The Lion's Den

[Malok]

Home.

How many times had it been torn away? How many times had Darth Metus lost his sanctuary? How many times had peace of mind been ripped from his fingers...How many times had he been left in the cold? Far. Too. Many. Yet, the thing about the Sith Lord was a simple fact. He never stayed for long. The Confederacy couldn't kill him. The stigma of Dar'manda couldn't kill him. Even the angst of a blind Alor'e Council couldn't kill him. Hell...even Death itself couldn't keep him down for long. The Sith Lord was one stubborn son of a gun; and no matter many times he was robbed of everything, he would always snatch it back.

Thus did he turn the key.

He was greeted with the stench of stagnation. Of stale water and dust. The retreat that he had built as a private sanctuary was now a shadow of his former self. Had it truly been that long since the days of His Empire? Darth Metus stepped forward - dust sailed upwards as his boots thudded upon wooden floors. His hands reached and plucked off his helm, allowing tired eyes to gaze upon the sordid scene. "Home sweet home." he breathed, setting the helm down upon a grimy endtable. His final destination was the heart of his living room, one that had been appropriately covered by a sheet.

Crushgaunts seized the fabric and a simple toss cast even more dust into the air.

His couch laid before him: a pristine contradiction to the decay all around. Metus turned on his heel and plummeted down, landing with a heavy thump. Sulfuric eyes lulled to a close as the Sith relaxed. For the first time since his return, he was at peace. There was stillness. There was quiet. And with these conditions, Darth Metus could think.

[member="Izevel Zambrano"]

 

[Izevel Zambrano]

It wasn't often she would come back to the home of Isley and her. Yet this particular day she decided it was time for her to pick up a few things and move them to a safer place. Arriving home, Izevel would move to enter the house, the two vornskr hounds darting around her , senses on high alert as if to signal that something was amiss. Pausing at the door, she would cock her head to the side momentarily before pushing the door open and allowing the two beasts to enter first.


Soon the sound of snarling would fill the room as she moved in, her footsteps show and sure. Stopping just inside the door, she would pause briefly; long enough to draw the blades from the sheath she wore strapped to her thigh.


"You have some--"Cutting off, she would place her hands on her hip and sigh, her brow rising briefly as she recognized the form resting upon the couch. "Why am I not surprised?" She would mutter softly, motioning for the hounds to stand down as she moves to plop down on a chair but a few feet from the form of her husband.


[member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Malok]

He felt her before she arrived.

Her presence was unmistakable. Ice. She felt like ice. Yet not the vicious frost which claimed the lost. No. She was that refreshing cool that turned to steam upon the pyre. She was his complement; his meaner half, and feeling her approach caused a smile to form upon his lips. He waited, quietly, as if he were blind to the coming storm. His head leaned back all the way. A sigh of supreme ease escaped his lips. And then she came, heralded by snaps and snarls.

"That's right boys, I'm home."

And just like that, the two beasts wandered from their mistress' side. Darth Metus soon felt the moisture of their noses upon the rear of his hand. He did not say anything to his spouse just yet. No. He waited until he heard the sound of her posterior finding a seat of its own. Then, and only then, did he address her directly. "Because you married one angry man." Ascension gripped him. The Sith leaned forward until his eyes were upon her. They traversed her form, not for lust...but concern. There were no blemishes upon her form. No scars. No wounds. His bride was whole, and Metus could breathe again.

"I'm sorry for leaving you. Things just...exploded. I acted on instinct. I..."

He said no more, but then rose to his feet. A step to the side bore him to a glass case. Corellian whiskey - the only thing neglect ever made beautiful - soon found its way to his hand. "I could use a drink. You?"

[member="Izevel Zambrano"]

 

[Izevel Zambrano]

Izevel drifted into complete silence. This silence also brought about an eerie stillness, her breathing slowing. Her once peaceful expression took on slightly torn expression. On one hand the thought of hitting him excited the warrior part of her. On the other, the person she was debating punching was Him. So instead she would purse her lips at his explanation. The fact that he sacrificed himself like that still irked her. Yet, her affection for him out weighed her annoyance at him. NOT that she would openly admit she cared.



Watching him rise and hearing his question, she would shake her head, not interested in using whiskey as a crutch. No, she would continued to be near him whilst she processed what she wanted to say.

"Have you spoken to your children?I imagine some of them aren't very happy.." A simple statement in an attempt to mask her anger, something she knew she wouldn't be able to do around him. He was able to read her like a book. Placing both hands upon her lap, she would glance around their home before sighing.


"This place needs a good cleaning.." Pausing once more it wasn't very long before she would begin speaking once more. "I hope you have a plan. Crimes have consequences . I do hope you'll be doing what needs to be done to the responsible parties and not letting your allegiance to your king get in the way.."Cold and straight to the point, were her words to her husband before she would rise and move to his side, reaching out Izevel would then stroke his cheek lightly before grasping his chin and turning his face towards her. A simple kiss was placed upon his lips, her way of saying she missed him without having to actually say it.



[member="Darth Metus"]