Private Trials of Strength

[Laoth]

Equipment: Sword of the Tenth | The Panoply
Tags: Darth Saevius
Location: Crucifix II-Class Destroyer - Sanguine Lady​

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"It is our goal to be stronger, to achieve our potential and not rest upon our laurels. We are the seekers, not the shepherds." - Yuthura Ban​

Blue Devaronian eyes narrow as a man in stout armor with a greatsword upon his back exits his stifling room aboard the gigantic ship. His mind races with dullard images, desires of a man trapped in base animalism of his own making. Wants for spice and sulfur; for women and men; for food and drinks. Yet none of this has come to him no matter how hard he wishes for it. No, it has been the same for three days. Three long days of repetition drilling into the mind of this lard named Laoth.

Three agonizing days of the same humming of the massive, belching engines of the Crucifix II-Class Destroyer filling the halls with subtle reverberations, shaking the feet of its inhabitants with light tremors. Claxon wails of the occasional shift change, or some encounter with a rogue band of pirates or rebels daring to invade the southwestern most borders of Brotherhood space. Executions or imprisonment of crewmen and slaves that finally grew some nerve to attempt escape and flee to the nearby Galactic Alliance or New Imperial Order. Food of unknown contents being served at the packed cafeteria with the sludge they call coffee and the slime they call water. All of it, a continuous soup of noise and physical sensations that is just enough to keep the crew awake and ready for whatever is to come next in the cycle.

The horned man stalks the halls in grim silence as he witnesses a bleeding, filthy man being dragged off by two hulking beasts. His screams of protest draw more and more distant as he is shoved further into the bowels of the ship. A disgruntled - almost disgusted - sigh exhales through Laoth's hooked nose. This was the third of the day, and while it is by no means a shock to the number available to serve, it is still disappointing for some accursed reason to see able bodies being sent off to the brig or the executioner's table. His disappointment is briefly interrupted by skittering feet and chirping voices. Those sharp blue Devaronian eyes fall down to look upon a swath of small, diminutive creatures rushing towards and then past him. Strange things, they are. Coming from some strange Ursidae origin, they are dressed in robes and rags and scurry across the decks and into jagged steam vents they barely fit in. Laoth finds them somewhat cute despite their ugly role, which is to keep the ship at peak performance with little rest along with the standard slaves indentured by the Brotherhood.

Laoth carries on as the pack burrows into the walls, likely checking on panels and switches and wires. Their chittering falling silent returns the horned man to his uncomfortable tromp through humming halls. Almost too empty, the halls of the Destroyer are packed with the iconography of the Sith, perhaps more than the others of its kind. Each boasting of historical victories, crushing defeats, and quotes from ancient texts Laoth cared little to read. Images of giants in armor and robes wielding great Lightsabers swelled his sight, two of note drawing his particular attention. They were of separate eras, that much was obvious by way of their attire, although both were dressed in blacks and reds with only names inscribed under their portraits: Adas and Zash. He finds the sudden feeling of familiarity within his heart a curious thing as he recalls learning nothing of these people, yet feels that he has. Shrugging his shoulders, the titan of muscle continues his journey through the ship, eventually passing duos and trios of guardsmen and lesser Sith who avoid him altogether, not that this was an easy thing to achieve given his sheer girth.

Before long, the Devaronian finds himself in what looks to be a central chamber of sorts. Not the bridge, although it is designed similarly as such with much more dastardly undertones. Far more people occupy this place than any other he has seen in his three days aboard this ship, all of them Sith or some denomination thereof within the Brotherhood. How has he missed it during his regular jaunts through the halls? Has he just taken the wrong turns here and there?

The dullard grunts to himself and continues forth, eyeing the many robed or armored or unarmored figures reading and conversing. Some even practice their forms with the blade in several corners of the room, armed with training sabers or practice swords to avoid damaging each other or, more importantly, the ship. Amongst the skills he sees, and surprisingly understands with almost genius-level acuity, there are quite a few promising swordsmen and perhaps even future masters of combat. While his own skills with the Lightsaber are disastrous, he has at the very least studied the history and the forms of it whenever his idiocy finds an inkling of interest in things beyond drinking blood or punching walls. Within his room at a certain castle, one can find towers of old books dedicated to the research of swordsmanship across the galaxy, with several volumes discussing the intricacies of Lightsaber dueling.

He will never admit it, but this inkling surely came as a result of his mangling at the hands of one Ishida Ashina on Jedha.

As the horned man walks around the room with aimless sluggish lumbers, three individuals suddenly grab his attention. They are not quite near each other, but close enough to make the interest about them much more noticeable. Collectively, the power showcased within their auras is...astounding. The first of these individuals that Laoth examines from a distance is a tall human female with a head of loose, silky strands of black hair and a face half gone from a wound that leaves her jaw exposed. The second is a Zabrak, possibly from Dathomir, with bright red skin and intricate black tattoos. The third is...a much more curious case for they are someone Laoth had spotted in the arena during the contest a few weeks back. His name is unknown to the horned man, but that can surely be remedied with simple interaction.

And so he approaches this man, his heavy steps echoing in the air against the hums of the engines and clanking of gears within the walls. "You," Laoth says plainly upon nearing roughly two yards from him. "I've seen you before."

 

[Darth Saevius]

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Tags: Laoth
Location: Aboard the Sanguine Lady

"And I, have seen you." Saevius responded, the faintest smirk upon his features as the Devaronian (in the loosest sense of the word) approached and gruffly addressed him. Saevius was adorned in usual attire for himself when at rest, namely a black tunic with a sable sash around his waist, similarly colored pants flowing down until they were tucked into a set of well maintained and polished boots which covered the entirety of his lower leg nearly up to his knees. His lightsabers were on clear display on his waist for all to see, yet his cloak was the only missing piece, likely within his quarters deeper within the ship. Normally, he preferred to travel aboard his own personal ship, but it appeared as though the senior 'lords' within the New Sith Order wished for him to 'prove himself' via a trial.

A trial of strength.

'How quaint' he thought to himself when the notion was presented, but he of course accepted the assignment nonetheless. He was nothing particularly special in the eyes of these 'brothers' as of yet. If a demonstration of his power within the force would aid in establishing himself, then he would indulge them for now. And so it was that he agreed to board the Star Destroyer, bound for some backwater planet that had been described as a 'wild, savage place'. Undoubtedly the other Sith aboard this ship were bound for the same planet for the same thing - to survive on a world intent to kill each and every one of them.

It reminded him of his childhood on Korriban, to be honest. But that was a story for another time, certainly not while reflecting over the comings and goings over the ship. Laoth had found the Sith Lord in repose within the central chamber, his left hand held behind his back in a casual, dignified gesture; and his right hand holding a glass of what appeared to be water. Up until the time that the Devaronian had approached him, the Hapan had contented himself with observing those around him. In his previous... line of work, one could learn much without even speaking a word. The expressions on an acolyte's face while trying to appear unabashed and imposing, the body language of those refusing to show weakness despite being little more than scared children posturing to reassure their own lack of confidence. To a man whose powers of observation were honed to the precision of a knife's edge, it was all but obvious how inexperienced the majority of those around him were.

Nearly all of those in this room would die within hours of landfall on this planet. This was why, to some strange degree, Saevius was mildly pleased at being approached by Laoth. Both men stood at nearly the same height, but it was clear the Devaronian had a marked advantage in weight from the sheer bulk of his form. It took but a moment after he introduced himself that Saevius realized this was one of those within the dueling arena back on Exegol, fighting to prove his worth in the eyes of those who observed. Saevius did not join the carnage himself, for he believed such displays beneath him unless it was thrust upon him, like the situation now as they neared the planet. But the Devaronian had heart, and while he fought without any real semblance of established technique or grace, one could not dispute the sheer ferocity and passion he fought with. Although Saevius was typically one to avoid pointless displays of skill, a small part of him wondered how he would fare in a duel against him.

Perhaps one day, they would see. "I am known as Lord Saevius. And you?"

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[Laoth]

Equipment: Sword of the Tenth | The Panoply
Tags: Darth Saevius
Location: Crucifix II-Class Destroyer - Sanguine Lady​

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Blue Devaronian eyes scrutinize the man before them with no discernable expression or intent. The owner of said eyes remains stoic and still as the man speaks in short verses of greeting, and a few things come to his dullard attention. One is that this Sith's attire is surely befitting of his station, either prior to the New Order or after- Laoth does not know of or care for the personal history of the man, only that he appears powerful. Next are the weapons attached to his hip, brazenly in the open for all to see. In a ship like this, it is not uncommon to see the Sith wandering about with their weapons in the open. To Laoth's understanding, this was merely a way to establish confidence and perhaps dissuade potential foes until the correct time in which to fight. This Sith's weapons were of a particular majesty, the sleek dark grey casing of the dual Lightsabers is almost as dim as the room itself, if not dimmer, and once ignited, they would surely carve destruction upon the world he, Laoth, and others are to visit.

While the true purpose of the visit was not entirely clear in Laoth's head - how could one chosen by Halketh himself need to prove anything to those he does not truly revere - he was more than happy to put a hostile alien world to the blade. He crosses his arms at the thought and unconsciously flexes his second set of teeth in anticipation.

"I am known as Lord Saevius. And you?"

The Devaronian giant remains silent for a few moments upon the question, his attention drawn to the intensifying sounds of nearby combat between two acolytes armed with training sabers. It only takes a quick examination for the titan to possess every necessary detail of this bout, details that he would only remember when the time was right. One fights in the form of Makashi - a swift, delicate form intent on outmaneuvering the enemy with graceful dexterity. The other lashes out in the form of Djem So - a grievously violent style, although not on the level of Juyo, designed to beat down the opponent with sheer strength.

Unsurprisingly, the former - a Kaleesh it would seem - holds the advantage in more ways than one, clearly the better trained or more dedicated of the two fighters. She strikes with speed and precision that puts her opponent to shame and levels of sweating aggravation Laoth would have thought impossible. It does not take long before the Makashi bests the Djem So entirely, knocking her foe to the ground with a quick swipe of his legs and across his face. The sound of his nose breaking under the impact of the training saber resounds in the room, bringing a few chuckles or sighs.

"I am Laoth," the Devaronian finally responds, eyes still transfixed on the Makashi who wipes away the stream of blood on her weapon. The Djem So remains on the floor clutching his face, groaning in pain. Laoth grunts at the sight, then turns back to this Lord Saevius. "You did not fight at the arena despite all being called to do so. Why?"

 

[Darth Saevius]

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Tags: Laoth

Only those who knew Saevius to any real degree would know that the broad, mildly unsettling smile which broke across his lips at the Devaronian's question was not something that happened often. Either Saevius was very amused, or very unamused. "Laoth." He repeated, as if confirming the name and sampling its taste upon his lips. He slowly drank the last of his water within the glass and set it upon the sidewall he stood near. His attention did not even drift to the duel taking place between the Khaleesh and the ill-fated acolyte, but that did not mean he didn't have an idea who would win. Djem So was a worthy saber form, and if utilized correctly, could present a capable and viable match against Makashi. But they were radically different forms. Makashi required the grace of a dancer and the speed of a feline, whereas Djem So required overwhelming force and decisive attacks mixed with well masked feints. The Khaleesh appeared to be an above average practitioner of Makashi. The other acolyte, as he so terribly demonstrated, was not of equivolent ability with Djem So.

"Tell me, Laoth-" Saevius' tone was casual, if not friendly. Amused then, it would seem. "- the arena you and the others battled within; what is it called?" He paused but a moment before he answered the rhetorical question with yet another: "The Proving Grounds, right?" He let the question hang in the air for a moment as he straightened his posture - meeting the gaze of the Devaronian unabashed and undaunted.

He held his stare into the Sith's eyes for several moments, until one final question was asked: "Do I look like someone who has anything to prove?"

His voice was even and low, neither angry nor demonstrating overt anticipation for a confrontation. It was cold as ice, and as penetrating as a steel blade. The purpose of the question was quite clear - even though the answer was obviously 'yes'. Why not, considering he was here - when he would not be if he did not really have something to prove? But that wasn't the reason he asked it. It was a challenge - granted veiled and easily missed should the other Sith wish to deny it, but a challenge nonetheless. It was not a challenge to goad into action, but a challenge to test the dynamic that was currently being born between them. The result of said challenge would tell Saevius much about the days to come.

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