The Torpor

[Darth Empyrean]

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It’d been weeks of searching, weeks of determined inquiries from Cybele, and the few fleeting rumors to ride on as The Slave searched for allies and friends. In these times, it wasn’t so easy to find those; considering how strong of a grip the current control had. While bringing on the likes of Arken, Kate, and even Judas, there were still many more who needed to partake to have any chance at success.

The Slave trudged through the depths of the temple, a small group of South Star Class Battle Droids tailing behind him with Jaeger brand weaponry. With one of them, they dragged a slave, bound in repulsor cuffs and barely conscious. They were quiet for now, but he imagined they’d wake in the coming moments; something he couldn’t help but dread. The seeming silence of the temple was refreshing, with only the soft whirs of servo motors keeping him company in the overgrowth.

Before him, eons old traps kept his attention, but did little to stop him. Some had either fallen completely in disrepair, while others still simply stood no challenge. The soft push of the force, or other more determined attempts made short work of them, but as they came into the central chamber; The Slave met the first piece of reasonable deterrent that would have likely caused most to simply turn back.

The tomb, as it so seemed, was covered in a nigh impenetrable bubble of energy that had maintained itself through the millenia. It was a very tight barrier, but one that he could see from even here would harm him severely if he made the mistake of physically touching it. As he watched, it became more and more obvious as to why the Sith Lord in its depths had remained quiet for so long.

Taking a moment to consider the situation, The Slave washed over the room and its aged but ceremonial architecture with contempt. He dreaded the day that this could eventually be his fate, and that there was a chance he would simply cease to exist should the galaxy forget about him at large. With a pit in his stomach, he turned to the droids that followed and motioned them aside; each one taking cover behind the various pillars that threatened to fall at their measly touch.

With the group behind cover, The Slave extended his hand; soft waves of darkness trailing up his arm from the air surrounding him, quickly lowering of the temperature of the room in the same movement. Dark tendrils had begun to form, tearing the robes he wore on his arm, and threatening to throw the stones around him as energy slowly began to spiral and flow; but only the beginning stages of what was to come.

Inhale. Exhale.

It’d been only a short time since The Slave had taken control of the Darkstaff, and it still was not perfect. Utilizing it in combat was nigh impossible, knowing full and well the strain would make him lose control for an indefinite period of time. No, it could only be utilized in the most utility based measures; in creation and alteration, never to harm. That did not mean however, that bringing about its nearly endless power ever became easier.

As the abysmal energy that surrounded The Slave grew darker, more dense and visible with tendrils of midnight black breaching the skin of his arm, the first silhouette of the staff formed in his hand. Its dragon like head, its malignant energy, all slowly became more than could bear for any in the local area. It was horrifying in simple presence, and the deafening call to the soul had stirred the guest he had brought along.

Her screams began to fill the hall as The Slave moved through the process.

The ground beneath him cracked and tore as it finally appeared, only to have The Slave begin to grow pale and more disturbing by the second. Any sense of humanity began to fade as the veins in his arms and face turned a eldritch purple, contrasting heavily with the ashy grey of his complexion. Hair twisting from the energies, and eyes stained a perpetual black, The Slave had pushed himself to the very limits of the device before moving the staff’s mouth towards the tomb.

In the blink of an eye, a vortex formed in front of the artifact, sucking all the energy from the tomb that it could manage. Ice began to form as energy was sucked from the very air, covering the stone as the quakes began to shake stones from the ceiling and pillars nearby. To the uninitiated, the apocalypse had come, and to the slave brought with, she bore witness to hell itself.

The greatest affront to creation that had ever been conceived.

With an almost sickening crack, the energies that surrounded the tomb seemed to snap from its depths, snatched into the endless gullet of the monstrous staff that now threatened to consume all that was near. A small pop, and the lid had moved ever so slightly from its cemented area; a resting spot that it had found comfy for well over a thousand years.

Pulling back only slightly, The Slave let the continued efforts of the staff whirl around him as he waited for this ‘Lord Vyrix’ to come from his slumber. His first sight would be a show of force, so he understood the danger that would come should he turn against him.

He only hoped he’d wake soon, he didn’t know how long he could maintain his current state as dark whispers began to lay into the back of his mind.

[member="Darth Vyrix"]

---

 

[Darth Vyrix]

Long before a good deal of the modern galaxy's inhabitants were more than a thought, Vyrix had known power. He'd enjoyed servants at his beck and call, apprentices and scholars to hear his word, lesser Sith and social climbers to deliver his will. He had known a life of privilege just as he had known struggle, perhaps more so. The entity that was Vyrix had enjoyed his elevated position. And, like all who grow too comfortable with their position, it was all taken from him.

Betrayed, beaten by those the Sith Lord hadn't even considered capable of such a feat, his mistaken allies had every right to kill him. They should've done it, really. The title of Sith bore no place for the weak. Vyrix's own failings should've absolutely cost him his life. And if one were being completely fair, being sealed away for who knows how long was the next best thing. Yet there was no concept of fair in the pursuit of power. Those who failed to kill him only demonstrated their ineptitude to call themselves Sith.

With only his own failings to blame, Vyrix's name went from one that inspired fear to that that rose little to no eyebrows. His power fell into obscurity, his court fell into ruins, his domain seized and taken by those who thought themselves capable. The galaxy continued its course, falling in and out of chaos while the Sith slumbered, oblivious. There were certainly worse ways to go, just as there were better ways of achieving a form of immortality.

The intruders would find little to no resistance in his tomb. Any live guards that had once been stationed would've died many times over, just as those of the mechanical side would've fallen into disrepair beyond function. The tomb and all its outdated security measures had served their intended purpose, but once his betrayers were certain Vyrix wouldn't be returning any time soon, there was little need to spare his resting place any more than a passing thought.

Senses dulled by the centuries, inhibited by the tomb, the intrusion went entirely unnoticed by the once-revered omnipath. It wasn't until The Slave was well into the process of removing the barrier that both imprisoned and sustained the creature within that the presence of these intruders even rippled into his consciousness. Even then, it was a mere blip from the usual dormancy, left unprocessed until several minutes later.

Had the tomb's lid moved more than a couple inches at best, one would see the Sith Lord himself, looking almost peaceful in his bed of who knew how many years. Features pale and gaunt, hands folded delicately over each other sporting fingernails reminiscent of overgrown claws, he looked more corpse than living flesh. And for several more moments, it seemed he was a corpse indeed.

When he did move, it was subtle. A twitch of the nose marked the start of his senses waking up, followed by the flex of a shoulder, the movement of fingers. He took his time, reacquainting himself with his mortal form. Even the tomb lid sliding further aside so that he may properly leave his resting place was a slow crawl, filling the room with a less than pleasing sound.

And then he stood, casting a cool gaze around his surroundings, eyes zeroing in on the one he could assume was his liberator and then shifting to the other. He made note of the staff in the male's grasp, something that'd surely dominate his interests later. In the moment, however, there were matters far more pressing. Years of slumber sure did develop an appetite.

His first steps were slow, testing the limits of limbs that'd gone too long without use, followed by an otherworldly gait that was still a mere shadow of his former self. Vyrix had his questions, plenty of them, but all of them would take a back seat to quelling his hunger. He didn't dare show his back to The Slave, sparing the man a curious glance as he passed before focussing back on his pray. For freeing him, Vyrix would spare this man's life, at least until he provided details of the modern world and, more importantly, the staff he wielded. The woman, on the other hand? She'd have the esteemed honor of being his first meal in this new age.

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Energy moved and pulled, a cacophony of whispers layered over one another as Vyrix moved to eat the food The Slave had brought. Ripped and tearing, dark and straining; every aspect of the force that surrounded them threatened to steal their breath and kill them without hesitation. It took a moment for The Slave to calm down, his breath shallow and hoarse as the corruption fled from his blackened eyes and the veins beneath his skin fell to their usual blue.

The ice that formed around them seemed to stick to his skin, forcing The Slave to glance to it in annoyance as he shook it from the skin, small portions of it falling away with each shard. Glancing back to Vyrix, he couldn’t help but clench his teeth and loosen his grip on the staff. Letting it fall, it broke free from reality as portions of it turned empty and abysmal; disappearing in ways man can’t understand.

Writhing his wrists with his fingers, he moved to pull the hood from his head and spoke up after a moment; a predatory grin washing over his face as he came back as full strength as possible.

“Lord Vyrix.”, he said with danger tingeing his voice.

“How did you sleep?”

[member="Darth Vyrix"]

 

[Darth Vyrix]

There was no time to be gentle, no interest in making the experience any less terrifying for the poor girl. She would, however, be granted the boon of a quick death, the parasite taking her energy for his own then tossing the corpse aside without a second thought. It was a start - nowhere near the feast he so desired, but enough to breathe more life into limbs that had grown soft. Rolling his shoulders, joints popping as tendons and ligaments moved against the bone, he found himself relishing in a deep breath of somewhat-fresh air.

It was over in a moment, Vyrix's attention turning back to the Staff and the one who grasped it. He watched with a curious gaze, masked by a sheet of ice, as said staff all but vanished by means beyond Vyrix's understanding. A display of power if ever there was one, and Vyrix was quite interested in learning more of this artifact and, consequently, the wielder. One way or another, both would serve.

He wouldn't dignify the other with a response, at least not of the vocal sort. Rather, it'd come more as a whisper in the back of ones' head, coming from nowhere yet everywhere simultaneously, just loud enough to be heard. That is not a concern of yours, you who would free me.

I trust you have not done so lightly. What is your purpose, staff-wielder?

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Brushing his hair from his face, he could feel the slow ache in the wounds formed by the ice. He’d rotted on the surface just from a momentary strain of using the staff, far too much for what he wanted. Without their symbiotic relationship, or rather the domination of the Darkstaff, he was simply a resistant conduit to its power, and it would do nothing to maintain his form as he used it. Sighing however, The Slave kept his posturing for the moment;

“You know, you’re much younger than I thought you’d be.”

Tapping his chin, he walked a wide girth as the droids near the girl kept a series of heavy disruptors trained on Vyrix; cautious of any sudden movements.

“What if I brought you back for nothing more than a challenge, Vyrix?”

The Devil was alive, and he was an alabaster stranger; his tone made no mistake in offering this,

“What if I brought you back to die?”

[member="Darth Vyrix"]

 

[Darth Vyrix]

Another roll of the shoulders, robes being shifted to better suit the form slighter than the one that'd first entered the tomb. He could feel his vitality returning and with it, the arrogance that had led to his initial undoing, though in a far more facilitated state. He'd been an imposing figure once, maintaining some form of physical prowess in addition to his mental superiority.

His eyes narrowed at The Slave's comment, the faintest huff of disinterest left him.

Then it would appear this tomb will not go unused. Tell me, boy, just how keen are you to die here? His eyes flickered over to each droid in turn before returning to The Slave, one hand slowly reaching up to tap Vyrix's chin as if he were deep in thought. The long, brittle fingernails that'd grown in his slumber were nice representations of the retractable claws just itching for use. Having been awake for mere minutes yet already, his attention was split between the present conversation and mentally probing everything in the vicinity, formulating strategies for if this boy were to attack him now.

It would've been in your best interest to kill me in my slumber. You will find I'm no longer easy prey.

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Laughter filled the room; cruel, malevolent laughter that sought nothing more than to penetrate the bones. Its source was The Slave, the equally cruel master of all that had come to fruition in this room thus far; and with it, a measure of confidence in spite of him somewhat exhausted state. Posturing was a natural facimily of the Sith, he couldn’t betray such a trend when it suited best.

His guffah ceased only when he moved to wipe his eye of a tear;

“Oh, Lord Vyrix-”, he mustered out as his other hand moved to hold his chest.

“Its that arrogance that I so loved about the stories.”, he beamed.

“Do you honestly think that he who broke the very tomb you were sealed in, would be so easily defeated by a malnutriated vampire of eons past?”

The Slave sighed as he brought some composure to himself. Wiping his face once more, he walked over to the droids to grab something from them, though he continue to speak with his back to the Sith once more; something easy to confuse for a sign of disrespect.

“Regardless, you awake to a land you know nothing about. You own nothing, you know nothing, and despite all that your ego tells you now-”, he paused.

“- You are nothing.”

“I’ll help change that.”, he said with a grin.

[member="Darth Vyrix"]

 

[Darth Vyrix]

A scowl pulled at his features, warping his countenance to that of disgust and contempt. Who was this boy, to know so much of the Lord Vyrix yet to laugh in his presence? His hands that were once relatively relaxed at his side and chin were now just short of claws. For a moment, he was oh so tempted to strike the boy down, especially when his back was turned. Only a fool would dare show him this utter lack of respect.

You've heard the stories yet you test me so. You will pay for your ignorance.

He didn't want to admit that the one who freed him bore a point. He knew not how long he'd slumbered, nor what of his possessions had been left to the tomb and what had been divided up amongst those who hoped to succeed him. And while he had no doubt he'd find a way back to prominence on his own, he wasn't so dull as to not recognize that pawns better acquainted with the new age would serve well.

Make no mistake, those whose usefulness has worn out do not live to find another master. You will serve, or you will sustain me.

You have my ear.

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave beamed at the sith who faced him down, taking pride in the fact that he had yet to attempt to strike him. For Sith, intimidation, manipulation, all these things were as important to them as martial prowess itself; and despite The Slave’s attempt at testing just that, Vyrix had backed down, even if he didn’t admit it in his words.

“In time, Vyrix, I’m not so sure.”, he said idly in response to to the Sith’s threat.

With that, The Slave tossed the man a holopad that contained a synapsis of the last millennials, what was known at least. All of this was for the expressive purpose of offering him a chance at understanding the new era; condensed into something he could reference any time.

“The point is, Vyrix, I believe the Sith to be weak. You’re going to help me change that.”

“You’ve got just the right flare for such a thing.”

[member="Darth Vyrix"]

 

[Darth Vyrix]

Vyrix detested weakness. Those of his time had been well aware of that, perhaps too aware. And the mere notion of bending in knee to a mere boy, even if said boy was responsible for his freedom, betrayed the very cutthroat ideology that Vyrix had been such a devout practitioner of. Perhaps it was best he was such a creature out of time so that this moment of utter humiliation would not be known by those outside of the chamber. This moment of weakness would live on through Vyrix and Vyrix alone.

And in time, you will learn the truth.

That holopad would not have the honor of gracing Vyrix's grasp, not initially. It rested, caught and suspended in the Force, at a height in which was favorable to the Vampire. His gaze never warmed as it scrutinized the knowledge before him, his iris still playing host to ice as he took in the knowledge. Countless years condensed to a quick-reference guide, the majority of which sharing far from savory news.

The boy was right, though Vyrix would never give him the credit of the revelation. The Sith mentioned in these paragraphs were not those of old. Where was the intrigue? The betrayal? The competition that all but defined Sith? Surely the children of this new age did not think they could merely omit such a crucial step in the quest for power.

And yet, the idea that this boy thought he could call the shots did not sit well with the man. He was intrigued, sure, interested to pick this oddity's brain. Perhaps that combined with the blasters still trained on him still his hand and dulled his tongue.

And what would you have me do, boy? Why would I bother myself with the mistakes of these children?

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“I’ll have you do nothing, Vyrix.”

He quietly moved to a small block that had fallen eon before, its dust covered sandy structure forming an impromptu seat in the moment. The Slave wouldn’t show it, but exhaustion had already began to rack his system as his heart seemed to flutter; intimidation and charisma was his forte, but while he might be able to scare someone down, he would have trouble backing himself after breaking the seal that kept the vampire in his cage.

“If I told you to do something, I doubt you’d listen. You’re too prideful.”, he said, leaning back on his hands, shrugging.

“Instead, I’m going to trust you to do what you need to do. I think you’ll do just fine by yourself…”, he said as that ever present grin ate away at their distance.

“And, if you need help, you have my contact information right in there. Some DarkNet connections -”, he paused for a moment, thinking.

“It’ll explain what the DarkNet is. Anyway, it’ll have that information to get ahold of me.”

“How does that sound?”

[member="Darth Vyrix"]