Private The New Normal | Srina

[Darth Metus]

Location: Netra'yaim, Krant System
Tag: Srina Talon

What was normal?

Could there ever be such a thing as normalcy when it came to their lives? From well before when the Force bound the two souls together, purpose had been thrust upon them. For the Apprentice, a lifetime of service to her people had been the foundation. For the Master, a lifetime of ambition across the stars. For beings such as these, what could be considered normal? In recent history, the relative peace that had come into their lives had been abruptly concluded. Assaults upon their home, and the nation they built, had reduced their time together to nothing.

To make matters worse, their Home had gone dark - for the moment.

When Darth Metus asked the question of normalcy, what came to mind was not a picturesque scene of a family around a dinner table. Nor was it a scene of wandering about the grocery store debating the merits of almond flour versus regular. Those were luxuries afforded to the actors in holo-films; certainly not for him. No. When it came to the Sith and his Apprentice, normal looked like...Rising at well before dawn. Well before even the critters of the night thought it time to retire.

Normal was facing one another in the circle of stones outside their home.

Normal was the dance of their fists colliding. The din of their blades swinging. The give and take of their daily "game" which honed their skills. Normal were those moments when knowledge was passed down. When the Master would stand back and witness, with a proud smile, the growth of his Apprentice. When the towering stones would be rent asunder by spears of midnight black - or when greater storms could erupt from her hands. That was normal. And that was the foundation that he wanted...nay needed to return to.

Though he would never admit it aloud, the Sith Lord was tired.

The defense of Ryloth had left the man drained on an atomic level. Weaving such a collosal magick had taken even his mate off her feet to this day. Though her "mortal" form was yet with him, Darth Elyria was very much so asleep. Darth Metus was fortunate that she had taken the brunt of the strain, as it could have left him in a far worse condition than present. But, outside of the absolutely necessary, he had returned to the home erected for his House and kin. Whilst the matter of Ryloth's silence was addressed, he would collect himself at Netra'yaim.

And whilst "learning to walk" again, he would try to bring some semblance of normal back to their lives.

This day was nearly identical to so many they had shared over the years. The sun yet slumbered beyond the horizon. The birds made not a chirp. And yet, the Sith Lord had called his apprentice out to the Gardens. Krant was very much so not Ryloth. And, judging from their conversations on the subject, they would not be making this a permanent stay. Sahet'yaim was their home - they would reclaim it soon. For now, a similar circle of stones had been prepared. For now, Darth Metus awaited in that same attire only her eyes new. Gone was the battle armor. Gone were the expensive suits. What laid before was a man with bare feet, sweat pants, and taped hands.

As the alabaster woman drew near, the ocean between them spoke volumes. She'd know his fatigue. He'd know her burdens. But there was one language his Echani apprentice spoke louder than Basic - Action. And the dance of their fists would be a far deeper conversation than any exchange over tea. His fist came to rest within his open palm, a smile graced his features. She'd know the meaning:

Tag, you're it.​

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Darth Metus​

Srina hadn’t experienced anything close to normal since leaving home. It felt like it had been an age. The wintry woman had reached the point of exhaustion years prior and had never truly had time to recover. She was always moving from issue to issue, problem to problem, and never took a moment to breathe. When she did? It revolved around visiting comrades in hospital beds. Picking up her siblings from quarantine. Burying them. Burying friends. Repairing systems that had been destroyed by the actions of outside forces. Mourning hundreds, thousands, of people that they had failed.

They could sugar-coat it however they pleased.

They had failed.

It wasn’t in a sense of “winning” and “losing” by any stretch of the imagination. Enemies came and went at their own discretion. The moment they lost a life; the loss was more than evident.

When Ryloth went dark, even for a time, it felt as if the barricade that they had created to protect their people from the savagery of the galaxy at large had been broken. It was no longer safe. They promised their systems protection, sovereignty, and the space to grow in their own time. Freedom. What was the point in being free if they were dead? What kind of life would they lead with that sort of imminent threat hanging over their head?

The Vicelord didn’t need to tell her; they were both tired. Both burned. Frustrated.

His Black Goddess had been mostly missing since the event. Srina couldn’t say, exactly what he was more worried about. Her recovery? Or the power vacuum that was presented with her loss? Elyria didn’t much like her. She could feel that. But, the Echani could also feel that the primordial one was strong. Srina could feel her power echoing from one side of the planet to the other. Further. So far, that sher couldn’t feel the end of it. Srina could feel her in everything. Around everything. Elyria’s power was on her skin when she neared, leaving Srina feeling strange.

Empowered—But made small.

How did those two things happen at the same time?

Krant was not her home. Krant, was not Eshan. It was not Geonosis. It was not Ryloth.

Srina had trained for combat for as long as she had been able to stand on her own two feet. The frequently uttered joke among those from her homeworld, she was raised traditionally, from the cradle to the sword. Unarmed combat had always been her specialty. She had heard many a man, woman, and everything else green and in-between talk a good fight—But she had never balked from an opponent spouting unproven theories and big claims.

Anyone could perform devastating techniques on a compliant partner in training. Would that same technique work on wet permacrete, in the grass, against an aggressive and possibly skilled opponent at two in the morning? With no sleep? Real fights never took place in a well-lit area with protective mats on the floor. They never happened when they were well-rested and prepared. The slender Echani stepped within the confines of her Masters hit box, mindful of the stones, and kept light on bare feet. She danced back and forth just a little bit and made a good, tight fist that she kept at the level of her eye. Her thumb tucked down against the side of her fingers and took a quick jab at his jaw. She drew back, just as quickly, and used her other fist to take a shot at his solar plexus while her guard switched. She aimed to connect cleanly with he knuckles to keep from damaging her hand.

The white-haired woman struck with force. Over and over, relentless, in which her pattern was ever changing to accommodate for the placement her opponent took. She never let her guard down and her expression never changed. She never seemed out of breath, though, a light sheen of sweat had already begun to dot her brow. With each fierce strike, it would become apparent, that something was bothering her. She was angry.

Not specifically at him. Not even at herself. She was just angry.

 

[Darth Metus]

N O R M A L​

Tag: Srina Talon

The River Shrieked.

When it came to most Masters and Apprentices, there was always a degree of mystery. One could never truly know the other it seemed - especially when practitioners of the Darkness were concerned. With every lesson, one ran the risk of empowering their downfall. Yet, this was not so between Isley and Srina. Between them ran a boon that had existed since their first meeting. A bond, bold and strong, which ferried innermost thoughts, feelings, and ideas long before the tongue could ever utter them. Through this, Isley and Srina grew to become reflections of the other. Every day spent changed the other for the better. And thus, their burdens were never truly theirs alone. They always had one another - even in the midst of the worst circumstances.

And what worse circumstances could there be than the present?

Sacrifice was the word that could be used to describe the Sith's tenure as Vicelord. Ever since encountering Srina on Coruscant, he had pulled her into a vortex of suffering. There was no ifs about it. Yes, she had been on the run from the Hells of Eshan. But did they compare to the reality he had raised her in? He promised her protection, strength, and knowledge. He gave her a home in Sinner's Well - in the Confederacy. Yet, now, the cracks in the walls had shown. The nation had been struck a grievous blow. And even before the assaults, all they had known as loss. Loss of children. Loss of family. Of friends. Of comrades. Of lovers. Sacrifice and suffering were all that the Sith had brought to the young woman.

Thus, when she struck, he understood the anger. The river running betwixt them said that it was not directed at him. But it should have been. Though he - though they - longed for normalcy...had any of this been normal thus far? Could they ever truly know that peace they worked tirelessly for? Even now, they stood upon Krant whilst Ryloth was being addressed. Their Home was forfeit. The anger was wholly justified. Isley did as they had so many times ago. His stance was power whilst hers was speed. He blocked and accounted for her tendencies to go after his balance - an improvement over the first times they had thrown hands. His strikes were mighty, meant to take advantage of their size difference.

And though this was intended as a means of resuming their normal routine, his own frustrations began to bleed into the blows. She would feel his thoughts. Feel his regrets. Chief among them was Haseria - on the day where the damned deWinter had plunged a knife into his back. He had a chance then to rip that woman apart, but he stayed his hand due to the begging of his "niece." How many times had it been that allies and so-called loved ones had caused good people to die? Scherezade. Yasha. How many more lives would be lost because he trusted old bonds and listened to them? Frustration colored his fists. Doubt clouded his mind. It was enough that a swing went wide - the Echani was quick to capitalize and dig her fist into his chin.

He stepped back from the blow. Bloody spit was expelled, wrathfully, before he rolled his shoulders. "One nothing, Srini." he remarked, his tone clearly off. Nonetheless, he raised his guard. "C'mon. C'mon!"

Maybe normal meant getting it all out.
​