Stars, Hide Your Fires [Tirdarius]

[Ophelia DuSang]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYO8Et7-4Mc​

Yalaran Sith Temple​

Archaeological Archives​

“You will kindly surrender your weapons, gentlemen.” She announced before adding, “No blasters in the archives, please.” Ophelia’s voice was silvery and slightly elevated. As per usual, she was performing her best approximation of aristocratic basic. Perhaps leaning a little heavy on the accent in places. Here and there, her Coruscanti pronunciation peeking through.

Two men entered the stony, subterranean vault. Seadar Vertri and his hired security, Bryfran Wynn. The former was a youthful-looking man, perhaps a little older than he seemed, donned in matte black plate armor. It was more ornamental than functional, Ophelia speculated, as it had been uniquely crafted to fit his form. Tapered at the waist with an exaggerated flair at his shoulders. Fringing the woven straps, strips of glinting gold. The gilding matched his hair and his immaculately manicured goatee. Handsome enough for someone playing the part of an interplanetary merchant prince. He thought so, anyway.

Bryfran Wynn, the merchant’s guard, was another story all together. The man was solid and, when he moved, he appropriated more space than he actually needed. He wore no armor, but rather, a long brown duster and leather patched uniform from some far away, unidentifiable conflict. His head looked as if it had been hastily shaped from a block of clay; hard angles and asymmetric folds of thick flesh arranged in an everlasting grimace.

There was something savage about him, Ophelia gauged, after drinking in his guise and pairing it with his presence. And not in a flattering way. Not in the way which eluded to the fierce elegance of primeval forces. No. There was something festering inside of him. Something had spoiled in his soul.

Behind them, a trio bipedal of droids shuffled in. One pushed a cargo crate on a small float sled while the others flanked. Behind Ophelia were two flanking figures of her own, a Knight and her acolyte. Both stepped forward as Vertri and Wynn assumed their positions a few meters across from their host to collect their weapons. Vertri surrendered his sole pistol without protest, but his hired man bristled, becoming taller, before smirking at the hilt on the Knight’s belt.

“I lose mine and you keep yours.” He rumbled, words thick with scorn, “Can’t say I care for the way you play your games.”

“This is not a game.” Ophelia’s eyes were firmly set on the savage. Her voice was stripped of all its charm. No warmth. No musicality. This man stoked her anxiety and she spoke plainly before glancing to his keeper to compel his compliance, “Please.”

“Come now, Bry.” The merchant prince urged, falsely saccharine and tight, “The nice lady and her friends mean you no harm.” After a drawn-out hesitation Wynn, at last, removed his blasters from the crisscross holsters on his hip and handed them over. He wasn’t happy about it, though, and the scowl he wore made his resentment explicitly clear.

“Good boy.” He looked back to Ophelia, clapping his hands, “Now, would you mind if we dispense with the formalities and…” His brows raised enticingly. The consummate salesman, “… get to the goods?”

“By all means.”

The droids lumbered mechanically forward, turning the sled so that it hovered parallel to Ophelia’s position. When they retreated, she advanced. Her eyes fixed on the cargo, “Open it, please?”

“Of course.” Vertri, without moving, addressed the air, “Speech Recognition.” A panel on the crate came alive and responded with a twinkling chime, “Moulee-rah. Dopa. Bo. K’wanna.” With that, the crate’s lid released a slow hiss of opaque steam. It lifted and pulled back. Ophelia watched it, she couldn’t not. As the clouds dissipated, glimpses of ivory curves were slowly revealed. Oh, the agreeable agony of anticipation. She was drinking in a steady breath when the merchant spoke again.

“Take all the time you’d like to appraise its condition.” He said through a confident grin, “But don’t expect to find any dings. We took every precaution transporting it here. Spared no expense.”

“I will assess its condition, thank you.” Ophelia kneeled beside the cargo. The last frail wisps of steam shattered against her face. “As well as… appraise its authenticity.”

She did not see it but she felt Vertri prickle, “I…” He began, “You.” He was grasping, off balance, “There must be some mistake. Spectroscopic analyses were forwarded to you a week ago. Do… you mean to run them again?”

“Spectrographs can be fooled, Mr. Vertri.” She removed her right glove. I can’t. The artifact was resting before her without mist obstructing her view. It was no bigger than a child’s toy and, to a layman, it may have been plain and unimpressive. A simple cylinder carved from white stone; a body draped by a cloak. Its lines reached for each other at its neck, signifying shoulders, atop which rested an abnormally large head. Genderless. Flat affect. But for the eyes. They were unblinking briolettes, facing upward. Staring at the heavens. Grotesquely frozen in beholding the face of God.

Hello, beautiful. Ophelia’s naked hand reached for it, but didn’t touch. Rather, it hovered just above the figure’s smooth slopes. Let’s get better acquainted.

“Oh, I see.” She heard the merchant, but she did not respond, “You’re one of… them.” His last word had been placed quite delicately. It was one of those tactless comments that one attempts to save at the last moment. Gather it back into the mouth as it spills off the lips. It was an easy mistake to make, though. Ophelia carried no saber and she wore blue while the others wore black. She was but a First Order curator. A temp. A civilian walking the great halls of warriors and priests.

But yes, beneath the surface, she was in a very fundamental way one of them.

@Tirdarius

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ophelia DuSang"]​

Darkness enveloped the lone figure as he walked slowly through the haunting corridors of the vast and ancient temple, the shadows deep and foreboding in a way that many would find disconcerting in the least. But the figure had no fear of them. He moved with a firm confidence, the only sound of his passing being the whisper of his midnight-black robes whispering gently against the stone floor that permeated the entire complex. Where others would need light to navigate their way through those dark passages, he needed but intention, his eyes superfluous to the task of eroding the stone trod beneath his feet. He was more comfortable with the darkness, finding it reflective of his own inner nature, thus reflecting outwardly what he felt within, serving only to accentuate his presence. He carried with him a light source, but he had no need of it yet, and so kept it silent, for use at a later time.

A breeze whispered through the halls, creating a sense of atmosphere that only served to deepen the feeling of foreboding one might have in this place. The wind was cold, not bitingly so, but sufficient to allow a shiver to run up one's spine. Though the peaks beyond the stone walls were capped with glistening snow, the shivers had little to do with the inclement weather. There was darkness in this place, shadows deeper than any light could penetrate, colder than any mere absence of heat.

There were flickers within that darkness: pale luminaries that flickered here and there, living and breathing the darkness, though yet casting light that did not wholly embrace it. There were few yet: the ancient Temple they had taken for their own was yet barely filled. The dead halls of this place remained desolate in many instances, menacing silence filling the stone corridors, whispering of ancient death and present fear of it.

Those few who had dared to desecrate these latent tombs to create a home for themselves attacked the challenges of it with little respect to the sanctity of the fallen: those whose bones had long since crumbled into dust presented little challenge to beings who lived their lives in the dark. They feared little from the living, and far less from the dead, so to them, this refuge was simply a sanctuary to be claimed. Footsteps echoed across pathways that had not been tread in centuries, dust disturbed by their passage as a place of death was slowly being turned into something fit for the living.

This was not to be a place for mundanes, those who would walk these halls and cower at the threat they could sense but not name: this was a place only for those precious few that were willing to sacrifice everything of themselves to be worthy of their residence. And yet there were mundanes amongst them: the dark-clad figure could sense them .Pale lights flickering, wavering on the edge of nothingness, threatened by the darkness rather than strengthened by it. They had no place here, their presence both insult and violation.

Tap, tap, tap... Boots echoing across the floor, the heel rapping sharply against the dusty stones, beating out a rhythm of steady cadence, a promise of sharp retribution if such lesser minds might be found trespassing here. To violate, to steal, to salvage...to die. A simple enough exchange, one that had no doubt oft been repeated here.

Voices drifted across the air, breaking the monotony of silence, intruding upon that paced rhythm, indicative of life and warmth in a place where neither was welcomed nor normal. There were others ahead: several of his kind, several who were not. The distinction felt clear to him, sharp as a blade, severing any possibility of error in that assessment. He could see them in his minds eye: five lights, each bracing against the darkness, distinct from each other and yet much the same. Two wavered, blazing with flickers of intensity but nonetheless oppressed by the shadows that gathered. Three remained strong, their light deepened by the shadows, but made all the clearer for it.

Emotions were carried by the lights: burning curiousity; anger concealed beneath the surface that simply wanted to find expression; the casual disdain of one who knew themselves to be among those they could not truly tolerate. The words were just as strong: sharp rejoinders in response to an acerbic comment, insolent in effect and verbalised so as to be unoffensive, even though the intent was quite something else.

Them. The word flickering outwards from the darkness, soft, sibilant, spoken by a voice given sound but not form. The gloom gave way to shadow, the illumination of the room highlighting an additional figure within the room, absorbed by the blackness of the clothing that enveloped him. Dark grey eyes stared intently towards the others, cold, malevolent, predatory. Them indeed. You walk their halls, trespass upon their ground, stand in their presence, the unspoken voice informed them coldly.

"Does it bother you?," the voice asked, an open sound, audible within the archival vault. The voice was clipped, carrying cold disdain ill-concealed, though the face it originated from was near expressionless but for the eyes. "Perhaps you hate them, fear them, and yet you step into their halls and presume to offer them your childish contempt." The figure shook his head, disgust evident in his stance, a hint of anger present in his tone for the first time. "If they so offend you, perhaps it would be best if you took your leave. Without the offering you would sacrifice on their darkened altars," he concluded, gesturing to the object currently being examined.

 

[Ophelia DuSang]

The Sith Lord was not unlike a hurricane. Off in the distance, but still visible. The borders of his presence were stretching angrily with the promise imminent malice. Ophelia was unmoving, still kneeling beside the cargo. All she could do was watch for a moment, unsure: Would he advance and wreak havoc or harmlessly blow away?

“Ex… cuse me?” The merchant prince strained to say. He was uncomfortably stunned, “And you are?”

Unbelievable. Ophelia thought. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Vertri wasn’t the most sincere person she had ever come across, but she still couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the man. Everything he knew of Sith culture almost certainly came from cantina conversations and story books. He was completely out of his depth facing a full-fledged Master. And the fact that he was facing him at all was completely her fault.

Well, not completely. She realized, glancing side-long at the Sith. Yes, she had arranged his visit, but she had never intended for him to mingle with the temple residents beyond the vault. Where did Tirdarius come from, anyway?

“Mr. Vertri.” Ophelia’s whisper was loud enough for the merchant to hear, but still low enough to be respectful. Her eyes alone moved to meet him, “Apologize.”

Vertri staggered, looking quite befuddled. He bent at the waist and flung his arm behind him in an animated gesture, “Apologize for what? Mother of Kwath! What did I do?”

“Mr. Vertri.” She attempted to reach him again and soothe him to the point of being reasoned with. The merchant was sufficiently spooked, though, and was proving himself to be the type of man who made poor decisions when he was scared.

“And who is he anyway?” He carried on, “No one has answered my question!” The arm that had bent behind him snapped forward and gestured toward the Sith Lord. Oh, if Ophelia had been able, she would have broken it right off.

“Mr. Vertri! Please.” She poured all of her intentions into her words. Every last glittering dram of magic she could muster. Her heart was drumming in her throat, though, and she couldn’t quite gain the foothold she needed to shut his ravings off by way of the Force. Her only other option was appealing to his humanity and reminding him of what exactly was at stake, “I’m trying to save your life.”

That comment, at last, motivated him to hesitate. Immobile, Ophelia could fully see the fear on the man’s face. He stared, vacant and unfocused, at the figure of Tirdarius before visibly swallowing and tossing a glance to his hired man. The savage had been quiet since the Sith arrived but, behind his eyes, she could feel him pacing. Like a predator in a pen, looking for an exploit. Searching for a vulnerability.

Ophelia gathered her hands in her lap. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a single shining moment of comfort before humbling herself. This was her mess, after all. She was the designer of her own disaster.

“Sir…” She began, her voice a warbling birdsong. It became stronger as she continued, though, “… Please accept my most sincere apologies on behalf of Mr. Vertri and his associate.” She looked to the merchant prince, “He is ignorant.” Her expression softened again, projecting that same despairing plea for him to value his life, “Aren’t you?”

“Yea…” The merchant tripped at first, but he was finally getting it, “… Yes. Yes, my lord.”

“Tirdarius.” Ophelia corrected.

“Yes, my lord Tirdarius.” He echoed.

“Just Tirdarius.”

“Just Tirdarius.” He parroted again, quite unintentionally. After a heartbeat, he was able to shake the daze away, “I’m sorry, of course. I don’t fully understand what’s going on here, but…” Vertri raised his hands level with his expression, palms outward. It was a gesture that seemed to communicate don’t shoot, “This is just business. We don’t want any trouble.”

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ophelia DuSang"]

Fear. That most unpalatable of motivators, a tool so easily shaped to fit the needs of those who could wield it with the surgical precision demanded of those that would rule. It was here now, potent and unmistakeable, a dish that any Sith would taste with extreme satisfaction. It radiated from one of the two men, his confusion evident, though the other covered his with aggressive thoughts, imagining what he might do if it came to blows. The girl, the younger one kneeling on the floor, her thoughts were similarly burdened by fear, but not of him: hers was concern, fear for another.

And perhaps fear for being blamed for the failures of another. Yes, there was an impression of that, too. Sith punishments were well known to be brutal and uncompromising - this one knew enough of their ways to fear those, as well she might.

The girl's defense of the insipid little creature she had allowed to violate their sacred grounds was almost amusing. Almost. But she insults him in the same breath, as she does us. To allow the ignorant to walk in this place is to allow a child to talk a walk in the armoury: both pretend at being that which they are not, and may suffer fatal harm for their mistake. Such a being had little purpose being here - he was but a tiny cog in a vast machine, easily replaced, unlikely to be missed.
To admit ignorance in this place was to be granted a lesson - it was not the Sith way to permit such a thing to perpetuate. After all, there can be but two responses to a mistake: acceptance or death. Anything else is but living on borrowed time. Allow two beings to walk away from here without sufficient respect for the Sith that inhabited it, and they would undermine them with their little comments and their casual disdain for Sith superiority. And you cannot rule if you are laughed at by those who must be ruled.

This should have been understood by all parties: the two Sith who stood nearby certainly accepted this, both of them looking quite prepared to kill the visitors if he demanded it of them. The civilians should have known better than to enter here carrying their inbred prejudice for those perfectly capable of such slaughter. And as for the girl...she should have known better than to place herself in front of them, to offer them protection that their words, actions and thoughts did not deserve. Of them all, she is the one most at fault here. That would be dealt with at another time, however. The more urgent lesson comes first.

"If you did not want trouble, you should have considered your words more carefully," the Sith Lord breathed as he stepped closer to the group within. The other two dark-robed figures within the room observed this with silent equanimity: they would not interfere unless it was his pleasure to instruct them to do so. He could kill the two visitors as he liked and neither would comment. "An insult to one is an insult to all, and such a thing is not to be borne."

Undoubtedly, had their positions been reversed, the Merchant Prince would have insisted on making an example of one who dared to offer insult, even in subtle fashion. Such beings did not rise to their positions without a touch of ruthlessness, though this one seemed perfectly humbled. For now. But when they walk out of here, unchallenged, they will both laugh and speak of how the Sith were challenged in their own home and did nothing. That was not something they could allow.

"You are a businessman, are you not?", he asked coldly, his voice flicking forward with the sharpness of a whip. "A man of value, of worth. No doubt you consider yourself such, peddling wares such as these," Tirdarius noted, a slender hand gesturing towards the artifact that the girl had been examining, now momentarily ignored in light of more dangerous circumstance. "We, too, appreciate the value in things: not for their price, but for their usefulness."

The Sith stalked closer, dark grey eyes glittering in intensity in a face otherwise devoid of expression, beyond perhaps a slight predatory look to it. This one before him was many things, in posse: a tool, an asset, an adversary, a victim. Which he would truly become would depend on how this would play out. As for his companion...this one would undoubtedly fall into the latter category, given the aggression that was being projected through the Force, barely restrained, controlled only as a dog on a leash: waiting to pounce, but only when released to do so by its master.

"Provide us with an appraisal, then," he instructed, soft words belaying the steel behind them, a short, sharp promise of retribution if the command were disobeyed or disregarded. "What worth do you offer us, that we would stay our hand and not make an example out of you?" The Sith, contrary to many mistaken beliefs, did indeed value life, but it was life that had purpose, worth, the kind that might contribute. "What value is it that bring to us?"

 

[Ophelia DuSang]

The hurricane had not blown passed. In fact, it moved forward in a petrifyingly purposeful way. Ophelia could feel the Force bend around the Sith Lord as he approached, his gravity was so immense. He was stealing the very warmth from the room, in fact. She was sure of it. The Yalara temple was located in a frigid climate, but the way he moved and spoke and inhabited the vault exacerbated the air’s already glacial chill.

​

The merchant prince felt it too, Ophelia realized. She saw him shiver. Though, it might have been his dread which had precipitated the tremble. Rightly so. She reasoned, watching Vertri. I would be frightened too. His fear had clouded his judgment and triggered his more obnoxious characteristics. But… She thought that it also made him seem vulnerable, and vulnerability had a knack of inspiring care in those who perceived it. If not care, then pity.

In her experience, however, Sith were seldom famous for being moved by the suffering of others. Not moved in a merciful way, at least. Some Sith were howling beasts, unhinged who... who…

Reluctant to think about it, she steadied herself through a wave of queasiness. She had not known Tirdarius long, having only conserved with him formally and in passing. Essentially, Ophelia was aware of his rank, his authority and how he preferred to be addressed. Beyond that, he was something of a mystery. But he doesn’t seem like a monster. She thought. She hoped.

The Sith Master began questioning the merchant. He motioned toward the artifact in the cargo container. His nearness and notice cultivated an uneasiness in Ophelia. Instinctively, her hands moved; her left finding a place flush against the crate’s forward-facing surface while her right glided over the ivory dollish figure within. Protective. Vertri was stumbling and stammering again, failing at arguing his case. And why wouldn’t he be, she reasoned, with the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head?

Frowning internally, it dawned on her how much she hated it...

“Appraisal? Yes. Absolutely… The goods are completely legitimate. Sent the lab reports forward and everything.” Vertri struggled to sound convincing, “Ask the lady yourself! She read them. Must have liked them. Or else we wouldn’t be standing here.”

... Hated extracting information like this, relying entirely on intimidation. Mindlessly, the hand that had been hovering over the statue dipped. Her fingertips brushed…

“I’m being totally honest with you here. If you don’t want to believe me, then that’s your problem, and not mine. I don’t deal in fakes. Not if I can help it, anyway. It’s bad for business! As for the value, well… we had already negotiated a price.” The merchant continued, “Which I am not willing to budge on. The transportation costs came out of my own pocket, after all.”

… and history itself flowed into her bloodstream. Curls of gold dust, slender and threadlike, swimming in the red. Graceful and gracious in gifting memory. Arid lands of amber sand. Inhospitable, but still lovely in its emptiness. Where was she now? Korriban. But through whose eyes was she beholding? But a seeervant of the God King. My name is of no conseeequeeence. Only His. Sith'ari. Nu sua jiso grotthu…

Force help her, the devotion was overwhelming. The religious ecstasy. The complete and utter surrender of self to the divine. The gorgeousness of it all. The perfection of pure emotion. “It’s real.” She said, feeling as if she had just breached the surface of a pool and was gasping from a mouthful of air, “Oh my gods, it’s real.”

“Yes. Yes! Of course, it’s real.” Vertri was still at it, intensely irritated, “That’s what I’ve been saying this entire time!”

Ophelia ignored him. Instead, she turned her gaze to the Sith Lord, “Sir, with all due respect…” She began slowly. Still a little intoxicated from her time trip, perhaps, but bursting to speak,“… Mr. Vertri cannot possibly describe this artifact’s value. There is no way he could know.”

“Sir, this.” Looking to the figure again. Such magnificence. She may have swooned, “This is a Kissai votive figure. Carved as a token of worship for the Sith King Adas, whom the Kissai…” Ophelia paused, reflecting on the ghost in her head, “… or at least this particular Kissai considered to be the one true Sith'ari.”

Words. History. Textbook filler. It wasn’t important, not really. How could she communicate its significance? “Sir.” She began again, a little slower now, “This is our history.” Ophelia was surging with sentiment, “And it needs to be here. In Sith care. At this temple.”

She blinked and turned to Tirdarius. Daring to match his gaze, “As your curator, I really must insist upon it.” Her features softened as she whispered, “Please. Allow me to settle negotiations with Mr. Vertri and find a proper place for this object here in the vaults.”


[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ophelia DuSang"]

The board was set, but the pieces were not co-operating. Six of them - five if he refrained from including himself. Two would stay out of the way, observers and escorts only, weapons he might use or simply ignore. One was a weapon, held back only because the weaker of the two held power over him in some uncivilised fashion - promise of credits, or threat of retribution in some fashion, perhaps.

The other, the merchant, a fool unused to being questioned, unused to not being in control. But one who knows what it is to be afraid. Yes, this one had been afraid for a long time - perhaps that, above all things, was his guiding star. So many judge themselves as stubborn, resolute, brave. And yet their actions are so easily defined through their fears: what they fear to lose, or fear not to gain. They fear the moment that their foolishness catches up with them, and they cannot escape it. Yes, this one was full of fear.

The final piece, the one that was both pawn and queen...that was the girl.

She was a mystery, a natural contradiction that offered avenues of nuanced expression. Her subservient manner, eyes downcast and loathe to make contact, the polite and formal manner by which she offered address - these were the pawn at work. The Queen was another matter: bold, quick to intercede and offer mercy that was not hers to give, ultimately inclined to interfere in matters she had no control over. Here was one that did not truly know her place: she walked a fine line between two of them, but had chosen neither.

The one she dealt with...this one talked too much, misunderstanding a simple question with all the desperation of one looking to please, to offer up what he believed was demanded, all in order to save his wretched skin. It was despicable, yes, weak, certainly, but so very human for all that. And yet, in so doing, he but answers my question: his value is nothing, less than a pawn, and equally as expendable.

"You speak of price when I spoke of value," the Sith observed calmly, his voice perhaps a shade warmer than before, contemplative on a level that might even have been considered playful, soothing. "Credits, precious gems, the softest silks and the rarest of metals - these have price, but value only to those who know what to do with them," he continued, moving closer so as to be but a step away from those who stood within. "Value exists only within the individual, in what it is they might contribute. And now I know yours."

Another step, closing in, the tentative dance of a predator encircling prey that did not know it was being hunted. The girl had given her visitor a precious thread of life: revealing value when he had spoken only of price. An artifact as rare as that, if genuine, is of more value to us than a hundred such lives. She knew it, too, meant it now as a bargaining chip in their little game: an investment, perhaps, that his wretched life might be worth preserving if more such treasures might find their way to the Sith.

He knelt down, coming to rest beside her, deep-set grey eyes examining the artifact that he recognised the girl had read, tapping into abilities he had seen but rarely, a gift that had value to them. Here was a piece that was worth little in the scheme of things, but yet one that might be exchanged for something valuable and precious. But nothing achieves such ascension without sacrifice.

"You play a dangerous game, girl," he whispered softly, inaudible to the others within the chamber, sufficient only for her to hear. "Understand that, in every game, you will always lose pieces. Best that you don't play it out to conclusion unless you're prepared to lose all."

The Sith Lord stood, eyes flickering to the other two that stood within the room. A casual gesture of his hand, and the younger of the two stepped forward, brandishing a lightsaber and striking with conditioned precision at the Merchant Prince's escort, cutting through him with all the ease of a hot knife through butter. The body collapsed to the floor in a heap, legs jerking outwards in the throes of death, the head thumping against the stone with a sickening crunch of flesh against unyielding ground. The apprentice stepped back into place, holstering their weapon, awaiting further instructions.

"And now your price has been paid," Tirdarius continued in a conversational tone, his expression unperturbed, as if such things happened all the time. His eyes flickered towards the man that now stood alone and surrounded by Sith. "You have done us service, and keep your life on account of it, but know now who you deal with. Continue to serve us well, and you will be rewarded." The Sith Lord gestured to the now-still corpse rapidly stiffening in death arrayed on the floor at their feet. "But do not think to let insult pass your lips again."

He would be true to his word: the girl had identified the artifact now in their possession as one that would be useful to them, and so established her credentials and that of her client. If further goods of that type were brought forth, he would see them paid for in items of value, but the lesson was clear enough: the Sith were never to be trifled with, nor treated as a Bantha, to be milked on demand.

"Take your life and leave us," the Sith insisted, his voice returning to the colder temperature it had possessed earlier. "Return only when you discover your value, and do not think to name your price."

 

[Ophelia DuSang]

The temple’s lower level hanger was a busy place. Droids and grey-uniformed figures traversed in their paths. Overlapping foot traffic, oblivious to each other. Everyone had such a great deal to do. To the east the of the bay, sitting lethargically on a skewed stack of cargo crates, Seadar Vertri was collecting himself beside the boarding ramp of his Corellian light freighter. From a distance, Ophelia could see the looseness in his limbs, his posture bent like a puppet with severed strings. Wordlessly expressing his shock and sorrow.

She walked to him as anyone might approach someone in mourning. Faltering footfalls. Fearful that she might startle the bereaved, add to his grief or… catch it. She thoughtlessly thumbed the corners of the datapad in her hands and focused on the merchant only long enough to notice the flop sweat shining on his brow. Guilt crept up and surrounded her heart.

“Mr. Vertri?” She began, delicately soliciting his attention, “I’ve arranged for the secure transfer of credits to your account. Plus, something extra…” Ophelia trailed off. That guilt again, “… enough to pay for temporary security while you recruit a new man.”

The merchant prince’s gaze was glassy. He didn’t look up, just numbly touched the dampness on his temple. Crooking his head, Vertri appraised his hand. Puzzling, perhaps, at how it was that he was perspiring in Yalaran’s icy air. Ophelia slipped her hand into the pocket of her power-blue peacoat and retrieved a clean, cream handkerchief. Stepping forward, she offered it to the man.

“Here…” So much gentleness in that single word. Vertri stepped out of his daze long enough to notice her outstretched hand and accept the little comfort, “I am sorry, by the way.” Ophelia began, the vice on her heart easing somewhat as she spoke, “I don’t know if you’re in a place to accept an apology. You’re probably too cross with me. But I am sorry, nonetheless.”

The merchant prince dabbed his forehead. Suddenly, he was boiling inside. Ophelia could see it in his posture. Words and emotions clawing to get out. He sucked air in through his teeth and hissed before his tense shoulders collapsed again, “You…” He shook his head, looking down at the cloth in his hand, “No. I get it. You put yourself out for me in there, didn’t you?” Gazing up at her, his free hand clasped his thigh, “Your boss, though…” Boiling again, “Karking piece of work, that one.”

Ophelia pursed her lips but was otherwise motionless for a time. She glanced down and off to the side. Strategically silent. At last, she stepped forward and took a seat beside the merchant on his crate. Eyes outward, seemingly watching the movement of the bay, “Be mindful of what you say and to whom you say it, Mr. Vertri.” She spoke lowly, casually. Her eyes still tracking droids and hanger staff, “A Sith will never tolerate disrespect.”

He scoffed, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

She paused thoughtfully before her reply, “Madness, in some cases. Bloodlust.” Ophelia divulged before adding, “Control.” There was a paleness to the way she said the last word, as if something was sapping her strength away. The control Sith, the calculators, were cognizant enough to understand power’s precarious nature and how fleeting it could be. The only thing more fear-provoking than a devil was a clever devil.

She shook the chill away, “Regardless of the reason, the Sith are lethal.” Looking at the merchant prince at last, “Snuff your life out with a thought, lethal.” Ophelia stressed before softly adding, “Do you understand?”

Vertri nodded, silent and sullen. It was unacceptable, “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” He replied, “Yes. I understand.”

Good.

They were quiet for a moment, each inhabiting their own mental processes. Replaying the scene in the vault and reliving their reactions to it. It was Vertri who spoke next with a certain familiarity to his tone, “You don’t really seem like them.” The intimacy born of conflict, perhaps. After all, they had shared a trench, “I mean, you do. But you don’t.”

“Right.” Ophelia chuckled to herself before adding, “I’m quite the family disappointment.” A touch of gallows humor rang through her words, making light of excruciating circumstances.

The merchant prince responded to with a tired smile, “Heh, join the club.”

Sensing an opportunity, an openness in his aura, Ophelia decided to make her move. Despite the disaster that accompanied its delivery, the artifact Vertri delivered was useful to her. He could be useful again, “I know people.” She spoke slowly. Teasing, “Eccentric art collectors with deep pockets who don’t ask too many questions.” Ophelia sighed earnestly, “Look, the piece you brought me was good. Very good. I realize you must want to fly away and never look back but I am very interested in patronizing your services again.”

Ophelia glanced down at her lap and noticed her fingers lightly drumming on the surface of her datapad, “There’s a sandstone frieze fragment on Corellia that is in need of…” Choosing the word carefully, “Liberation.” Stealthily, she glimpsed his expression. He hadn’t warmed to the idea yet. Not visibly, at least. And his mind was still in a cage of wrath and confusion, “But… if you aren’t interested, I completely understand.”

She stood with a breathy sigh and started to move away, “Be well, Mr. Vertri.”

“Wait.”

Without glancing back, Ophelia paused. The promise of a smile on her lips.

“Deep pockets, you say?”

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ophelia DuSang"]

­Departure came as suddenly as arrival had, a tempestuous vortex of invisible energy accompanying him with carefully-controlled discipline keeping it from spilling over. The others were dismissed - one to preserve her artifact, so dearly bought with blood, the others to escort the lone survivor to a hasty exit, any sense of gratitude that ought to have existed at maintaining a precarious hold to life swept away by but a single thought: flee.

A common enough theme in a place such as this, the Sith Lord reflected, not for the first time. So many arrived seeking to obtain power for themselves, with little grasp of what that truly meant. They come thinking to give little and gain everything. Even that merchant had thought as much: to offer an artifact that would gather dust in the repository somewhere, hoping to walk away with a heavy caseful of credits and pride in a non-accomplishment. But all things gained demand sacrifice, he noted inwardly, a taint of solemnity grasping at the thought. We pay with our time, our money, our blood. A lesson he will now always carry.

Such was the nature of a Sith lesson.

The darkened corridors were near empty, the mere crackle of flame from the braziers that lined the walls providing the only sound beyond his footsteps. The warm light did little to banish the coldness of this place, covered in a dark pall that such places often brought with them, silent testament to life long gone, death being all that remained until the Sith had come to claim it. And we embrace death as we might a lover, for without acceptance of such, we do not truly live.

He sensed the melancholy of his own thoughts, that grim pragmatism that often grasped at him whenever he paid witness to death. No, I did not witness: I ordered it. That was the harsh truth, the one he had to embrace. It was a necessary death, a lesson taught in the clearest of terms, but the need had been there, and he did not flinch from it. For life to be truly precious, it must also be cheap: something easily discarded or destroyed, such that it is as a perishable snowflake, something that must be guarded closely, lest it be crushed by an errant footstep.

The doors to his office parted with only a slight rumble of inner mechanisms as he approached, sealing themselves behind him as he strolled through, grateful that he had not been forced to return his mind to the mundane by opening it by hand. Such a thing felt wrong at that moment: too worldly, too far removed from the dispassionate line of his own thoughts.

The room itself was shrouded in darkness, even as he moved to activate the fire that rested in a hearth off to one side of the room. A flicker of embers, a rising orange heat, a gentle glow that only served to deepen the shadows while banishing the gloom and illuminate the sparse interior. Austere was the word he would have used: there was a desk with a computer terminal built into it, a handful of chairs, a number of sheets of flimsiplast carefully ordered in a small pile. A silvery cylinder rested on a stand on the mantlepiece above the hearth, a lightsaber vastly contrasting to the darker one that rested on his belt. Such were the possessions of a person who allowed little to tie them down, one that might depart to wherever the mood might strike at a moment of whim.

His thoughts turned to the girl, his mind quickly dismissive of the merchant in all his absurd vainglory. Your arrogance prompted a lesson in humility of a kind you are only given once. That one's actions were predictable, absurd, utterly human, those of a being who did not understand how much he truly had to lose. It was all so very mundane, but the girl...her actions had been unusual, a contrast far beyond what might be expected in a Sith temple: she had sought to protect him, insulate the fool from his own foolishness, to preserve his life when death had been written on the cards. And she did so knowing fully well that it would put her in my path, perhaps trade her life for his.

It was a sacrifice, yes, but it was one that devalued her, suggesting her to be of a baser currency than the gold that the merchant had clearly thought himself worth. It was an act worthy of a Jedi, the Sith Lord noted, amused by the idea. And there is danger in such a thing in a place such as this. Undoubtedly she was blind to what she had done: what she had exposed herself to. The Dark Side lacks mercy in dealing with beings who place compassion above pragmatism.

He sighed, stepping around his desk and carefully sitting himself on the side facing towards the door, dark eyes staring forward with a cold intensity. A swirl of energy revolved around him like a forceful breeze, suffusing his cells and answering to his call. He concentrated distantly for a moment, reaching beyond the confines of the small room and outwards into the Temple, seeking for the idealistic one. The thought carried with such energies was clear enough: Come here.

The fool was not alone in needing a lesson in the ways of the Sith.

 

[Ophelia DuSang]

They stood at the base of his boarding ramp for a few minutes more, she and Vertri. Ophelia told the merchant prince a tale of a corporate Corellian fat cat with a penchant for exotic perversions, “Typical of his kind.” She had remarked in a heated little whisper, arms folding across her torso. “This man… this fat cat… is convinced that collecting Sith artifacts will impress the falsely vindictive woman he pays to…” She trailed off, looking elsewhere, refusing to finish the sentence.

The between-the-lines ribaldries amused the merchant. He laughed and clapped his thigh, so utterly taken by the pathetic absurdness of the arrangement, “Right. I know the type. Should be an easy enough swindle.” Vertri raised his golden brows. He was cautiously curious, “Will a swindle be enough?”

Ophelia looked back at him, noticing the tentativeness in his tone, “Of course it will be enough.” She assured him before asserting, “It had better be.” Phie projected her own curiosity. It was different than his had been, though. Markedly less cautious, “Unless you aren’t as good at your job as you claim.”

“No, no. My skills are as advertised.” He pledged with a little hand wave, slipping on a fascinating smile, “Believe the hype.”

Impervious to his charm, Ophelia may have rolled her eyes, “I’ll believe it when the frieze is in these vaults, Mr. Vertri.”

It was an odd attitude in which she found herself immersed, Phie realized, considering the ugliness of the afternoon’s events. Jabbing. Challenging. An almost playful tit for tat. She had been burdened by such Spartan severity since her arrival on Yalara that such frivolities now seemed foreign to her. It had been so long since she had engaged in a simple conversation and longer still since she had smiled organically. Laughed easily. As a rule, Ophelia conjured thoughts of Coruscant when she was homesick and morose. Lately, though, she had to fight to keep from daydreaming of Bespin.

The pair continued their conversation, working out the details of the transaction. Vertri continued to boast about his aptitude while Ophelia maintained a degree of excellence-inspiring skepticism. Finally, all the merchant’s pretenses collapsed and he offered her a ride, “Purest intentions, of course.” He swore, “You don’t have to kick around with me or anything. It’s just…” The muscles in his face withered under the weight of sympathy, “… I don’t know if they hurt you here.”

Ophelia was shocked as she beheld him. Poor, poor man. Beneath his foxish smile and credit coveting exterior lurked the soul of a saint. She shook her head, feeling pity for him. Scruples were such an unfortunate thing for a charlatan to possess, “I’m fine.” Protocol mandated that she thank him for his concern, but she thought better of it. She didn’t want to encourage him, “Rather, I will be once…”

“The frieze in is your vaults. I know.” He groused. It was a defense mechanism. Vertri closed his heart up again, “I’ll deliver.”

Come here.

Words invaded her mind without warning. Cold and clear and the edge of a knife. Her spirit staggered as if run through. She deciphered the distinctiveness of his voice without hearing it. She couldn’t make out his pitch or timbre; the particulars of his accent. That wasn’t how her Force sense worked. Instead, she recognized the familiarity of his feeling. His simmering menace. Dark clouds gathering. Crackling. An ill-omen.

Ophelia glanced about, reorienting. Act naturally, she ordered herself, “See that you do, Mr. Vertri.” She managed, her backward movement signifying and end to their conversation, “And… please look after yourself.”

The merchant prince’s features were knotted as he watched her pull away from his freighter and exit the hanger. After a time, he spoke quietly to himself, “Yeah, you too.”

***

But he doesn’t seem like a monster.

Ophelia’s prior assessment was haunting her and filling her with the sore shame of failure. She knew better or she should have. At the very least, she should have sensed it. Passing through the vaults on her way to the Sith Lord’s office, she paused on the spot where the savage had breathed his last. It was eerily immaculate after a scouring by the temple staff. Having had plenty of practice, they were excellent at what they did.

It was an unfortunate skill to be proficient in, she decided; tidying up after colossally powered emotional cripples. She wondered if the cleaners detested their existences. Surely, when they were young, they must have had bigger and brighter plans for their future professions. Did they dream of adventure? Striking out courageously in pursuit of fortune and fame? Were they creative? Analytical? Did they want to spend their lives in pursuit of some lofty objective good?

What had she wanted when she was young? She felt her spirit shift uncomfortably. What a complicated question. Ophelia had always been of two minds, really. Her softer self compelled her to seek out and bask in beauty while the loyalist in her commanded that she set aside childish things. What would happen, she wondered, if one mind were to finally win out over the other? What shape would she take then? Who would she become?

Ophelia made her way out of the vault and into the temple’s flame flanked passageways. The answer to her question was so plainly obvious to her, but it gave her comfort to mediate on it and pretend the possibilities were more complicated than day or night. Light or dark. Jedi or Sith.

Coming to Tirdarius’ office, she knew without inquiring that it was occupied. Ophleia could feel his fabric-of-existence-bending power brooding and breathing within. She tugged at the white seam of her right glove, tightening it, before reaching for the comm panel at the door, “Sir…” In her mind she said, this is your curator, but stating what he could so easily perceive would only serve to insult the Sith Lord. Instead, she leafed through the extensive collection of etiquette manuals in her head and settled on something both courteous and simple.

“I have come at your request.”

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ophelia DuSang"]

The girl stood beyond his threshold, a soft beacon of light, full of warmth and vitality that made her presence radiant in a way that few within the confines of this place could match. For all she had witnessed and learned, that presence was not yet sullied by the darkness that radiated through these halls. He could sense that much even though they were separated by the sturdy door that served to block entry to the inner sanctum of his quarters. The Dark hovered around her, as it did with all of them, looking for a way in past the outer shell to the sensitive inner core that rested at the center of her being.

That immunity was something she had created naturally, or so Tirdarius suspected. A Jedi might push away the darkness, projecting an inner light in order to blind themselves from the darkness and the temptations it offered, the horrors that it might whisper into your ear. This one was different: she shielded herself behind a sense of pragmatic civility. She was not blind to the dark: she simply perceived it as something outside of herself that was only directed at others. Her own carefully-defined morality prevented her from seeing such actions as something she was capable of.

He'd felt the way she had inwardly recoiled at that senseless act of violence that had been perpetrated at his command. The way she had been so careful to conceal that emotion had suggested self-discipline that was laudable in and of itself, but also reflective of a certain naiveté - here was a woman not yet wholly committed to the Sith path. She does not yet recognise that some evil is necessary for balance to be maintained, and that a smaller evil is sometimes demanded of us, that we prevent a greater one. Even were she to acknowledge such, there would remain that simple divide: she was not ready to make such sacrifices herself.

The door opened at his prompting, allowing a little warm air to escape into the corridor, the glowing light of the hearth illuminating the young woman standing there. Her body language radiated uncertainty, perhaps even a little fear, but it was something she concealed behind that carefully-crafted subservient manner. Here is a woman who has known Sith, and recognised that appealing to their ego is often the best way to dull their fury, he thought with a faint smile. Undoubtedly she placed him in that same category, imagining a level of narcissism that simply demanded appeasement.

"Please, come in," he remarked calmly, steepling his fingers on the desk in front of him, observing her with an appraising eye. "Sit, if such makes you comfortable, or stand, if you prefer." It meant little to him either way: such was her choice to make, and he thought to simplify that by offering it. No doubt if I had said not a word, she would remain standing there, afraid to draw my ire by assuming familiarity. "I would offer you something to drink, but I don't imagine you'll desire to stay any longer than courtesy demands," he added archly, a sardonic smile crossing his features.

This one presented an intriguing dichotomy: passionate on the one hand, clearly capable of nuanced tiers of emotion, and yet controlled, able to exercise some discipline over her thoughts and actions. Cautious, perhaps, is the most accurate means of describing her. She'd expressed that in her dealings with the merchant prince, offering diplomatic word and gesture that served to conceal any contempt she might have felt for such a being. And with me? He'd sensed fear, concerns not for her own safety as much as over the potential volatility that she felt the Sith might display. Eternally analytic, this one, trying to look past the outer shell to see the core, yet fearing what she might find when she does.

Not for the first time, Tirdarius had to wonder if she applied such appraisal to herself.

"No doubt you wonder at my reasons for that...display earlier," he remarked, not waiting for her to signal agreement on such a thing. It had been a simple matter to sense her shock at the abrupt violence that had sprouted into being on what had been a largely benign encounter. She had hidden it well, sought to conceal any disgust or anger at such a move, accepting it as something she could not do anything to change. "Did you comprehend the lesson taught, or simply observe this as a display of mindless Sith brutality?", the Sith Lord asked, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you see us this way, as whimsical murderers?"

 

[Ophelia DuSang]

Her eyes were cast upward as she crossed the threshold. Ophelia had been at her post in the temple vaults for several weeks but had yet to be invited into the Master’s lair. She looked about the simple room, searching the shadows and the empty space. It was stark and clean and would have been uncomfortably cold, she thought, were it not for the heat of the hearth fire.

She moved toward it, as if by some natural osmotic process, thoughtlessly inhabiting the dancing orange light. Oh, the warmth was splendid there. She felt it through the fabric of her gloves and against her face; seeping through her flesh and melting the Yalaran frost that had been forming on her bones. Delicious. The room to which she had been assigned had no fireplace so she secretly reveled in the little luxury for a lengthy moment as Sith Lord spoke.

Tirdarius was the sort of man who did not disclose more than was required of him, she gathered. Even as she entered, he was contained. Pragmatically polite. Ophelia could still feel the power emanating from him, but he didn’t wear it as others of his aptitude might. There was no flash or flair to him. No grandiosity. No. Her eyes may have narrowed as she assessed him, and she scolded silently herself as she realized it. It occurred to her that she would need to be mindful of her errant expressions.

He was asking her questions. Such questions. So seemingly innocuous yet slyly menacing. Each an invitation to play a game at her own peril. Well, Ophelia didn’t care to play. She felt her spirit recoil at the very prospect. She wanted to go back to her vault and inventory treasures, alone in the sanctuary of silence and inescapable cold.

She blindly touched the high back of one of the twin leather guest chairs and paused… glancing sidelong at it and realizing it wasn’t leather at all. It was wood. Carved modestly, without ornament. Bare but for a thin, uninviting cushion. Her mother’s guest chairs had been krayt leather, tanned so that they shined in the most deeply gorgeous roasted umber hue. Odd, she thought, that she would be reminded of them now.

Then again…

There was something about Tirdarius’ office that provoked the memory of those supervisory meetings on Korriban. They had been a lifetime ago; checking in once a week during the multitude of dreary months leading up to her acolyte trials. Ophelia had stood at attention beside those krayt chairs while her mother, at her leisure, meticulously scrutinized. There is a dark divinity in you that I cannot teach. No one can. Ghostly whispers tripped down the corridors of her mind, echoes from an irretrievable past. And you are squandering it.

“Oh, I’m so sorry…” She whispered to the specter. Her eyes went wide for an instant as it occurred to her that she had said the words aloud. Ophelia's mind began racing inelegantly. Thoughts tumbling forward, “… Sir.” She added, “So sorry, Sir.”

The fingertips that had been caressing the chair’s back withdrew and her hands fell limply to her side, composing, “I think I failed to comprehended the lesson initially.” She told him plainly, recognizing that she was in the game now and that it would only serve to hurt her if she lied, “But I cannot deny its effectiveness.” Her words were enunciated perfectly, silken with a hint of sadness, “And no… I never for a moment assumed the act was mindless.”

“I see us as a lot of things.” Ophelia disclosed honestly, “Parents and siblings. Scholars and hypocrites. Warriors and sorcerers and priests.” Looking inward as she listed, her head inclined gently, “Murderers, yes.” Nodding almost imperceptibly, “There are murderers, aren’t there?” She said, more to herself than to the Sith Lord.

“Whimsical murderers, though?” Glancing his way again, “My, what a bizarre juxtaposition that would be.” She was earnestly trying to imagine what such a fiend might look like, how they would behave, “I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a whimsical murderer, Sir.” Ophelia’s brow knitted quizzically, “Have you?”


[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ophelia DuSang"]

Her words of apology were not what he would have expected, not at all - few Sith ever admitted to being wrong, even when they clearly were. It was all about ego, saving face, implying superiority even when flying in the face of overt evidence to the contrary. Most would rather kill a detractor than convince them otherwise. And yet what did this girl have to be sorry for? She had acted according to her instincts, in an appropriate fashion, and yet had not interfered when the time had come for the Sith themselves to act: rather, she had simply stood by and allowed events to unfold.

She spoke as though she were one of them, using that collective pronoun to suggest that the two of them were alike in some way. Us. There was ever an intimacy to the term that went beyond the implication that two separate people had matching interests. Such a word is uttered when you want the one you are conversing with to look past the outer shell and see shared bond. They were both Sith, in her mind - but that was a lie, wasn't it? The girl remained a bystander, a servant of the Sith but not one of them. That was clear enough simply by the way she had entered his office, by the subservient way she spoke, gentle words intending no offense.

Few Sith would care if they offered offense at all, Tirdarius reflected. Many would feel disappointed if they failed to convey such to one that had summoned them.

This one had not come to them as a student, a willing Acolyte prepared to endure what the Sith would demand of them in order to join their ranks. She was a Curator, a student of Sith history, a woman that would catalogue artifacts and comb through historical record for things of value. Tirdarius himself had performed such tasks himself, sharing that role as a younger man than he was now, seeking out what mysteries the past had to share that might reveal something for the present. But I was a Sith, broken and reborn, able to use what I learned, not simply record it for others. Ophelia's commitment to the Sith seemed, in some ways, perfunctory, a natural transition stemming from her parentage, who would have seen anything less than her service as a betrayal.

But what to do with you now?, he wondered, observing her calmly from across the desk. It hadn't escaped his notice that the young woman had chosen not to sit, standing there looking for all the world like a schoolgirl summoned to the principal's office for some minor infraction, knowing that her fate was unlikely to be a pleasant one, but utterly resigned to it nonetheless. Fortunately, were that the case, she would know that to simply be expelled from the Temple would be a kinder fate than the others we might offer.

"I have known many such beings," he remarked softly, the elocution natural to his Coruscanti accent shining through even at a lowered volume. "A trade-off of being a Sith is working alongside monsters, some little better than animals, weapons best directed and unleashed rather than wielded with surgical precision," the Sith Lord continued. There are always those that use their powers indiscriminately, taking life merely because they have been looked upon in a way that displeased them, or merely to show others that they have that capability. "Almost all of us are murderers, after a fashion. Such things are dependent upon perspective, are they not?"

He remembered the naive Jedi Padawan he had once been, all those years ago, certain in the knowledge that life was sacred and that to harm it was a shocking violation of their bond with the Force. The older man had long since learned otherwise: life was precious, but like a plant, valuable only when allowed to flower and bloom. Those which simply took up space, which sought to limit the growth of other plants by taking up all the resources and space - these were the weeds, to be removed by the gardener in order to allow the garden to flourish. So, too, is our duty: to craft a galaxy where all may grow and flourish without being interfered with by those agendas that seek to take up all the space for themselves.

"Murder is an ironic thing," the dark-robed male noted, his expression not wavering from that appraising, thoughtful gaze he adopted in conversation with those who might be dealt with in civility. "If it is committed by the state, it is merely legal sanction. Performed by a soldier, it is their duty. By a Bounty Hunter, merely business." He offered the slightest of shrugs, as if to say such things were largely irrelevant - which they were, to his mind. "Among the Sith, such acts are one of three things. The first is as an act of true monstrosity, which is the purview of those we classify as weapons, designed to instil fear. The second, as you have witnessed, a lesson, designed to remind others that safety is but an illusion, and one that can be banished in a heartbeat." A faint smile curved his lips, knowing that she had reason to recognise this: she had but witnessed one such lesson herself. "The third is the most pragmatic: to remove a threat or obstacle. I wonder: do you consider any such act to be appropriate, morally? Or do we simply cloak them with soft words and pointed excuses?"

He knew that Ophelia's sense of morality was finely honed, in some respects: perhaps she believed the Jedi lie, that all life was sacred, and to kill for any reason was wrong. Surely, she would ask herself, there has to be another way? And perhaps that was the case - there were always alternatives to death, but few of them were ever true long-term solutions, and very rarely were they as clean. And if you do not pluck a weed out by the root, it will simply grow back, with insidious tenacity. Such a thing could not be borne: it would always be a wrinkle in the fabric of a garment, damaging the appearance of it in a way that would only persist until it was finally ironed out.

"I ask you, young Ophelia: have you ever taken a life yourself?", he inquired, raising an eyebrow out of polite curiousity. "It's an odd sensation, and I'm afraid the stain of it always remains. We never wash the blood from our hands, but we can learn to appreciate that taint, as a reminder of a moment where we did what was necessary. Do you understand this?"