Survival

[Malok]

The Host was dead.

In his efforts to be the hero of the day, a great Mandalorian had perished. However, only moments before his fiery demise, the Anathema chose live over heroics. For literal decades had the two been one; so much so that the Host's offspring oftentimes considered them one entity. Yet, when it came time to make the ultimate sacrifice, Darth Metus would not be bothered saving the lives of House Verd. They were not his kin - they were Mandalorians. Theirs was a culture that despised Sith; so why would the spirit risk its own existence to save their ilk?

And so, Darth Metus pried itself free of the Host...

...Before succumbing to the curse of its existence.

Great was its knowledge. Great was its power. Yet without a Host, Darth Metus was practically nothing. To make matters all the more complicated, with each passing day its power dwindled. Time was not the spirit's ally, of this one could be certain. As such, Darth Metus had a race against time...

Mori...

Across the vastness of space did it whisper, reaching out the the child of shadow.

Come to me, oh child mine....

 

[Mór-rioghain]

Whispers, taunting whispers slithered through the woman's mind, telling her stories of the past. Stories of what some would consider atrocities committed by those whom once walked the halls of this temple.

Seated upon a set of crumbling steps, the female would continue meditating, allowing her mind to wander and take in the wonder that was the air about her. Fingers absently traced the surface beneath her seconds before an all too familiar whisper slid into her conscious.


"I am here.." Three simple words to help the welcome presence find her. Out of all her family, she was the one least concerned with her father's passing. If anything she thought him stupid for acting the martyr. He didn't die a hero. He died someone to foolish to see that the Mandalorians had in fact died off long ago. He was blinded by his upbringing and loyalty. The only good thing that came from his death was the saber resting across her lap.


[member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Malok]

Three words.

Although insignificant in the waking world, they served as a beacon. They guided the wandering entity through the black, until its form slithered into the present. Stones, cracked and ancient, shuddered as Darth Metus descended from on high. Its form was a far cry from the aging Mandalorian Host. Skeletal. Draped in literal shadows.

My child...

Its jaw, onyx bone, parted as the telepathic hiss slithered into her psyche.

I am dimished...

It then raised a single, shuddering finger in her direction.

And you are not yet Strong. But...

It closed the finger into a fist.

Together, we can be mighty. Will you accept me, as your father before you? Will you accept my wisdom...my Power?

 

[Mór-rioghain]

Absentmindedly did her fingers dance over the saber resting upon her lap as she took on the words and sight of Metus. Emerald hues flashed momentarily, her fingers stilling as she considered his words before once more resuming their motion. He spoke of power what better way to achieve it.

"I will accept you.."

[member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Malok]

There was a sound of thunder.

The Dark Side roared in this place, shuddering the very earth beneath their feet. Yet Darth Metus was unfettered, for it was the epicenter of this disturbance. It moved, bones creaking and shuddering with every step, until it arrived within arm's reach of the young woman.

The spirit spoke no words, but rather tilted back its head. The shadows which clung to its form wavered momentarily before surging forth. They coiled and twisted, contorted and shaped, before coming down upon Mori as a ragged mass of Shadow. It seemed into her mouth. Her nostrils. He sank into her pores. It delved deep into her skull and face...until there was not even the slightest hint of black left.

In its place was a skeleton, frozen in place.

And the young Heir, wielder of the Darksaber?

Taste of my power child! Taste of OUR MIGHT!

Involuntarily, her dominant arm would raise.

Her tongue would move on its own accord, producing an ancient incantation. Almost immediately, pillars of black formed before her very eyes. Several in number, they quickly solidified...into Demons of Smoke. The vicious creatures did not attack, nor did they utter a single noise. Rather, they lowered themselves to the dirt, kneeling before the young woman.

And so begins...your training.