The Black Swordsman

[Darth Empyrean]

---

The Pillow Book, an aged tavern that had proven itself time and time again as the primary source of entertainment for this district. It had plenty of its own secrets, between what went down under the floorboards to the untold amount of meetings that had taken place here; but today there would be yet another. The soft murmur of the crowd carried and melded, eventually growing indiscernible as the many turned into one. It was lively, if not a bit foreboding for the uninitiated.

Spending much of his time in rooms just like this, the man known as ‘Slave’ was no stranger to its subterfuge and criminal nature. Here he found himself at home; amongst the rats and downtrodden of society. Before them was the great equalizer of crime, not the law of civilization. It was in these taverns that true unadulterated rights could be found; the right to do whatever you pleased so long as you could back it up.

Pressing through the crowds, The Slave let his hands drag across a booth seated far in the rear of the tavern; taking a seat with robe pressed beneath him. His eyes glowed gold in the shadow, but the crowds avoided direct eye contact with him on presence alone. He was dangerous, most there had enough sensibility to avoid such risks; only the drunk among them making mistakes that cost them their lives. They learned this over decades of bounty hunters with no moral compass coming in with a thirst, and leaving with a warrant for their arrest, leaving only blood and a corpse behind.

Watching the door, The Slave waited for his target; the man he called from millions of miles away to meet him in this neutral house of alcohol. He’d fought him once before, though it ended in a stalemate; but he wasn’t here to put him down, nor finish any sort of job. He was here to bring him on board a dream; the only dream that mattered.

In the short hours that would come, he would not sway his gaze nor his attention; forever locked on the door for the titan he needed.


[member="Judas Foster"]

---

 

[Judas of Vahl]

"Name and password."

"Judas Foster, the password is this two meter hunk of metal across my back. Now open the frelling door."

"That's not-"

A raised brow. "Then what'll open the door? Blood? Coin?"

------​

​

Judas strode in cheerily, swaggering past the recently opened door. On the contrary, the opening hadn't cost him a single credit or a drop of blood. Though the man leaning against the opposite wall, nursing a broken nose, would definitely see the broken door hinge coming out of his paycheck. Regrettable, but men bargain when pain bites.

There wasn't much he was afraid of. Door guards to hole-in-the-wall pubs happened to sit firmly at the bottom of his list. More worrying and horrifying things rested at the top, like immolation. Also spiders. Call it a personal foible. Even as the titan of a man made his way through the pub, the thought of those eight-legged freaks still sent the slightest shiver down his spine.

They were gross.

Ever beckoned by the Darkstaff, some unholy creation that had been forged through the dark crucibles of the Force. Even the Sith Lords of yore had bidden the thing an abomination - speculation amongst the alchemists and sorcerers thought the creator was slain by his own magic stick. As spooky, surreal, and sporadic as it was, the beck and call of it had been impossible to ignore. Alegar and the rest of the legion attempted in vain to stop him from leaving, death seemingly assured of this meeting, but he made the trek anyways.

He pulled his dark cloak tighter about his frame as his eyes searched. Above the din of idle chatter and laughter, a distinct whisper flitted through his mind.

"I am here." The Darkstaff.

The titan's sickly-yellow hues soon came to rest upon a pair of the same. The Slave.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The silence between them was mutual, perhaps not out of respect yet, but out of simply knowing. Motioning to sit, The Slave waited for him to find some comfort; watching his massive sword get moved about, becoming its own patron at the booth with its massive size. It reminded him faintly of Ishtar, though the differences were palpable.

Golden eyes met Judas again, though the uncanny ability for The Slave to smile in the face of danger didn’t persist through this. He’d taunted a number of Sith, but today was not the day to ‘control’ the conversation, only to partake in it.

“Judas, I assume.”, he said lightly, taking a quick glance to a group across the tavern giving them looks.

“They call me ‘Slave’. I’m the one who summoned you.”

Bringing his gaze back to Judas, he waited for his response.


[member="Judas Foster"]

 

[Judas of Vahl]

Placidity overtook him. Unnerved by the yellow eyes matching his own, settled into his inner mind despite the strangers casting wayward glances his direction. The swordsman moved smoothly to occupy the seat across from the strange man that had seemingly summoned him from halfway across the galaxy. Flying the opposite direction within the Black Dog, hundreds of parsecs away, the whispers and draw couldn't keep a master of the dark arts away.

Measured, he rested an elbow on the table, lazily cupping his jaw.

"Were you wanting to finish our fight?"

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

He couldn’t help but break a smile at the mention of their fight. How long ago it seemed, only to have them both walk their separate ways; yet here they stood once more, idly conversing about combat past. The Slave pulled from his pocket a small cigar and rested it between his lips, lighting it before letting smoke roll between his teeth.

“No, not today at least.”, he almost laughed out.

“Though I appreciate your enthusiasm. I’ve actually brought you here for a different fight.”

The Slave pulled a small holopad from his robes, sliding it across the way towards the tower of a man. On it, various faces and names appeared; Sith Lords of all categories and types. Some with a reputation, some without.

“A hitlist. Hundreds of lords actively becoming complacent in the weakening of The Sith; something you probably don’t care about.”, he said idly as he puffed away on the smoke of his cigar.

“However, I know you have a history with them.”

[member="Judas Foster"]

 

[Judas of Vahl]

Stalemates were common enough. As a man who challenged only the best, it was only right that a few were able to match his strength and ferocity. The man harbored no special hatred for respected foes, but the urge to finish a fight no matter who won still lingered. Judas allowed himself the slightest of smiles, a thin line of amusement gracing his dour features.

"Yes, not today," he repeated.

The collection of complacent and lazy lords drew his attention. As a warrior that formerly broke bread with them, bled with them, and nearly died for them, this was an absolute outrage. Stagnant peace had made them weak. Sith that openly expressed trust and cooperation? Compromise? These Jedi ideals make him sick to his stomach, but at least they put up more of a fight than the black-robed fools of Korriban and Ziost.

"Hmm." He pursed his lips in thought. "So what's your plan, then?"

Mirth flickered in those flaming eyes.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“What’s your plan then?”

The Slave pondered it for a second, considering all the contemptuous endings he had forseen. There were a million and one ways for it to go, and he kept with him a number of aces he would not yet reveal. Tapping his chin, he’d blow the smoke away before continuing;

“The plan is to teach them the error of peace. How such long time cooperation breaks down the fundamental nature of the Sith.”, he said idly.

“What they fail to see is that the sith are strong because of the individual, not because of the whole. Killing the individuals will force them to reconsider, but more importantly the end will drive the lesson home.”, he said with a grin.

Tapping his cigar, ash fell onto the table with nothing to catch it, only to have him glance around the tavern once more. After a moment for Judas to consider what he was saying, he’d turn back and speak again;

“I have allies already, but I need warriors to fight by my side as we storm the castle. Just as sith should.”

“Surely, a more interesting fight than with me, wouldn’t you agree?”

[member="Judas Foster"]

 

[Judas of Vahl]

Planning was never his thing, unless it happened to be on the spot, intuitive and quick changes in the midst of combat. Force of violence and action was more so his style, so hearing these grandiose plots to alter the Sith ideals always amused him. In the grand scheme of things, nothing mattered. Content with that philosophy, he was the most carefree warrior to ever grace the galaxy.

"If you already have allies, then why ask for me?" He cleared his throat, hunching forward to reiterate. "Why me?"

Any battle was more interesting than the verbal one they were having now.

He just liked to be stubborn.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave leaned forward in the same motion as Judas, beaming wildly as he took on a far more traditional demeanor for him. A predatory smile licked at his lips, while electrum orbs pierced the soul; the longer the conversation went on, the more The Slave wanted to indulge in finishing the fight, though out of entertainment than out of spite. Something about Judas screamed warrior spirit, and The Slave wanted to meet it.

“Because, you’re one of the who wouldn’t miss up a chance to fight.”

Tossing the cigar into the meandering crowds past their booth, he continued;

“Because you enjoy the challenge. You bring a plethora of aggression and imagery with your mere presence, Judas.”

Resting his chin on his hand, he beamed slightly wider. Although it may not seem it, The Slave was just as dangerous as Judas in a number of ways; even more feared depending on who you asked.

“Because my allies are temporary. I don’t care if the Sith change; only so they see what it means to be strong.”

[member="Judas Foster"]

 

[Judas of Vahl]

Judas snorted, surprised. Empty compliments would get the man nowhere. A worthy challenge was the best sort you could give to the irascible fiend clad in black zeyd. Aside from his character's observation and his 'warrior spirit,' or lack thereof, the rest of this strange fellow's plan seemed almost reasonable. Almost.

"Wise," he admitted with a shallow nod, "Every ally is temporary - and as such, we'll be separating after this. I will not be beckoned like this ever again. Use conventional means next time."

He ran a cursory hand over his chin's stubble. "Or leave a voice message. Anyways, send the details of this suicide mission. I may or may not show up."

And with that, the man rose from the booth and departed posthaste.
[member="The Slave"]