Placeholder 04
Character
A thousand damned souls cried out in desperation for release. They writhed in endless agony beneath the depths of the dark waters, their ethereal maws ripped open to spill forth a cacophony of torment. In times past, he would have crumbled beneath the weight of so much pain. He would have reached out to try and soothe those held within the black waters, and they would have pulled him into their torment. They would have killed him because he did not suffer as they did.
They regarded him as one of their own now. He did not scream his hurt as they did, nor had he absconded from his vessel of flesh and bone, but the agony was all the same. It was wrought from his own actions and misdeeds; the weight of a thousand failures come to crash upon a single pair of shoulders.
He bore it with purpose.
Of all the things one might say of Darth Mephirium, they could not deny that he was tenacious. He had manipulated entire worlds to bring about his vengeance upon the Dark Lord, and they had followed with dutiful zeal. When the killing was done and Coruscant lay wounded and bare to the world, Mephirium had left, carrying the head of its slain leader in a bag of cloth.
The empire at the galactic core was an impure one; one that he had little desire to try and lord over. It was a force to be reckoned with, to be sure, but one that would be little more than a memory when the great war came.
The screaming was louder now. It thundered in his ears, threatening to drive him to the brink of madness. His teeth ground together as he strode across the amber sands to the edge of the lake. For all his perceived power, Mephirium found himself shaking. His entire body shivered; his legs threatened to give out from beneath him.
The howls of anguish became background noise. Mephirium held up the sack of ebon cloth that held the head of his former rival. The morbid trophy was as much a symbol as it was proof of the deed.
How many had died because of this terrible creature? A million? A billion? The entire Republic had been sacked so that the Dark Lord might rule over the galactic core, and for what? To end up here, in the hands of what many had named usurper; in the hands of a man so damned and ruined by the Dark Lord's edicts that he had given up everything to end him.
His values, ethics, teachings -- his life's work all tossed away to see this demon dead.
And what had he become because of it?
A single tear fell down his cheek.
Cyrene, Caida, Silara, mother, Bethany, Bane...
Graxin Rade fell to his knees at the edge of the lake. The voices called out, their lamenting a seductive whisper now. All he needed to do was crawl into the lake and let the waves take him.
And yet...
With what strength remained to him, Darth Mephirium rose to his feet. These were the memories of a dead man. Graxin Rade had ceased to exist when the pact to end the Dark Lord's life was made. All that remained was Mephirium, and Mephirium had a vision for the galaxy.
He had never craved power for the sake of it. Always, Mephirium had wanted only to unite the stars. His was a beneficent rule, even if his methods were cruel. Power was the means to an end.
As the voices cried out, Mephirium decided he rather liked that power. They did not scream in pain any longer, but fear. Fear of him, and the severed head held between his fingers.
These things that he clung to had only ever brought him failure. The creeds he had lived by only ever wrought discord and failure. When he had finally come to accept what he was born to be, goals were accomplished. Tyrants were slaughtered. Worlds were changed.
He had no right to give up now.
Darth Mephirium stood tall as the souls shuddered. He drew in a deep breath and cast those broken feelings aside: the regrets, despair, the loss. In their place came ambition, understanding, purpose. He had rose from slavery to become one of the most powerful Sith Lords in the galaxy. What was that if not everything the Sith Code taught.
A gnarled hand rose from the folds of his robes out toward the lake. The water shimmered, and the crying voices suddenly fell silent, their throats caught in the merciless grasp of Mephirium's iron will.
"I am Darth Mephirium. I present to you the most powerful being in the galaxy." He thrust his hand outward, the severed head dangling like a morose fetish from his fingertips. "Killed by my hand and mine alone. Do as I will, or your souls will meet the same fate his did."
The grip on the spirits lessened. As one, they turned upon Mephirium, their forms taking on a physical aspect in a black mist. They swirled about him in a vortex, but none dared to touch him.
Mephirium found himself grinning as he extended his consciousness to the spirits. They did not resist him. "Call to those who are lost. Bring them here to the shore. Bring them to Ambria."
They regarded him as one of their own now. He did not scream his hurt as they did, nor had he absconded from his vessel of flesh and bone, but the agony was all the same. It was wrought from his own actions and misdeeds; the weight of a thousand failures come to crash upon a single pair of shoulders.
He bore it with purpose.
Of all the things one might say of Darth Mephirium, they could not deny that he was tenacious. He had manipulated entire worlds to bring about his vengeance upon the Dark Lord, and they had followed with dutiful zeal. When the killing was done and Coruscant lay wounded and bare to the world, Mephirium had left, carrying the head of its slain leader in a bag of cloth.
The empire at the galactic core was an impure one; one that he had little desire to try and lord over. It was a force to be reckoned with, to be sure, but one that would be little more than a memory when the great war came.
The screaming was louder now. It thundered in his ears, threatening to drive him to the brink of madness. His teeth ground together as he strode across the amber sands to the edge of the lake. For all his perceived power, Mephirium found himself shaking. His entire body shivered; his legs threatened to give out from beneath him.
The howls of anguish became background noise. Mephirium held up the sack of ebon cloth that held the head of his former rival. The morbid trophy was as much a symbol as it was proof of the deed.
How many had died because of this terrible creature? A million? A billion? The entire Republic had been sacked so that the Dark Lord might rule over the galactic core, and for what? To end up here, in the hands of what many had named usurper; in the hands of a man so damned and ruined by the Dark Lord's edicts that he had given up everything to end him.
His values, ethics, teachings -- his life's work all tossed away to see this demon dead.
And what had he become because of it?
A single tear fell down his cheek.
Cyrene, Caida, Silara, mother, Bethany, Bane...
Graxin Rade fell to his knees at the edge of the lake. The voices called out, their lamenting a seductive whisper now. All he needed to do was crawl into the lake and let the waves take him.
And yet...
-------------------------
With what strength remained to him, Darth Mephirium rose to his feet. These were the memories of a dead man. Graxin Rade had ceased to exist when the pact to end the Dark Lord's life was made. All that remained was Mephirium, and Mephirium had a vision for the galaxy.
He had never craved power for the sake of it. Always, Mephirium had wanted only to unite the stars. His was a beneficent rule, even if his methods were cruel. Power was the means to an end.
As the voices cried out, Mephirium decided he rather liked that power. They did not scream in pain any longer, but fear. Fear of him, and the severed head held between his fingers.
These things that he clung to had only ever brought him failure. The creeds he had lived by only ever wrought discord and failure. When he had finally come to accept what he was born to be, goals were accomplished. Tyrants were slaughtered. Worlds were changed.
He had no right to give up now.
Darth Mephirium stood tall as the souls shuddered. He drew in a deep breath and cast those broken feelings aside: the regrets, despair, the loss. In their place came ambition, understanding, purpose. He had rose from slavery to become one of the most powerful Sith Lords in the galaxy. What was that if not everything the Sith Code taught.
A gnarled hand rose from the folds of his robes out toward the lake. The water shimmered, and the crying voices suddenly fell silent, their throats caught in the merciless grasp of Mephirium's iron will.
"I am Darth Mephirium. I present to you the most powerful being in the galaxy." He thrust his hand outward, the severed head dangling like a morose fetish from his fingertips. "Killed by my hand and mine alone. Do as I will, or your souls will meet the same fate his did."
The grip on the spirits lessened. As one, they turned upon Mephirium, their forms taking on a physical aspect in a black mist. They swirled about him in a vortex, but none dared to touch him.
Mephirium found himself grinning as he extended his consciousness to the spirits. They did not resist him. "Call to those who are lost. Bring them here to the shore. Bring them to Ambria."
