized and given to the rank and file. Today, however, was to be the christening of this distinction.

A thousand pilots can been chosen from across the Empire, and today they would each find the beast that most aligned with their spirit, then try and break that spirit in the name of the Empire and their own life. Those who failed would be killed, consumed by these abomination of spacecraft - and the rest would be given their respective tools, and a supporting squadron for the same reasons. Each would then be given the chance to dogfight - against robotic ships piloted by Typhojem himself, if not against others with their chosen war horses (given training standards and metaphysical locks for safety).

Now Orys stood at attention, awaiting the next to join them for the briefing.

Spoiler: OOC

This is a thread meant to hand out the Dur'ashaarai to Sith Order pilots who want to get a really cool, new sith fighter. They each have strong personalities, and have a tendency to communicate through the neural links. Flying one is like walking or running, only you're competing with another mind that wants nothing more than to kill and maim - so you need to assert dominance. In the way a horse can be broken, you must break this ship so it listens to you. The more unruly and violent a spirit is, the harder it is to break - but the more powerful your ship can be.

Just for funsies. Feel free to hop in to claim one.

 

[Soldane Talon]

Soldane had a rough time in school. He'd been stabbed. Almost killed by a Jedi. Betrayed. Beaten. Maimed. He was turning colder by the day, and his distance from Lunaria Talon only made it worse. Today, he hoped, would be different - wrapped up in a flight suit given to them by the Academy, Soldane stood with some of the other students preparing for their chance to bond with one of the unruly vessels. He stood at attention, like the rest of them, and waited for his name to be called.

Today he would set himself apart, he hoped. He would be recognized. Perhaps he would even earn a rank in a dogfight. His face didn't betray this ambition, however, stuck in a cold apathy reminiscent of his mother. Others ventured into the room while others still wandered by the hanging ships - pressing their hands against them only to pull them back in fear, anger, or pain. Some even had their fingers broken with a mere touch.

That didn't inspire Soldane with confidence, but he'd endure. Like he always did.

One of these ships would become his.

Tag | Open

 

[Kaila Irons]

Wearing: Anti-G suit + Mask
Tag: Tamsin Graves | Open
Mentioned: Soldane Talon

The will of Anathemous was iron.

It had carried the young knight through things that would have killed some masters. Shear unrelenting, stubborn will. She had come here riding high on the pride of victories won on Vanqor and Woostri, so sure of herself.

But she was no pilot.

Kainite craft had taught her the basics, their design philosophies carrying a few similarities in their aggressive frames, but these were different. These were beasts. The thousand who boarded the Mors that day had dwindled as she watched the bodies come back. 999 pilots. 998. 997 and so on. They were less like pilots now and more like dragon riders consumed by their own mounts, awaiting a knight among them to conquer the black winged monster.

Yet another aspect of that twisted fairy tale she and Quinn Varanin lived.

Kaila took a deep breath and swallowed her fear as men of the Engineering Corps passed by, scented smoke wafting from their swinging censers. It would not do for the knight's nervousness to be shown in front of so many imperials, nor her "Apprentice", lest the contagion of doubt spread to her as well.

"Tamsin," she began.

"My former master once imparted some words of wisdom I believe fitting."

Her golden eyes, now aglow in the dimly lit chamber, drifted down towards her student.

"He told me that 'A sith is not controlled by fear, fear is controlled by the sith'..."

Kaila spoke as much to herself as to Tamsin. It had been a long time since she quoted Carnifex, but it was an important lesson both to remember and to pass on.

She continued the mantra then, speaking with a low, almost singing quality;

"Through these teachings,
I become iron minded.
So too is my body tempered
In the crucible named pain.
I am iron within.
I am iron without."​

The young Darth slowly exhaled, gaze sweeping over the monstrous ships she and Tamsin were to wrestle soon with a renewed clarity. She would tame the red-eyed dragon, she told herself. She had to.

"Besides, if that small Echani is brave enough to do it," she jut her chin towards Soldane Talon , who she mistakenly believed to be merely a short adult.

"Then one so vertically challenged as you should have no trouble."

She managed a faint smirk at her expense.

​

 

[The Scion]

Could someone fly without eyes? Without ears? With instinct and instinct alone?

Usually, no. The complexity needed to manipulate a star ship was beyond the Scion. No matter how much he learned to feel with the few senses he had, being able to fly a ship was something he shouldn't be capable of doing. And yet, here he was, as unusual as it seemed. The same could be said for these ships. Death filled the air, tainting scent with it's finality.

Machine with the minds of beasts. Ferocious and wild.

The Scion grinned. A wild, fanged and unpleasant to look at grin. The kind someone made when they didn't realize how uncomfortable it would make others to look at it. He couldn't see those kinds of reactions, after all. These ships, they would give him wings he otherwise wouldn't be able to obtain. Asides, taming beasts was something he was much too good at as it was.

 

[Kivah]

Aboard the Mors Mon
902 ABY

Kivah watched the proceedings with the others, eyes narrowed to slits and arms crossed in the cloak covering the skin tight flight suit she wore. She let the cold air of the hanger seep in rather than turn on the suit's heating elements, letting it chill her temper as she fumed internally. She and some of the others had been chosen and brought here with little information, though the why was now evident. At least in part. In Kivah's mind, there were at least two more reasons. The first, as always, to weed out the weak and unworthy. Then to bind the next generations of Sith ever closer to the Order. First with implants, then a temperamental ship that required more upkeep than a lone Sith could likely manage. Leave it behind, and the bond remained.

Weighing up the benefits didn't make claiming a ship match the detriments to her way of thinking. She needed a new ship, her Reaper had served her well, but it was old even before she'd gotten her hands on it. These new fighters were better in every way, but she didn't have a ship to ferry one of them around in, or a place to maintain it, and leaving a direct mental link to herself lying around in a hanger somewhere didn't sit well in her mind. Still, she itched for a fight, to take one of these things and ram it through an enemy, to feel the exhilaration of their death as she and others twisted through battle. That image made her snort through her nose in amusement. She wasn't a dog fighter, and despite her years of piloting experience, that was mostly in a shuttle. An extremely fast and agile shuttle, but not a fighter in a furball. Though that race on Korriban had been a heck of a lot of fun...

Her restlessness turned into motion, feet moving her down the line as she looked over each fighter in turn, gauging them, scorning their intelligence as she paced the rows. A pilot emerged from between two into her path and Kivah pulled him aside without breaking pace to leave him sprawled across a Dûr'ashaarai's ram prow. Feth, she hated chu ta that messed with her mind. One of the fighters she passed slammed into its docking clamps as she passed, she could feel it straining to run her down and kill her. In return, she approached it from between the forward wings, grinning at it as she ran her fingers over its viewscreen as it pressed its fiery emotions into her mind. Her smile turned cruel and the gentle caress ended as her claws screeched across the transparisteel as her hand made a fist. The fighter shook back in its bonds before Kivah's fist slammed into its front. At her second blow, the ship jerked forward as if to meet her fist and break it, as the skin across her knuckles split open to bleed. She screamed and it recoiled in the docking clamps as the Force swelled within her, her augmetics kicking on to enhance her strength as she repeatedly hit the bloody window until it crumpled and shattered.

Still bleeding from her hand and ignoring the pain, Kivah levered herself in through the gaping viewscreen and into the cockpit. Eying the interior as she stood in the enclosed space, filling it with her muscular form as her blood dripped from her hand, she relished the fear emanating from it. Try to kill her, would it? She'd claw out whatever passed for its brain if it ever tried again.

 

[CT-312]

//: Open //:
//: Mors Mon , Hanger //:
//: Attire //:​

One moment CT-312 was happily on the ISD Lady of Fortune Star Destroyer, the next she and a couple of Troopers were selected to forcefully attend a 'Ceremony' on the Mors Mon. What kind of ceremony? The Scout had no idea. Her main concern was being near and now inside the intimidating ship that CT-312 last seen on Woostri. Alarm bells in her head and body were screaming. Yelling to run, the atmosphere was thick and heavy as the uneasiness swept throughout her entirety. CT-312 was on high alert. The only thing that kept her looking composed was the soldier's training engrained into her being. Keeping her still.

They were shoved by the officers into a hanger. CT-312 could see the confusion of the other Troopers that were brought along. Some were controlled, others simply trembling in fear. Odd looks and scowls were received by a few onlookers towards their direction. Scanning around the hanger, seeing if there were any familiar faces. Judging from the uniforms it was mostly pilots, Sith Lords, other Troopers, and it seems like whoever the Empire felt like grabbing. There were only a few that she recognized from missions.

Looking onward there was a line of ships that kept coming in and out. The Troopers with her weren't pilots. Especially CT-312. None of them had any training in flying. The Scout mentally agreed with all those who gave them odd looks. Why bring normal ground Troopers to test out these ships? As the cockpits would open up, inside would be a corpse. Bodies dragged out, placed in a pile. As the next set of pilots would enter in. It was a rinse and repeat. ‘Ceremony more like a funeral’ , a shove from behind from an officer caused CT-312 to stumble forward. Regaining her footing last second, scowling at the officer as now she was placed in line. Awaiting her turn.

‘ah…Chit.’​

 

[Orys Draste]

"For those of you just arriving...", Orys said as he stepped up to the podium, glancing over a few scared faces. Those few who had caught the eyes of the dead as they were gurneid out of the testing hangar.

"This is not your conventional drive test. The Dûr'ashaarai are not your conventional ships - each is a beast ritually held in metal. They act, they live, they need, they want, and they struggle - these are what make these ships exceptional. You do not need to be an Ace Pilot to perform well with them, you only need the willpower and fortitude - spiritual, physical, and mental - to sustain yourself in the face of hunger and violence.", he said, hands held tightly at the small of his back.

"When the ships bonding begins, you will feel its spirit. Some may experience a fight with it, as a physical struggle. Some may calm the spirit. Regardless of how you deal with it - you will need to overcome it, so that when the test flights begin, you will be able to utilize both your strengths. It is the power of this spirit that defines these ships - but it is your own power that equally defines it. Find your ship, bond with it, then name it."

"Dismissed. Emperor's Blessing to you, Soldiers. I pray I'll see you fly by the end of the day."

Better fly than die, he supposed.

Kaila Irons // Tamsin Graves // The Scion // CT-312

 

[Tamsin Graves]

​

Theme: Danger Zone
Equipment: Twin Omens | Multi-Tool | Circlet of Projection | Stars Enchained | Mind Crown | Anti-G Suit
Direct: Kaila Irons | Open

Tamsin scratched the back of her neck where a fresh implant was now was, though it wasn't the same as most of the pilots had. No, this implant was her own design one that came into to her in a dream when she had first been given the call to this place. Something inside her told her she would need it. Perhaps the demon or maybe even the will itself but the dream told her enough that she would need the implant.

She put her hand down to her side and looked up slightly as Kaila began to talk to her. She gave her sister a smile as she heard the sound of another pilot failing the test off in front of her. A test of mental strength and dominance, her first actual test among the sith not one administered by Kaila but the order itself.

As Kaila mentioned fear, she was indeed scared, though not for herself but for her sister. Part of Tamsin knew if she failed and died in this test at least it would mean the end of the demon too. That would bring her some relief knowing that her sister would be safe though part of her doubted the demon would let her die this easily.

Yet she was scared that her sister might not make it, if that happened, she didn't know what she would do. Her sister had been her guide, her teacher, and her best friend. She couldn't let her go, not yet, they had so much left to do together. It was funny all the times they had been in peril together she was always willing to die at her sister's side, but she couldn't let her die alone. Never, she had sworn an oath to her sister even if Kaila had told her not to throw her life away.

"Through these teachings,
I become iron minded.
So too is my body tempered
In the crucible named pain.
I am iron within.
I am iron without."​

She chanted to herself right after Kaila.

Her eyes tilted towards the small Echani Soldane Talon .

"Short jokes, really?" She shook her head pretending outrage trying not to laugh. "At least my knees won't hit the flight stick." She quipped back. It felt good to make fun of the possibly dire situation that was fast approaching them.

 

[Soldane Talon]

Some of the other students went first. Soldane understood that, and he was unsurprised when the First Cohort claimed their ships - the First and Second of Firsts were near each other when they got two aggressive beasts. The First, Tarsius Kur, beat his ship into submission. It ended with claw marks, and that terrified Soldane a bit. Alani Crake, the Second of Firsts, did no such thing - and her bonding was cold and simple. She had rested a hand on the ship, and after a few minutes they were simply one. How curious.

For Soldane, he would need to find a way to compare. If he truly meant to end up in the First Cohort, he needed someway to stand out - so he'd find the meanest ship he could. The meanest he could at least hold onto, that is. With a stroll, Soldane began to walk around the hangar after his Third Cohort was given permission to do so. Some ships were clearly too weak to hold a gifted force user, but even they claimed the lives of a few lesser pilots.

Others were guarded fiercely by their supposed bondee. Some, you could tell with a glance were bonded, others were guarding it for either themselves to try when they overcame fear - or for someone else. That wouldn't stop Soldane, if he needed to break two things today he'd do so without hesitation. So he strolled and studied.

Some were aggressive, with an aura like blood. Others were hungry, void like and empty. More still were bulky, muscular, waiting to sink their faux teeth into enemy combatants - but Soldane preferred one with intelligence. He might not be able to look them in their eyes, but he could sense it with a glance.

Eventually, he settled on three - two of which were guarded, highly intelligent, and arguably some of the worst on the floor. The last was untouched and unknown - something about it was off, but it lacked an overt sensation the others might notice. An oddity among a herd of killers... Soldane approached it, studying it. A nearby SIEC priest chanted as his censor gently rolled smoke from its swinging bell. They chanted, reciting litanites of calming and control over the beast.

This one was certainly curious.

Soldane watched for a few more moments... Perhaps this would be the one. Something about it called to him.

 

[Umbra-3]

A Horse With No Name.
Location: Mors Mon.
Objective: Tame the Beast.
Allies: CT-312
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: ???

"The void does not care for skill. It does not care for speed. It does not care for pride. The void only asks one question—will you survive? If you hesitate, if you falter, if you make even a single mistake… the void will answer for you."​

The air was thick with iron and incense—sacrificial offerings burned into the recycled atmosphere to appease the machines. And in the center of the hangar, beneath the obsidian sigil of the Sith Order, the pilots gathered like cattle before a storm. Some stood rigid in posture, eyes wide with fear. Others, overconfident, shifted from foot to foot like racers waiting for the gun.

Then the crowd parted.

Not for an officer. Not for a Sith.
For him.

UMBRA-3.

The colossus walked with no haste and no sound, the seals of his flight suit whispering with every motion like a coffin's hinges creaking open. His figure towered—2.15 meters of armored density, matte-black plating streaked with the faint scarring of old heat damage and glinting with the occasional ritual etching: Sith numerics, tally marks, kill sigils. Every mark earned. Every mark endured.

He bore no weapons at his side.
He didn't need them.

Men gave way out of honor, not fear. Veterans recognized him—not by face, which few had seen—but by the posture, the silence, the weight he carried with every step. A soldier who had been broken and built again, but who had chosen to remain a weapon even when the pain became permanent.

One grizzled bomber pilot, scars like claw marks down his neck, gave a short nod as UMBRA-3 passed. He responded in kind. Another, a commander with a cane of gold-plated phrik, offered a clenched fist across his chest—not as a salute, but as acknowledgment.

UMBRA-3 did not bow. Did not raise his hand.
He stopped only once.

Turned his helmet toward the older commander. And, slowly, deliberately, returned the gesture. A steel gauntlet over his chest.
Not because of protocol. Because of truth.

They were warriors. They had seen the edge.

And UMBRA-3 had stepped off it.
Willingly.

This wasn't glory for him.
It was purpose.

He had not been made to be this.
He had become this—by choice, by agony, by absolute will.

The others who had arrived looked to the hangar's interior with awe or dread. But Umbra-3 looked ahead with certainty. He did not fear the Dûr'ashaarai. He did not fear the spirits locked in metal. He had walked through the heart of fire, stared down the nothingness between stars, and returned with his mind intact.

He had already been possessed—
by discipline.

Already tamed a beast—
his own flesh.

Whatever spirit lay ahead would find him not a vessel to devour—but a rival to respect.

He turned toward the ritual gate that led to the docking rows. The light above pulsed crimson. The scream of a dying ship echoed through the steel ribs of the Mors Mon. Another pilot had failed.

UMBRA-3 kept walking.

Towards eternal legend. Towards his final death.

/ / / / / / / / / / \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \​

Another corpse was dragged from the maw of a Dûr'ashaarai.
Limbs locked in final convulsion. Face frozen in rictus. The smell of ionized flesh and ritual oil clung to the hangar like wet smoke. Some pilots flinched. Others averted their eyes. The weak ones—already dead in spirit—looked toward the exit with hope.

Then she was shoved forward.

CT-312.
No name. No title. Just a number.

But she stood.

Not tall. Not proud. But she stood.
Helmet locked forward. Rifle at her side. Back ramrod straight. Not from confidence—from the kind of conditioning that buries fear so deep, it only shows up in the stillness.

UMBRA-3 saw her.
Watched her stumble. Recover. Saw the scowl she gave the officer.

And in that moment—he knew her.

She didn't belong here. She knew it. Everyone did.
No flight training. No neural link. No spirit-forging rites.

Just a scout trooper with a pulse and a serial code, thrown into the line of ritualized execution by a cog too dull to know the cost of obedience.

And still—
she didn't break.

UMBRA-3 moved.

Not fast. Not loud. But the crowd parted all the same as he stepped forward. Boots like thunder, silence like death. He crossed the space between them with the precision of a warhead locking onto target. Every eye tracked him. Even the officers grew still.

He stopped beside her.

Twice her height. Twice her mass.
But not an ounce of mockery in his posture.

Slowly—deliberately—
he raised a gauntleted fist, and clenched it over his chest. The salute of the old blood, not born from rank, but from warrior to warrior. Not because she was strong. But because she was still here.

That mattered.

He said nothing. He couldn't.
But the breath that rasped through his vocoder said enough.

Not pity.
Respect.

Then, turning just slightly, he stood beside her. Not in command. Not in protest. But as a monument to what it meant to give yourself to a machine that might eat you alive—and do it anyway.

If she had to go in there…

She wouldn't go alone.

 

[Vakhari Korden]

Tag(s): Soldane Talon / Open

The wintery white figure had not bothered to make herself known to almost any present, preferring to linger away from the bustling crowds to enthusiastically inspect each and every grand mechanical abomination she could get her darkened gloves close to.

"SHhHhSHH.. Shh!"

This strange woman says while her hand gently caressed the plating of the ship Soldane Talon had picked out, she seemed to pay almost little mind to anyone present, preferring to listen in. The machinery, the devilry at work- Oh how it sung to her like an angelic choir! If this was to be the gold standard as to what level of engineering was expected- The very thought made her shiver to the core with delight.

After all, it would only do to have the finest and most versatile creations in order to sow the results she so desperately craved to witness.

"Oh?"

Vakhari transfers her attention to Soldane Talon as they got near, the woman's voice having a metallic echo thanks to her mask.

"You sense something with this one too, don't you?"

She smiles, though it is hard to tell aside from the slight movement of her cheeks above the rim of the mask.

"Unruly in a way, but your Vitus calls to it and the beast answers."

A strange quadrupedal droid would scramble out, sitting at the top of the craft for a moment as the beady glow in its eyes watched the young acolyte. It was clear that whatever this thing was had scanned Soldane before moving on to skitter its way down next to the strange woman.

Her eyes then focused on Orys Draste as the man gave his speech, explaining to all present that these were obviously no normal ships. Built and crafted with ideals to pair these with those who held a strong willpower, each person here was to try and find the beast that called to them the most... And break it to their will.

"Have you ever done anything like this before? Made something bend to your will?"

Vakhari's eyes transfer back to Soldane.


​

 

[Soldane Talon]

Soldane almost hadn't noticed Vakhari Korden - but he did, he stopped and frowned. Someone else had felt this weird ships call as well. He thought he wouldn't have to fight for it, but perhaps he would anyway. A shame she was older than he was, it made for an uneven fight, were it to come to that.

Instead he simply shook his head, for the time being.

"No, I haven't.", he said. That much was true - to break something to your will was something he was trained in by Darth Carnifex but not so thoroughly as to have real world experience. Let alone breaking a Herald ship like this. He grimaced at the thought he was more of a novice than he had realized.

"I've... dabbled, I suppose, but I am hardly an expert."

He lifted his hand for it, wanted to press it to witness what it would look like spiritually, but he hesitated then set his hand back down.

"You haven't claimed this one have you? Got any advice?", he said idly, hoping this wouldn't devolve into another challenge.

 

[Vakhari Korden]

Tag: Soldane Talon / Open

She idly watches as he had almost attempted to commit, it was easy to see that this strangely familiar boy was both nervous and a novice at this sort of thing. To Vakhari there was no shame in it- so long as one actively sought to learn.

"No no, I have yet to claim one... Simply admiring each one."

Figuring it being easier for him to understand her, she proceeds to take off her mask, clipping it on her belt and letting the boy see her soft face.

"Advice? I suppose the first step would be shedding any fear or anxiety, easier said than done of course."

Vakhari huffs a bit, thinking about someone in the past who had annoyed her.

"Fear is normal, anxiety is normal. The key is to find a way to turn it from a hindrance to a handy tool, for most Sith it would seem that simply the fear of death is what gives them that spark. Try to think about all of this, remember that you hold power.. And so long as you continue to keep that at the front of your mind, it steadily becomes easier."

She had a good understanding of all the skills needed to monitor the situation, and so she reaches out her hand.

"Take my hand."

Vakhari removes her black glove, offering her bare hand for Soldane to take hold of.
​

 

[Soldane Talon]

Soldane did hold power. More than most realized. He had witnessed such during his assassination attempt during the raid on the Fifth's barracks. He had been stabbed over 20 times in the stomach, and he still managed to come out of it in the end - all it took was holding in his mind that very embodiment of the Sith.

That his emotions, his personhood, was all the power he ever needed. He was power. He only needed to hold it.

He sighed as he made that realization, knowing that the anxiety and fear he felt were his power - and so he took her hand and closed his eyes. He allowed that fear to fester, that anxiety to overcome him, then twisted it. The Dark Side fed on such things, and to utilize it required someone to truly concentrate that strength, that will, into a nearly coalesced physical essence in the core. He did just that, tightening it with metaphysical hands until it spun, heavy and dense, a black hole of emotion in his gut.

Opening his eyes, a sulphuric glow emanated as the Dark Side tinged his pupils with red and gold, and his hand didn't so much reach out to the ship before him, but slammed into it. In that moment, the two of them were mentally transported into the world of the ship.

It was a cold world, bereft of anything but metal and wire. Some hung, some were simply without their protective housing, others sparked violently. It wasn't that the ship was hurt, but it simply did not care - as though all its violence was directed within itself. Soldane could relate to that - perhaps that is why he felt the call to this thing.

Before them on a small stool made of some server sat the black figure of the machine-spirit. It was made of pure hatred, pure war, unfiltered in this world of it. Its featureless face glanced up to them, while its hands continued to cut into wood. In its hands was the sculpture of the last person it had killed, and only then did Soldane realize there were another thirty behind it.

This beast had killed over thirty pilots so far. Now it watched them both, carefully.

Soldane let that fear grow, then fought to keep it concentrated.

Vakhari Korden

 

[Avel Som]

---

It was strange, Avel Som's relationship with the Sith Order. He was not a trooper. He was not a Sith, at least not yet. And though he had done some mercenary work in the past, everything for the Order had so far either been entirely coincidental or completely voluntary. He honestly had no idea what he was doing, but he appreciated the fact that these people seemed to simply accept that he was there. Even when he found himself places he was not entirely sure he should be.

Now was one prime example. He had been brought here with these pilots. He was no pilot, all he had was some rudimentary knowledge on how to operate a ship without crashing -- basic stuff. And considering he did not even own a ship, he mostly just hitched rides wherever. They had tried giving him some kind of implant, but it did not work. They had to hastily install it before his body sealed up any incisions, but his body also just completely rejected the cybernetics and spat them out like a splinter. They had been forced to give up. That was just as well to him; Avel Som did not like the idea of having machinery inside him.

He roamed the aisles of ships, the majority of which strained violently against their holdings. The man in charge, an Orys Draste or something, had called them beasts. Avel Som definitely agreed. They gave that impression, each with its own distinct personality. He placed a hand against a random ship, and the thing seemed to recoil away from him. "Well, it's no good if you're afraid of me," he told the ship before walking away.

He walked past two young-looking individuals ( Soldane Talon and Vakhari Korden ) who were discussing one particular ship. "Good evening; don't mind me." He gave them a respectful nod. "What makes this one different?" he asked, mostly thinking aloud to himself. He placed a hand on it. The ship seemed to be more... curious than anything. Almost as if it were asking, Will you try to fly me? Do you think you're more worthy than any of the others? It was also a bit arrogant, Avel Som thought. Though, he was fairly certain the question wasn't meant for him alone, but a challenge to anyone who came up to it. He simply shrugged. "Nah. One of those two seemed to have dibs. Don't wanna be rude." He gave two a smile. "Apologies for the interruption. Name's Avel Som." That was the sociable way to do that, right?

He continued walking the rows of ships. One towards the back piqued his interest. While the others around were shaking and almost growling, this one seemed to be asleep; it was completely silent and stationary. Avel Som laid his hand on it, and... Suddenly the ship's wing was piercing through his chest. He had not had his hypersensitivity turned up, but it was still a shock how swift the ship had moved. There had been no announcement, no threats, just a quick and decisive attack.

Avel Som grinned at the ship as it pulled its wing out of his chest, bending it back into place. The thing seemed to be "eyeing" him, as if boredly saying, None of you filth can touch me, or I will kill you all.

"You'll do," was all Avel Som responded.

---

TAGS: OPEN​

 

[Vakhari Korden]

Tags: Soldane Talon

As they had both got a view of the beast, it had only caused Vakhari to squint. Her mind had only recognized this thing as a tool, and she normally the master. But alas, not today. This would be the day that this little one learned how to be a master, to put the tool in its place where it firmly belonged.

Soldane would feel a strange connection between him and this peculiar woman, his very heart beating faster as his blood pumped with adrenaline. She- She had manipulated his blood?

It felt as if her own strengths in the force melted right into him, a bolster.

"It's just a tool to serve you. The front it puts on means nothing, Break it into submission."

With Vakhari's bond, it felt easier to see it just how she said. The young woman tightening her grip in a comforting yet pushing manner, smiling with a warm glow of confidence adorning her face.

"You have this."
​

 

[Soldane Talon]

He could feel that boil his blood, make his heart skip and drive. There was a coldness that rushed through his veins... or maybe a heat, he couldn't be sure. Whether it was from her or from this vision, all he knew is it was to be his strength. Her words of encouragement were all he needed before he took steps forward in the vision, and in response the black silhouette before them became a mirror of him.

He, who stood before he, stood and began to walk towards Soldane. His face was matched to the letter, the intensity of it all he could see now only as they were before him. They moved to grab each other, and each grabbed the opposites wrist, slowly leaning into the hold as they tried to get more control, more power, more dominance. If Soldane failed, he would die.

This curious thing opened its Soldane mouth and bled black ichor, growing until it fell from the eyes. It was oil, Soldane imagined, but the fear it created was terrible. Terribly in so far that it made him hesitate, but the concentrated mass of emotion in his gut only empowered him, and it all bled towards the same pit in his stomach. He pressed back, tighter, more forceful, until wrists snapped and beasts howled.

Then they were thrown from the vision, leaving him gasping for air. He let go of the ship, and Vakhari Korden , falling to his knees and coughing. Others glanced towards him, realizing what he had done. They looked hateful for it, but they eventually fell back in their own decisions and exploration. Soldane beamed when he recovered.

"Thank you. That was... hard."

 

[Kaila Irons]

Wearing: Anti-G suit + Mask
Tag: Tamsin Graves | Open
Mentioned: Orys Draste

"Oh yes, the tight squeeze will be more a challenge than taming the beast." she chuckled dryly.

Then Orys Draste spoke, and the former legionnaire snapped to attention. Her posture stiffened, eyes locked forward, ears strained to absorb and analyze every word. Was it becoming of a Darth to heed an officer so? perhaps not, but old habits died hard and Anathemous knew this to be too serious a matter to think of that now.

"When the ships bonding begins, you will feel its spirit. Some may experience a fight with it, as a physical struggle. Some may calm the spirit. Regardless of how you deal with it - you will need to overcome it, so that when the test flights begin, you will be able to utilize both your strengths. It is the power of this spirit that defines these ships - but it is your own power that equally defines it. Find your ship, bond with it, then name it."

Spirit? suddenly it all made sense.

These ships weren't just angry, they were hurting, ripped from their bodies and made to linger in machines. Kaila kept this to herself until the briefing concluded, already formulating a strategy as to how she and Tamsin must handle the wild starfighters.

When the others broke formation in a nervous stampede to find their ships, Kaila held back a moment.

"I think I understand now," she said to Tamsin.

"It's like our amulets, binding souls to an item to empower it. In that way we must employ similar techniques to our ritual, overpowering the spirit's will or seducing it's might to our cause."

"This will make for great practice." she said, patting her sister's shoulder once.

The eater of souls strode forward then with renewed confidence, knowing exactly what she must do.

Most of the prospective pilots, acolytes and imperial navymen, gave the sith knight a wide berth, allowing her to quickly march towards the starships. Each step sounded unnaturally heavy, and equally driven.

It was not until she heard the whispering for herself that she came to a stop.

Her eyes widened when she turned, met with the same golden fury for which she was known, warped in bloody undertones. Silently they stared into one another for a time, neither making a move. It was not until her own breath fogged the crimson transparisteel that her mind caught up with instinct, informing her that this was but a reflection.

Kaila blinked.

She'd not realized just how close the ship had gotten until now.

Men of the engineering corps groaned nearby, scores of cyborgs pulling the beast back on heavy chains, it's wings screeching against the deck as they dragged it back to where it was intended to rest, tied down.

Do you mean to kill me, she wondered. Silently, but brutally?

"...who claims this beast...?" she inquired, still staring into the dragon's single red eye.

"He." one of the engineers would grunt, pointing to the floor.

At the feet of Anathemous lay a fresh corpse, seconds old, hot blood trickling from the acolyte's skull. And as the young Darth glanced back up at the ship, it shuddered in delight.

For it now beheld the next challenger.

​

 

[Vakhari Korden]

Tags: Soldane Talon Avel Som

As the boy had managed to pull it off, Vakhari would grin- with said grin only lasting a moment as he had fallen to his knees. Still alive it seemed, the ship now having a new master.

She takes a kneel, inspecting and looking over him. One could preserve her as seeing if he was ok, but to her she was inspecting his flesh. Looking for any signs of burns to study, any pushbacks the ship could have given.. The woman had faith he wouldn't be the next victim of this beast, but perhaps given an interesting little wound to study?

"Everything is only as hard as you make it, while I did help give you that little push- You are still here, heart beating, skinvelope intact. You should thank yourself, you'd be a decaying corpse otherwise."

Vakhari gives a gentle wink, chuckling a bit as she help the boy up onto his feet.

"The sentiment is appreciated though."

The woman takes a look at the now restrained ship, then back to Soldane.

"I do suppose I might as well find my own one of these, I also think someone had tried to get my attention earlier?"

She glances around while putting her glove back on, spotting Avel Som over by another vessel. That ship seeming to attack the man.. How peculiar..

"If you still need me then feel free to seek me out, I am Vakhari."

Her head tilts in a manner to mimic a bow. The snowy figure attaching her metallic mask back on as she would then move to inspect what was going on over by Avel Som , boots clacking against the metal floor.

"Well you can't just let the thing kill you."

Vakhari says to Avel in a sarcastic manner that could be detected even behind the metallic echoing of her voice, her pale brow raises as she gets a glimpse of him. Clearly not a Sith, he looked more like the captains of the corpse barges that flocked to Yalara.

"You had tried to get my attention earlier, correct?"

​

 

[Avel Som]

---

"Well, you can't just let the thing kill you. You had tried to get my attention earlier, correct?"

Avel Som turned to look at the snow-haired lady. Her blood-red eyes stared back at his grey-green eyes. Her beauty made him rather self-conscious about his own ugliness, but he quickly dismissed it. He was sued to people being grossed out by how abnormally thin he was, and yet nobody within the Sith Order seemed to judge based on appearance. He felt rather home here, as much as he was capable of feeling at home.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that." He pointed to his chest. Where a gaping wound had been, there was bare skin. There was not even a scare to show he had ever been attacked. "This shirt is ruined, though. And I was just trying to be sociable and polite when I called out earlier. I am acquainted with only a few of the Sith here. Wouldn't mind getting to know more people. If you didn't catch it before, my name is Avel Som."

"Avel Som?" An engineer monitoring the ships ran up with a datapad in his hands, though he gave the metal beast a wide berth. "It says you were unable to receive the implant. You won't be able to interface with the machine without it. Even with it, the thing still might..." He looked at Avel Som and his shredded shirt. "Kill you?"

Avel Som just shrugged. "I'm sure it'll work out somehow. I doubt everyone needs an implant. I find it hard to believe all the Sith willingly took one. Wouldn't you agree, Miss...?" He gave the albino woman as friendly a grin as he could. "I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding a good ship either." With that, he leapt through the air and landed on the ship, which immediately began thrashing about as he tried to pry the cockpit open. The cockpit flew open, only to slam back down on his hands, like the ship was trying to bite him. There was a loud crunch, as his bones snapped. Avel Som had his nervous system tuned down and did not even feel it. He pushed, forcing the cockpit open as his bones reknit themselves. He dropped down into the pilot's seat.

The beast roared in pure, unadulterated anger. The engines screamed as the ship ripped through the docking clamps holding it in place. It tore clean through one of the ships in front of it, causing the other ship to explode, taking out the people near it as well. "Oh shit, my bad." Avel Som went to reach for controls, only to not find any. "Well, karking feth." The seat began closing in on him, trying to bash him. The ship scraped the walls of the hangar and spun wildly, trying to fling him out.

Avel Som held on. "You're just a beast, right? Time to tame you like one." He already had a bond with Darkwing, an ebon hawk unlike any other, one who devoured Sith spawn and nether beasts alike. The same bird was watching with mild amusement from a perch in the rafters. Avel Som slammed his fist into the console, or at least where the console should be. Sparks flew as electricity surged into his body from the wiring. He gritted his teeth and yelled out, "You will submit!" The electricity flowed into his very cells, supercharging them. Through his bond with Darkwing, he sensed another creature. The starfighter.

He and Darkwing both reached out through the Force and grabbed it, exerting their collective will. The ship screamed as it flew out the hangar, trying desperately to throw him into space. Ice formed in the unpressurized cockpit, yet Avel Som continued to cling, willing the ship to submit.

---

Vakhari Korden
TAGS: OPEN​