Private The Exchange

[Darth Anathemous]

Location: Canto Bight, Red Ronin Club
Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

Darth Anathemous arrived at the rooftop of the Red Ronin Club resort.

It was a private landing pad, usually reserved for her own ship, but today it hosted a bounty hunter fresh from the field. The seas of Cantonica on one side, the bustling casino-city of Canto Bight on far below the cliffs on the other, sun setting over the harbor, it was a scenic location in harsh juxtaposition to the business now occurring, and those who facilitated it.

The Lord of Blades wore her signature armor, golden hair spilling over wide pauldrons forged from imperial Darksteel, expensive furs fastened to her shoulders by an aurodium chain. She looked every part the woman who gripped the Sith economy by the throat, but so too did she have the bearing of a warrior.

What a woman like her would do with these scientists was anyone's guess.

Fiery eyes watched the descending craft, glow piercing the evening darkness with predatory curiosity, not so different from the glowing white optics of several SB-H commando droids at her flanks. With nary a gesture, she sent the automatons to work forming a perimeter around the landing pad, to ensure it's cargo could not escape.

All the while she stood in silence.

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous
Armor

​

The freighter hummed as it glided over the Red Ronin’s private landing pad, its hull catching the light of Catonica's dying sun. A pair of vertical thrusters flared. After a precise shudder, the landing struts extended.

With a hiss like the breath of a sleeping beast, the ramp lowered. So he descended the steps, guiding the scientists onward, one’s bloodied lab coat snagging on his greave, another’s exhale drifting into the air, the third’s fingers trembling against the stuncuffs.

Shadows swathed the rooftop in eerie silence, the air almost ceremonial.

Each piece of armor hugged the contours of his form with an impeccable fit, forged to perfection. But where the helm was absent, a youthful visage emerged, framed by messy golden locks, an echo of her own.

He advanced, shoulders remaining squared, chin lifted just so, clearly a nod to noble decorum. Every step was measured, like a guest attending a grand gala rather than some covert delivery. This was a performance born of discipline.

At the invisible barrier formed by rows of droids, he halted.

Memory of courtly etiquette eclipsed all Sith doctrine rattling in his head.

There would be no flourish, no arrogance, no boast of triumph.

In the depths of his luminous jade stare there lay no tremor, only curiosity that simmered beneath the surface.

After all, Sith lords were the living embers of the galaxy's darkest fires.

In a display of courtesy, he inclined his head towards the figure waiting.

"Darth Anathemous." The words fell softly, like an offering laid at the altar of a deity.

A catch echoed in his throat as his left hand rose, palm open, as if in supplication. And there, embedded in his glove, a data spike gleamed, shaped like a venomous fang.

"I have collected all that you require."

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

Her head would tilt slightly, like a curious corvid.

Not what she expected, not at all. Regal bearing, respectful attitude and no theatrics. This was neither a common bounty hunter nor dramatic charlatan.

"I have collected all that you require."

She smiled, just the faintest curl of her lips, and returned the respectful nod.

"Ah?"

Anathemous stepped forward, each * thunk * against the duracrete unnaturally heavy even for one so armored as she, and accompanied by the rustling of Dathomiri seals suspended from her pauldrons, or wrapped around her ceremonially around her gauntlets.

The data spike left Lysander's hand seemingly of it's own volition, and only when it was within reach did she lift her hand to allow the device access to her wrist-computer. It slot in without much issue, greedy eyes searching the Arkanian data projected in blue hardlight.

Her smile grew, just a little.

"Well done." she hummed.

Those eyes fell upon the Arkanians then, examining bruises, tasting the fear, spotting the cuffs.

A slight sight. this complicated things, a little.

"SB-13?"

The droid closest to her snapped to attention, distinguishable only by the weathering around his optical sensor.

"Take our guests to the VIP lounge, have them cleaned up, fed and cared for. I'll explain to them shortly."

"Roger roger." said the droid in it's deep, mechanical voice.

The guards began rounding up scientists and escorting them indoors whilst Anathemous handed off the data-spike to SB-13, who secured it within a modified mag-pouch on his chasis before leading the others in formation. Only then did the Dark Lord turn her attention back to the bounty hunter, gesturing to follow her.

"Walk with me, Hunter." she said, turning towards the doorway.

"You are... different, from other's I've hired."

"What do they call you?"

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous
Armor

​

A shadow deepened beneath his brow, gaze gently narrowing, finding himself trying to read Darth Anathemous’ expression as the data-spike slipped from his hand into her grasp; the exchange spoke more in silence than words could. Lysander's stance shifted, a single boot sliding just a whisper back, retreating into introspection.

The weight of his dark plates felt oppressive, each ridge pressing another question into his spine as if itself bore witness to this exchange. His other hand unclenched at his side, breath paused for the barest moment.

Mercy could be sharper than any blade, so he wasn't entirely surprised when hearing the orders given to the droids.

It was only when her voice cut through the hush that he registered another change. The formal chill between them thawed. And so, with a swiftness that outran even his own mind, he fell into rhythm beside the Sith.

Self-awareness nudged him, for he had no alternate names to veil him in mystery. An old part of the teen toyed with spinning a lie then and there. Sure enough, that was a sweet poison on the tongue, even as the logical side of him knew it would betray him in the end.

Quietly, a breath was drawn through the nose, as if drawing calm itself into his lungs. Lysander shifted his gaze to her face, searching for some sign in the arc of her cheek or what lurked in the irises.

“No hunter’s alias. Just Lysander.” Warmth threaded through each syllable, and his focus slowly shifted forward to the open walkway. “Truth is the best armor, even if it leaves you exposed.”

Then, the question that burned like incense finally rose. “Different, perhaps. But I wonder.. what did you expect?”

Another step and his gaze drifted–not to her armor, nor her poise, but the sunlit strands. A quiet smile broke the thin line across his lips.

“Maybe not so different from you,” he suggested, voice low, amused, but not in a mocking way. Just an honest and harmless observation.

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

"Lysander." she murmured as though playing with a taste.

Really she was trying to figure out from what culture he might hail.

“Different, perhaps. But I wonder.. what did you expect?”

“Maybe not so different from you,”

A brief pause.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, following his gaze until... ah?

"Are you also half-Vahla?" she asked, brow raised "or are our golden manes coincidence."

It seemed such a silly thing to notice, but admittedly there was a certain boyish charm to it she supposed. Her lips curled again, faintly as usual, before she turned her attention to the long corridor. Up ahead the droids escorted the Arkanians into a lift, but Anathemous continued passed them, heading for what looked like glass doors.

"I was expecting something more... brutish, rugged." she admitted.

"A Mandalorian or cyborg perhaps."

"You have the bearing of an aristocrat, I've seen it before."

The thought made her frown, as she recalled having learned it from her...

They passed through the doors and onto a patio, upon which sat a single, small table and only two hover chairs. Beyond that was a pool that was currently covered, and a cliffside view of the beach below.

"Your payment will be up in a moment." she said, sitting down.

"Do you drink, Lysander?"

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous
Armor

​

Twin orbs of emerald blinked slowly as words tumbled from his lips once more. "There is no Vahla blood in my veins, pure coincidence. It is not often one finds such a mirror in another. I think.. it has simply been far too long since I last did," he admitted with a slight nod, a gesture as light as mist.

His shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, a display of nonchalance that belied the sharpness in the teen’s gaze.

Lysander's focus drifted toward the Arkanian scientists in the distance, their presence barely registering in his peripheral vision now.

His focus was then drawn to his own reflection in the glass doors.

The faint smile softened, melting into a more composed, neutral line; a mask of calm worn often. "I was raised to wield words before weapons," he mused thoughtfully, the irony not lost on him. He had spent many years steeped in the art of political nuance, shaping him far more than his lightsaber ever had. Yet it was a role that demanded anything but diplomacy that had brought him to this very spot. Some of the choices made back on Arkania fell heavily on his shoulders for the first time.

"My upbringing taught me the importance of ceremony, while my studies back on Korriban taught me the consequences of my actions. I try to carry both in equal measure these days."

He followed her, soon finding his way to one of the hoverchairs awaiting them. His posture remained relaxed, but precise, refusing to slouch regardless of the weariness from traveling.

Ever since the battle on Brosi, he’d been on the move constantly.

For a moment, his attention fell over the horizon beyond the patio, taking in the scene before him.

It was easy to note that Canto Bright was one of the nicer plants he'd been on in a very long time.

The blonde turned back to Darth Anathemous. "I'll admit, I'm more of a smoker," he offered. "But I have been known to drink, although rarely without reason," he added, hoping to dissolve any pretenses.

A brow, one that bore a scar, arched after the confession.

"What do you recommend?" No rehearsed lines, just curiosity.

He paused, turning inward, then spoke again. "I have seen many worlds.. but few with this kind of balance. What keeps you here?"

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

Words before weapons, she mused.

"Manners will get you far in the order."

"Too many acolytes and apprentices die before learning cordiality, it's a... harsh lesson."

One she had half a mind to teach, all too frequently.

Lysander though, his faintly jovial demeanor was far from out of line, somewhat disarming even. So she listened, always keen to learn about those she met, and watched the boy take his seat across from her. Mention of Korriban seemed to pique her interest, posture adjusting slightly from reclined to less so.

"Ceremony and consequences, things many of us are still learning." she admitted.

But with talk of smokes, she smirked.

A gloved hand reached out, summoning forth a little box from a table beside the doorway. She withdrew a smaller box from inside, labeled "Fiora" and pulled a cigarra for herself before holding the out the box for Lysander to partake of.

"We share some nasty habits." Anathemous stifled a chuckle.

"Fiora makes the best, recently secured import rights into the Blackwall through Echnos. expensive, long lasting."

"I have seen many worlds.. but few with this kind of balance. What keeps you here?"

She glanced up, still fumbling for a lighter that seemed misplaced.

"Hm," she paused "nature, I suppose."

Then back to searching for that damned lighter.

"I'm also Dathomiri on my mother's side, the half-witch in me has always been drawn to the wilds."

"It started with the money but... I'm fond of the mountains."

She gestured over the fence, where a gravel path led to misty jungles.

"What of you, Mister Lysander, what are your favored haunts?"

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous
Armor

​

“Manners,” he echoed softly, leaning back just enough to suggest ease. Lysander’s voice held no edge, only the assurance of someone who’d already paid the price for that lesson.

And remembered it well.

“Some lessons never stop teaching,” he finally agreed, “Korriban made sure of that.”

Along with one particular individual.

When she offered the Fiora box, his gaze fell to it briefly, then down to his own belt. One gloved hand reached out, taking a single cigarillo. “Through the Blackwall.. that’s no casual indulgence.”

As if prompted by the exchange, one gloved hand slipped to the utility pouch, fingers brushing the worn nerf hide before drawing out a perfectly rolled joint. He imagined Madrona A’Mia would've approved. “I brought something too,” he said, rolling it idly between his fingers. “Finest herbs from the Holy Worlds, possibly in the entire galaxy.”

It was then placed at the center of the table.

“And now that the last Imperials have been driven off Brosi, there’ll be new strains taking root there. The soil’s good… better than most realize. Untouched in many places.”

He continued listening without interruption, his gaze following her gesture toward the jungles. The mention of Dathomir drew another lift of his brow, not in surprise, but in interest.

“Nature,” he murmured, as if testing the familiar word on his tongue. “I can see that. Nature sure does have a way of reminding us how small we are.. and how dangerous.”

At her final question, he let a breath slip through his nose, gaze drifting momentarily to the horizon before returning to her.

“I’ve never been one to stay in one place long. But lately, I’m drawn to the edges.. old ruins, forgotten ports. Places that feel like they're holding their breath.”

A faint smile graced his countenance.

“Ukatis. I should see it again, before it forgets me.”

He settled back further in the hoverchair. “Dathomiri blood and a taste for Fiora.. not a pairing I’ve come across before.”

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

"No I," she admitted.

"Suppose I've adapted to your world, over my own."

Anathemous narrowed her eyes on the jungle one last time, before her gaze fell to the cigarillo. Whatever distant thought she'd had was cast aside, and a curious smile half-formed.

"I've been to Ukatis before, beautiful countryside, and arts."

The young Lord took up her glass, lip twitching just barely before it reached.

It gave her a moment to think.

"You sound like my younger self," she said with a refreshed sigh.

"Always on the move, only the dead to hear your voice. There's a certain charm to it, I think."

"A simpler life than most believe."

She set the glass aside, taking the herbal smoke between two fingers.

"Do you mean to trade?" she wondered, inspecting it.

"Perhaps you can tell me how an Ukatian finds himself on Korriban, while we smoke?"

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous ​

Lysander's gaze lingered a beat longer than he had intended, feeling the air shift, something almost warm and unexpected.

Perhaps, even human.

He drew a quiet exhale through his nose and leaned back; one arm draped loosely over the hoverchair’s armrest.

“The dead are patient company,” he murmured. “They never interrupt.. never lie.”

In the gap between his words, the distant sounds of Canto Bight pressed in, a reminder that the world outside was still moving.

“But they never answer, either. That silence can be heavier than any crowd.”

As she spoke of her time on Ukatis, he found himself intrigued. It was not often that he encountered someone who found value in the simpler ways of life. And though he kept his expression neutral, a spark of recognition flickered in his verdant stare. It was followed by the faintest lift of his brows, and finally the softening at the corners of his mouth.

Most in the Deep Core or Mid Rim he’d met had looked down on Ukatis. A world without the fancy tech or fast pace of the Core, where tradition still held sway.

To hear her speak of it with respect was rare.

Like a golden thread woven through his thoughts, a third blonde came to him in memory: Corazona von Ascania . Her gentle presence often lived in the quiet corners of his prayers, missed more than words could ever convey.. even if his sister’s Light was a threat to the darkness residing within.

“Most see Ukatis as.. behind. Too little technology, too much tradition. But life there..” His eyes returned to hers. “..life there feels simpler. Not easier. Just simpler.”

A smirk ghosted across his lips, eyeing the joint set on the table. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind a hit off of it. Some truths are best carried on the breath of smoke. I’ll give you my story if you’ll give me yours.”

Then, the teen’s tone took on a softer, more reflective edge, ready to open a door.

“I started as a Padawan on Coruscant. For a time, I thought I knew exactly where I was going.. the path was laid out before me, lit by the Order’s teachings. But the further I walked it, the more it felt.. closed.”

The table drew his focus, tracing an invisible line as if following the path.

"So, I left for Naboo, telling myself I was seeking clarity. I wandered its gardens and lakes, hoping the stillness would speak to me. And it did.. but not in the way I expected. The silence there made the questions even louder. Why did the Jedi fear doubt? Why did they speak of balance, yet demand we blind ourselves to half of the Force?”

Leaning forward, his chin dipped. “My faith began to fray, and then I felt it. The Dark. Whispering to me. It promised the truth. It felt like a door I had never been allowed to open.. and I found myself reaching for the handle."

His voice, like tendrils of smoke, drifted lazily as he reached for the glass at his elbow, letting the words settle before he went on.

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

"Not if you know how to listen." she said cryptically.

That was all she said for a time, taking her own lesson to heart. The boy spoke of his home to her, and she glanced at the pool in guilt. It was a fine world, and she did respect that place, to an extent. But there was one tradition she could not abide, and she'd done things on those streets not even the dead could forgive.

The word "Padawan" drew her gaze back, and her lips to part.

"You've been through a lot, haven't you."

She began removing her glove while they spoke, pulling leather free from fingers blackened by the foulest sorcery. Right down to the knuckle, smooth and inky, not quite a burn, but neither natural.

Anathemous pressed the joint to her fingertip, and it began to smoke.

"The Jedi are fools, you were right to leave. But I've always suspected they make the best Sith."

"When one falls, one chooses."

The young Lord held it out for him to take.

"The Light has a will, it seeks order, control. The Dark is chaos, and chaos is freedom."

"You chose wisely." she murmured.

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous ​

The Sith’s words landed like a verdict, rather than pity.

Recognition.

Her words on the Light were affirmations he hadn't even known he needed.

It was unlike him, but he couldn't respond immediately, instead tucking those words away in some corner of his mind to reflect on later.

His gaze drifted, catching on the scar that marred her knuckle, and he lingered there longer than he should have, imagining the story behind it, before his eyes lifted back to hers.

Lysander’s brows furrowed, not in anger, but in deep thought. A lot was an understatement. From the world of Korriban to Brosi, and the icy corridors between two different wars, he had almost died many times over. From the Galactic Kaggath to the depths of his own inner turmoil, the list went on.

Accepting the joint, he let it linger at his lips, drawing in a slow breath until pine and citrus unfurled through him, steadying his thoughts.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he exhaled slowly, tendrils of smoke dancing around his head.

“It’s been a long journey, to say the least.” His reply came like rain on still water. “I’ve learned not all scars are carved into flesh. And that the galaxy doesn’t care about your feelings. It teaches in fire and shadow.. And well, I’ve been a willing student.”

The haze that settled over him was like a soft curtain. Tension in the shoulders eased. The conversation seemed to flow easily without all the unnecessary guardedness. Honestly, it was a refreshing change of pace.

Another drag was taken. When the smoke left him, it drifted upward in lazy spirals.

“You’re right. They think they’re just holding the line.. but I think they’re just afraid to look over the edge. Afraid they might like what they see.”

The rolled herbs crossed the space between them, returning to Darth Anathemous.

“You’ve heard my path from Ukatis to Korriban. I’d like to hear yours, from Dathomir to here.”

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

"Oh yes," she hummed, taking the joint.

"They do. Temptation is a... fun game, to play with Jedi."

The young Darth smirked, but quickly buried the expression in ash and herbs, looking out to sea. When the Ukatian inquired about her past however, she turned contemplative. The smoke was allowed to settle in her lungs, a long pause to pick her words carefully.

Finally she exhaled, golden eyes peering through the smoke.

"Carnifex."

Silence again, broken only by Crystaal trickling into a glass. She passed the herbs back to Lysander and it was only when the glass was good and full, and her lips wet, that she continued.

"He uhm. I was taken into His service, part of a treaty, when He was emperor."

Another sip, her fingers tapped against the glass.

"I was His apprentice, brought before Him once my affinity for the dark side manifested."

"That was a long time ago."

And another, deeper this time.

The Dark Lord went quiet again, thoughtful yet distant all at once. When her eyes lifted again, it was curious, perhaps even cautiously hopeful, but that did little to soften their wolf-like qualities.

"Who is your master, Ukatian? who honed the young man at my table?"

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous
​

It was easy to recognize her for what she was when the comment slipped into the air.

A Sith Lord who knew how to play the game.

He, on the other hand, still stumbled through the script, still learning the rhythm.

But then, with just three cold syllables, a name fell heavy.. like a death sentence.

Carnifex.

His presence was no secret in the Holy Worlds; it traveled like a curse across the galaxy. Lysander's residence on Brosi now kept him close enough to feel that shadow.

The woman's story was shallow, yet no words were needed to fill the void. His cousin had been claimed by the Kainite, and what atrocities she endured under their possession was not secret.

So, his gaze lowered without thought, drawn back to her hand.. the blackened fingers.

Meanwhile, his glass was filled, a sweet poison swirling within.

In the wake of what he knew about Darth Anathemous, there was little left to keep hidden.

A question was asked, but no answer came. Not yet. Still, he searched for the right title. To simply call her Master felt dismissive.. an injustice. The name was already being elevated in the chambers of his mind.

The joint returned to his lips; fingers brushed the delicate paper; a slow inhale drew the smoke deep into the lungs, filling his chest like a held breath. Lost in that haze, he lingered. The exhale was no hastened breath, just a steady stream, a quiet offering to the darkness that lingered within both of them. Earthy, pungent, the scent drifted like a murmur.

Relaxed posture suggested someone enjoying the moment, rather than surviving it. Leaning forward, both elbows rested casually on the table, gaze wandering towards the sea, emerald pools half-lidded, as if searching for something.

"You wear power like it's woven into your very being." A curious glance found the other blonde, half-expecting her to laugh or refute him. Though the teen's mouth did not curve upwards, a twitch at the corners suggested a smirk was threatening to break free.

"Not many do it without shouting."

Finally, reverence softened his voice.

"Lady Revna Marr ."

​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

Her smile was many things.

Proud, subdued, and perhaps embarrassed all at once.

"I'd tell you flattery will get you nowhere, but I do not lie so often."

She hid it behind the glass before it could crack wider. It was true, she supposed, or that's what so many told her. Such a far cry from where she started, perhaps the Dark Lord should stat believing it? After all, what had humility ever done for her?

And then she heard a name.

"Revna??" the smile cracked wide.

"Aha! ahaha!"

Her laughter was unlike that of a Sith. deep from her chest but not mocking, not even merely amused, but quite joyed. The iron peeled away, and those golden eyes lit pleasantly.

"Oh you're in good hands! why didn't you say so sooner?"

The blonde reclined in her seat, whatever minor suspicions she'd once levied upon Lysander long gone.

"We used to share wine and gossip when I was but a knight, and she a ward. Before meeting her, I'd never imagined Korriban boasted more than tombs and dust. We kept each other informed you see, eyes and ears on both sides of the galaxy, writing one whole story with every goblet."

Taking another sip, she could almost taste the exotic wine they'd once shared. Her smile turned nostalgic, and she knew in that moment Lysander would always be welcome in her hall.

Best to pass on some wisdom then.

"Well, scion of Revna," she began, leaning forward to impart it.

"There is a lesson here; friends among Sith are... exceptionally rare. Once upon a time I took this to the extreme, and it cost me allies. Be wary of them, yes, but be wary of your own paranoia as well."

"Should you make a friend like Revna Marr , hold onto them. That is a boon, and advantage, few Sith possess."

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous​

The smile ensnared Lysander, and he couldn’t help the way his own lips twitched in response. His chin dipped, a modest attempt to veil the curve still threatening to betray him. But a huff of breath followed, almost a laugh. “Then I’ll count myself lucky,” he murmured, trying to match the honesty laid before him.

Strange it was, to hear a Sith Lord’s laughter, and even stranger to feel the warmth of its sound tugging at him. His brows lifted, the faintest upturn appearing before he could rein it back in. The sound unsettled him in a way that felt almost.. pleasant.

It was nigh impossible to contain the shock when Darth Anathemous named his cousin, much less speak of her with unexpected fondness. The joint nearly slipped from his fingers. He caught it just in time, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.

All the images painted in his mind felt far from the Revna he knew. Yet it was reassuring to hear such things, especially in recent times. The woman before him trusting her made him feel less alone on Cano Bight.

“Wine and gossip? That’s not the Revna I know. Now I’m wondering what else she’s been hiding from me. Any embarrassing stories?”

More than a friend, she was family. That didn’t make the message any less heavy. Lysander knew it. Had lived it even.

Guilt stirred in his gut. Since the Galactic Kaggath, he’d been reckless, maybe even foolish. It wasn’t until now that he realized how far he strayed.

Only then did he finally reach from the glass that was waiting at his elbow. Fingers curled around it. He never cared much for alcohol; it dulled the edges he liked to keep sharp. But with the Sith’s laughter still echoing in his ears, it only felt right to partake in the ceremony. So he lifted it, inhaled the spice of the vintage, and took a sip. The burn was immediate, warmth spreading slow. He let it linger before indulging in another, before the vessel was nudged aside.

His gaze softened upon finding hers again. “Then perhaps I’ve been more fortunate than I ever dared to admit. Fortunate in servitude to my master, and now in your company.”

Still leaning forward, he offered the joint across the table. “Maybe friendship and sharing vices are the rarest weapons of all,” he mused, drawn from the heart. The glass slid back up in a fluid motion. “To Lady Revna.” The declaration caused a quirk of his mouth. “And those rare bonds that may outlast the tombs of Korriban.”

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

"Oh yes, about of the men I've been with." she rolled her eyes.

"When you're older, do not date a dark councilor or royalty. It's a waste of time."

That chuckle echoed bitterly in her glass, because she was bitter despite the veil of humor. Darth Anathemous, a bitter old woman sipping wine, yet hardly through her twenties.

Ah, but talk of Revna put the smile back on her face.

"To lady Revna!" she joined in cheer, sipping in unison with him.

But then an idea crossed her mind, and the lips pressed into glass curled fiendishly. She waited until Lysander had finished, and leaned forward on her elbow.

"Shame I have to poison her apprentice though." she hummed with mock regret.

"See, everything I told you, could so easily be a lie. It's not as if she's talked about me, have you ever seen me on Korriban?."

"And I just so happen to be immune to the particular—Dathomiri—Toxin in this bottle."

"But you?" she swirled her glass.

"Well, shouldn't have bruised my Arkanian."

It was utter bullshit of course, a test and lesson both, but did he know?

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous
​

A chuckle came, low in the blonde’s chest, softened by the haze settling over him.

Not much different than any other court, recalling the halls of Ukatis and Naboo alike. Always masks, always daggers tucked behind smiles. Sith or sovereign, always the same theatre.

“Noted. I'll keep my romances reserved for smugglers, then."

The crystal glass was cool against Lysander’s palm. The following sip was heavier. The burn caught him, narrowed his brows slightly, revealing he was certainly no practiced drinker. Warmth spread down his throat once more, blooming in the chest. A slow exhale followed through his nose.

Then her next set of words arrived, and he fell silent. They all landed against the lingering smile. At first, he took it as a jest, the kind of dark humor one might expect in such corners of the galaxy. The curve of his lips even held for a breath longer. But slowly, it faded, leaving something else. His gaze stayed locked on hers, mirth still glinting in the green. Whether from the joint of defiance.. it was hard to tell. A bit of both, most likely.

“If this glass is poisoned,” The line carried a dry edge. “If this is how I fall, then let it be in ceremony.”

He tipped it back again, sealing a pact.

A power move of his own.

The herbs may have softened the edges, but his mind was still sharp.

He recalled the earlier exchange. The scientists handed off, the data spike..

..but no credits yet.

That absence began gnawing at him.

Sith wouldn’t leave debts unpaid unless they were planning something..

Suddenly Darth Anathemous’ claim didn’t feel like a joke.

It was believable.

Feth.

“She’s alive, isn’t she? That’s more than most can say after business.”

Maybe time really was running out.

“I mean.. if bruises were grounds for poisoning, half the galaxy would be dead by now, right?”

Finally, an exhale. He pressed into the table, closer.

It anything was going to survive, it would be the quips.

“The Arkanian tripped over her own cuffs. I just didn’t bother to catch her.”

And then, perhaps truest to Lysander, a rather absurd thought of a Holodrama he’d once seen surfaced, some tale where poison was paired with a cure.

He knew the words were ridiculous even as they lingered on his tongue, but they would slip free anyway.

“If this is the part where I beg for the antidote, you’ll be disappointed. But I’ll ask anyway, what do you want from me?”

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Lysander von Ascania

The longer he considered, the colder her expression got.

Gold shone brighter, unblinking, jaw clenched. The intensity of the Dark Lord's stare was inhuman.

She wasn't even trying, perhaps that was the most horrifying part. It was simply shear focus, greedily drinking in every detail; the way his lips twitched, breath quickened, thoughts begun to lag behind. For a brief moment, he was a specimen, and she the impartial observer.

Anathemous shone through where Kaila had once been, and she listened.

What she heard was as fascinating as it was concerning.

When he'd finished, she allowed herself to blink, leaning back in her chair with a thumb on her chin.

"You surprise me, Lysander." she exhaled.

"Defiance is good. It will either save you, or carry you to a savage end. Either way, it'll make for a good story carved into the walls of Korriban, yes?"

Then she narrowed her eyes at her own drink, as though the amber liquid were an anchor.

"I've seen those bruises before, you know... internal, the force no doubt, like a vice on her throat."

"You felt so powerful, didn't you?"

Her lips twisted bitterly, but not for him.

"I know because I nearly killed a dear friend of mine the same way."

She looked him dead in the eye. Softer now, mournfully so.

"You justify your own cruelty, but it keeps you up at night."

A long exhale, she put the cool glass to her forehead, trying to remember the lesson in this.

But the truth was; she'd never learned.

"Perhaps we're more similar than we know."

Finally she finished her drink and nudged the glass aside. She let the burn settle, clear the bitter taste of her own words, before freeing the boy of this manufactured anxiety.

"I have what I wanted; to see what sort of man you are, what sort of Sith you might become."

And just like that, with the click of a button on her vambrace, the doors opened and a droid arrived with a box of credits.

She simply waved him off.

"There was never any poison, Lysander."

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Anathemous​

An eternity seemed to pass within the depths of a shared gaze, the Sith's golden orbs like a wildfire engulfing him. Regret and fear were both dragged to the forefront of his mind. He knew he had let his guard slip, and the consequences of such an error could ignite at any moment..

Lysander held fast, trying hard to not cower in the face of an apex predator. The entire galaxy could stand against him, and still he would bet on himself, for he was a creature of defiance if nothing else. That was why he stepped into the Galactic Kaggath as the youngest contender and nearly died there.

The Ukatian thrived in impossible odds, be it physical or verbal.

A curve formed on his lips, but it wasn’t quite a smile.

"I always wanted to be remembered for the spectacle, if nothing else," he suggested, a hint of bitterness lacing his words now.

"Better to be a savage in the stories than nothing at all. Tell me I’m wrong."

Rare praise.

He tried to peer through the veil openly, the way she drank in the sight of him like a specimen nearing demise. It unsettled him, but he refused to flinch. So, he leaned further into that discomfort; this was the only way he knew how to survive.

Embracing the darkness.

When his voice finally emerged from silence, it dripped with truth. "The night hasn't been quiet for me in a long time, Darth Anathemous," he rasped. Another poison. No polished lines, just the raw, naked truth left hanging like a noose.

And at that moment, the idea of being poisoned seemed almost desirable.

A swift and painless escape from an endless cycle. He was tired of running, tired of hiding, from the sins and monsters always chasing him.

His attention flicked briefly to the droid, then to the box of credits, but he didn’t give either a second look. He had been born into wealth, lost it with his father’s death, and rebuilt it since. The bounty hunting arrangement was never about the credits. It was about something else.. something he couldn’t name, one more thing he was chasing.

At last, admittance. Shoulders slumped with a heavy sigh. Relief, a note of frustration, and so many other things tangled together. While processing everything beneath the wash, there was intrigue.

She already granted him one affirmation, like a gift he never sought nor expected, yet it had seared into his soul.

“Then tell me, what kind of Sith do you think I might become?”

Maybe he just needed one more, one more truth to shatter a fabricated identity.

"And if I've earned it.. will you grace me with your true name?"