Faction [TSC] New Blood, Fresh Meat

[Vestra Tane]

TAGS: Valephor Crokell | OPEN to Desevro Academy Students and Covenant Members!

It was a rare thing these days, for an Order shuttle to breach Desevro's atmosphere.

The planet's (theoretical) governor was only nominally loyal to the greater Order. She had her own strange religion, and her own strange ideas, both of which often caused the upstanding citizens of the Order great discomfort. And the Sith that Desevro's temples produced were...eccentric, by the standards of the Stygian Caldera.

Kor'ethyr Academy, this was not. Still, they paid their taxes (most of the time), and the Order's ruling Sith tolerated them, to the confusion and frustration of countless irate fundamentalists and warmongers.

And, because it trained Sith, at least some of whom would go on to, presumably, be loyal soldiers of Empire, the Academy on Desevro was afforded the occasional opportunity to pick students for itself.

Vestra Tane, Knight of the Covenant (fight her about it), Governor of Desevro (once the paperwork goes through), and Despoiler of Hanna City, stood, unmoving, as an ST-4 Adonis landed inches from her position. She exchanged a glare with the pilot, momentarily, before skulking about the shuttle's perimeter.

Then, when the loading bay doors creaked open, the showboating started. She slammed one foot up on the loading ramp, leaning on it with an easy casualness. Her coat, long and ragged and battle-worn, had fallen open just enough to reveal a pair of lightsabers, one gold and one silver, hooked to her waist. Wind and snow whipped through her hair, but if she was bothered by the cold, she didn't show it. She just grinned - the lump of scar tissue marring the right side of her face made the expression look slightly stiff, more than a little ugly.

Her accent was a little bit Corellian gunslinger, a little bit Nar Shaddaa gutter rat.

"Valephor Crokell. Welcome to Desevro, kid. And welcome to the Sith."

She liked the look of this one.

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin stood almost like an armored sentinel statue not far from Vestra, giving her the space she needed to inspect this newcomer. Desevro’s sky was breached by the incoming ship that seemed to land a bit too close for comfort in front of Vestra. He was surprised she did not reprimand the fool.

Luckily the pilot was not the newcomer joining them, otherwise they would be leading to an extremely rough start. He watched as the loading gate opened and Vestra made her introduction. His red visor tracking and following the newcomer, eyeing any sudden movement that could be declared hostile.

His mace clung to his back, holstered but very much noticeable even from a distance. His arms folded over his chest as his shadow seemed to extend towards the ramp. The smoldering cloak that constantly spewed from his back cutting through the cold with its own heat.

He watched silently and studied.

Vestra Tane | Valephor Crokell | @Open​

 

[Valephor Crokell]

Valephor's foot tapped against the metal floor, his back ramrod straight and pressed against his seat. He was nervous. But how could he not be? So much had changed so quickly. He'd just grown use to life aboard the Delight Of The Hydian, only for the ship to be boarded and its occupants tortured and executed. Just like with the Orlo Sahon. He didn't understand what was going on then, and he didn't understand what was going on now. Only that he was falling further and further from the embrace of Sekot.

His hand graced the cybernetic at his throat. The piece of dead-tech that, quite ironically, kept him alive. Everything around him was dead now. The walls, the engines, even the very atmosphere was sterilized. The quiet genocide of the infidels against the very fabric of the Force. 'Every breath I take now is heresy.' He thought bitterly. 'What is one more sin?'

He forced himself to relax, only for the shuttle to shudder as it suddenly slowed, the slight lurch echoing through Valephor's body like a wave. It settled to the ground with the whine of bottled gravity, the repulsors easing the thing to the ground.

The apostate let out a slow breath, gathering his courage. With unhurried movements, he rose, standing at the base of the unloading ramp as it cracked open. 'It's too bright,' he thought, the light of day squeezing his eyes shut. He pulled up his hood, then pulled it lower still, trying to block out what he could of the glare.

Then, he felt it. The air across his face. 'Cold too.' He had been sweltering in his cold weather gear for the last half an hour, but he felt mildly validated at his prudence in choosing to don it.

So far, he was not a fan of planets.

There was a loud clank of a boot against metal, and the ramp shuttered, a woman (human, he guessed, though he wasn't certain) leaning in with a deliberate casualness as she belted out a greeting. Her introduction brought him a conflicting mix of both comfort and unease, her mannerisms standing in stark contrast to the Sith he'd met so far. Where she reminded him of the crew he'd left behind, the rest of the Sith had been more like his people. Less polite, but nicer, in their own way.

Yet her presence in the Force was... foreboding. Powerful, but ominous. She had gone against the principles of balance. Willingly and Often. It was expected. All Jeedai did, in their own way. It was merely a question of whether they understood that or thought their refusal to engage in the darker disciplines kept their hands clean.

'You are no longer a child of the Living Path,' he chided himself. 'You are Vong now. You have no right to judge her. Not anymore.'

He placed his hands together and gave a shallow bow, trying to strike a balance between formality and the tone she'd set. "It's an honor, Mistress Tane. This one is grateful for the Sith's great generosity in inducting him into their esteemed Acolyte caste, and swears to fulfill his duties with excellence." He paused. "This one greatly respects the Sith's reverence for knowledge, and wishes to grab opportunity with which he has been presented with both hands."

The man, he did not know how to interact with. He did not offer a greeting, and if Valephor had learned anything in life, it was to only speak when spoken to. However, he also didn't want to cause a faux pas by failing to acknowledge a being of a higher caste, and so he repeated the bow with only a fraction less of an incline, sans the verbal greeting. Hopefully that was enough.

Vestra Tane

Varin Mortifer


OPEN​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Vestra Tane Varin Mortifer Valephor Crokell​

Lysander entered from the courtyard with the residue of training still clinging to his body. Heat radiated beneath the black tunic and fitted leggings. The landing zone reached his ears first. Visitors were rare on Desevro, so much that their arrival almost always meant something had drawn them here on purpose, because no one came to a world like this by accident, or hoping to be found..

Vestra’s voice settled in his mind without effort; Chandrila still a recent memory, the echo of that scourge still too recent to be stored away as history. Varin registered almost at once; so, it was then the teen adjusted his path and came to a stop beside him. Their shadows briefly overlapped. As he did, he set a hand at his co-apprentice's shoulder, the reach easy despite how tall the man was.

“Brother.”

Once he stilled, the cold made its presence known, biting at his jaw and the nape of his neck. One of this planet’s small lessons that simply never stopped teaching. A breath clouded the air as his focus shifted to the newcomer at the bottom.

Here, he found himself neither welcoming nor rejecting the new potential acolyte. There was only assessment as he watched this scene play out. He had been running training sessions with the acolytes more frequently of late, correcting fundamentals, tightening forms, refining timing. A chain was only as strong as it's weakest link, which left him constantly at work. And chances were high this one would eventually be folded into one of those groups.

There was something like gratitude in it.. that they trusted him with the lessons.

And that wasn’t to say those under his watch lacked effort, but without structure, it would all be for naught.

Eventually, both hands settled behind his back, squaring his shoulders, and tilting the chin. Just a posture he’d learned long ago..

Perhaps, clarity would arrive soon.

 

[Gorkaash]

Heavy, thudding bootsteps found themselves among the rest. Steaming breath flared from a porcine snout with boar-like snort. Gorkaash stood with the rest of his so-called peers. The Gamorrean himself was a recent ally, one not truly committed to the structure. Yet, they shared his goals....for now. The Chainbreaker grunted to the other men.

"So, this is the new whelp?" He questioned bluntly, horned head tilting towards Vestra and the newcomer, "It speaks like one shackled."

The boar was unimpressed with what he saw. Then again, this form of ritual was foreign to him. His own mentor taught him in a more informal manner. Not in an academy. But out in the wilds of the galaxy, constantly moving due to the nature of the mission. Inciting slave revolts and anarchy tends to make one nomadic. Shame Inshrui never met these Sith. The Gamorrean's teacher would be pleased that were others so aligned with their vision of the Rule of None.

"Yet. The Force know to rend our chains." He mused.

How strange indeed his life. Once enslaved to the Hutts, now a warrior worth a legion of his own brothers back on Pzob. Perhaps the destiny of this fresh acolyte would bear similar fruit.

TAG: Vestra Tane | Valephor Crokell | Lysander von Ascania | Varin Mortifer​

 

[Vestra Tane]

Tags: Valephor Crokell | Varin Mortifer | Lysander von Ascania | Gorkaash | OPEN

"Mistress Tane."

For the second time in the same week, Vestra wanted to puke. Her disdain for the term was audible, and it dripped from her mouth like venom. She resisted, nobly, the urge to smack the new acolyte across the jaw. For the first time this week, she considered that, perhaps, sometimes, submitting to her every base, violent impulse did more harm than it did good. He'd grow a spine in time, or life at the Academy would fold him like a napkin.

"Look," There was a pause, and an exhale through slightly gritted teeth, "You're not my apprentice, so you can cut the 'Mistress' chit, alright? You gotta call me anything, you call me boss."

With that, the Sith took a step back, and used her right hand, all black synthflesh inlaid with gold, to keep her coat closed. The wind continued to whip ice and snow through the air, and it was becoming a minor inconvenience to keep herself warm with the Force. But she was calmer, at least, and seemed less ready to snap the acolyte's head off.

"As for your duties," She jerked her head back, towards Lysander and the other gathered Acolytes. Plus the Gamorrean, whose name escaped her but who she was fairly certain would attempt to wound her if she implied he was a mere student. "Mostly learning. Sometimes fighting. Always surviving. Today, you'll get your kit, get a room, learn the Code."

There would be other, more minor lessons today, as well, but the Code was central to the Sith.

Unceremoniously, she turned on her heels, and began trudging through the snow, up towards the Academy's central temple.

"Walk with me."

The others, she figured, would follow. Or maybe they wouldn't; she wasn't their boss, except when she decided she was.

 

[Gillem]

GILLEM

He watched from the top of one of the taller buildings. Gassing over to the new arrivals and the gathered acolytes. Far enough he couldn't be detected, but even if he were closer he had a way of just hiding from force sensitives. Always been like that. And it came in handy…a lot.

“Yep, just come on down youngin, let the others strut their stuff too, measure each other up.”

He talked to himself a lot. Traveling constantly tended to make that the norm when there was no one to talk to.

His time in the Red Ronin Club really hit it off for him with this odd gang. Did some business with a representative of theirs and got a small job on the spot. Obviously it was boomin’ here.

Gillem exhaled slowly as some more acolytes approached. The new comer and The Boss seemed to be just talking before she led him off the ship.

“There we go, nice smooth conversation. Though that pilot seemed…dumb.”

The pilot's close parking job is what mainly caught his eye. So he maintained some of his attention on him as well.

“Maybe a newbie.”

Tags: Open if you can find him​

 

[Madrona A’Mia]

A'Mia was neither fundamentalist nor warmonger and she had a strong interest in the goings on at any establishment engaged in raising the next generation of Sith. Though not zealous regarding the code, nor truly even of the opinion that Sith were the only Force users to be elevated, the neti found she was most often aligned with their general ethos and felt the Sith way was most likely to ensure her personal successes.

This interest and alignment is what found her visiting the Covenant's central temple. A'Mia turned, previously engrossed by reading up on some of the group's recent dealings, before her strange gaze fell upon Vestra Tane , Valephor Crokell , and whichever of the others followed.

The neti remained still in a way that was uncanny, completely unmoving save for those large blue-green eyes of hers which took in the newcomer surrounded by what she assumed to be regulars. Only when the group neared where she was seated, did she stand and make herself known.

"I'll join then, good opportunity for me to see how you onboard new students," A'Mia spoke in a bright tone, her words leaving no room for argument.

She glided forward, her trailing robes giving the movement an even more supernatural air.

Other tags: Lysander von Ascania
| Varin Mortifer | Gorkaash

 

[Vexorion]

​

[]

Torture Me - Davey Suicide
​

Tag: Open


Vexorion lingered within one of the academy's forgotten chambers, a room abandoned so long that dust had become its primary inhabitant, and the walls had learned to listen in quiet. Through a cracked window, slivered with age and neglect, he watched the courtyards and training halls below where new students moved with nervous energy, their footsteps loud with ambition and ignorance.

They clustered in bright knots of life, Force-signatures flickering erratically, unaware that something wicked and patient studied them from above. He remained perfectly still, a negative space in the room, the shadows arranging themselves around him as if in deference.

Beyond them, nearer the spires and inner sanctums, those on the precipice of graduation carried themselves differently; sharpened, disciplined, but potentially fraying at the edges. Vexorion observed them with greater interest, noting the micro-failures: hesitation before a strike, doubt leaking through posture, the subtle arrogance that preceded collapse.

These near-finished beings radiated confidence like a thin shell, and he measured it the way one might test ice before stepping through. The academy believed itself a crucible of order and enlightenment, but from his vantage point it was merely a feeding ground, cycling the young and the hardened through the same doomed patterns.

In the privacy of the ruined room, he removed his mask and ate in silence, the act mundane and blasphemous all at once. His face, scarred, warped, and etched with the history of violence, was revealed to no one but the dust and the watching dark. Each bite was unhurried, contemplative, as he chewed while studying the living shapes beyond the glass, their futures already decaying in his thoughts.

For a brief span, he allowed himself this vulnerability, this unarmored moment, knowing the room would keep his secret. When he finished, he lingered a while longer, savoring not the food, but the certainty that none of them yet understood how close the abyss truly was.

"Most of them will not survive long enough to matter," Vexorion hissed, his voice thin and distant, as though borrowed from the grave itself. "Some will die loudly in lessons meant to make them stronger, others quietly, missteps, failures, accidents that were never truly accidents." His gaze lingered on the crowd below as he finished, almost kindly, "The academy will call it chance, but the dark is very efficient at counting." He replaced his death mask, heading out the door to see these pupils in a closer eye.

​

 

[Valephor Crokell]

Vestra Tane Varin Mortifer Lysander von Ascania Gorkaash Madrona A’Mia
​

The woman's easy grin vanished, her cavalier attitude souring so quickly and so clearly that even without the Force Valephor would have been able to feel the offense rolling off of her in waves. Somehow, with a few short words and a bow, he'd erased any positive inclination she'd had for him, and replaced it with derision and hate.

His blood was ice in his veins, seeking to match its temperature with the frozen world. The woman told him to call her 'Boss', a title that he associated with Captain Morra back on the Delight, but the quick change in emotion reminded him more of his mother. 'Oh dear,' he thought, mind fraught with worry. 'Oh golly gee. At least I know she doesn't have a skarsong.' The raised patterns of his tattoos ached with memory, each one a mark of failure. He'd only had one before the accident. Now they crisscrossed his body in ritual fashion.

He much prefered Captain Morra's lash.

The apostate was still realiing from his mistake when she turned and started walking. He hurried to follow her, falling in line on instinct and making sure not to walk too closely. "Yes Boss Tane. It won't happen again, Boss Tane."

He peered from beneath his hood at the beings she had indicated. They leered at him from around the launchpad, postures closed off even as their lips moved, indicating a conversation he couldn't hope to hear. 'Oh goodness gracious,' he fretted, doing his best to give them all quick bows even as he moved. 'Oh mercy me. Oh heaven's to betsy.'

He tried not to seem too happy at the mention of a Code. It sounded like a lifeline to him. It had been so hard, learning what the crew of the Delight wanted from him. It felt like he broke some unwritten law three times a day. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought they were tricking him. But a set of rules would lay things out. Oh he'd memorize it by heart. Long as he could read it. His aurabesh still wasn't so good. Didn't need it, the crew had told him. But he'd wanted to learn all the same.

Still, she'd mentioned the Code last, which meant there was a chance it would be received last as well. Right now, if given the choice, he pick rules over food. Rules meant knowing what he needed to do to avoid punishment. And as poor quality as the cybernetic in his throat might have been, he'd prefer to keep the privilege of breathing.

So he took a deep breath, his throat whirring to accommodate it, and bowed his head, making sure not to suggest he was looking the woman in the eyes this time. "T-this one has angered Gracious Boss Tane in its ignorance, and is ashamed of its failure. This one seeks correction, and obediently awaits punishment," he began, his voice thrumming with the cybernetic's electronic whine. Presumably, the woman was angry because he'd failed to show proper deference to her 'boss' caste, and so he increased the formality. "This one requests for the Code to be provided after. If only it could examine the Code, this one would gladly rectify its deficiencies-"

At that moment, a being stepped into his view, a combination of intricate robes and vibrant green leaves. Even though he wasn't focusing on it, his Life Sense told him there was something special about this sentient, enough that despite himself, his eyes walked up her body. And up. And up. And up.

"Oh Force within us," he breathed, his gasp both entirely involuntary and horribly embarrassing. While he'd never seen a tree in real life, he still knew what one was supposed to look like, and this woman was definitely a tree. A simple word 'tree', yet it could not convey his wonder in that moment. The vibrant green of her leaves, the smooth texture of her reddish-brown bark, the absolutely gorgeous teal of her glowing eyes.

There was just something uniquely magical about his first tree being the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Or perhaps it was because she was his first tree that she seemed so beautiful. He didn't really have much to compare the experience to. He just knew she was exquisite in a way he hadn't known a being was capable of.

Unconsciously, his Life Sense flared, something he'd suppressed to deal with his confinement in the walls of those dead things they called ships. The bacteria in the air was reassuring in its presence, like a warm filter that surrounded him. Boss Tane was at least mostly human, that much he could sense, but there was more with which he was unfamiliar. He also felt her cybernetic, or rather the lack of life where her arm was. Tainted, much like him. And- goodness gracious, when was the last time she'd washed behind her ears?

He could feel the others as well. Their unique biologies even more distinct to him than their faces. There was a weird, person-shaped hole in the ever-present bio-film on top of one of the buildings- even more dead than the metal and glass, if that was even possible. Dead-tech at least had stuff living on it, even if it was thinner in a ship. He could sense every wire in every wall by the microfauna that lived on it. Not so with the hole. Perhaps it was some kind of statue made from a substance with anti-microbial properties? His eyes flicked up to check, but whatever it was, he couldn't see it from his position.

More importantly though, the tree-woman- well she was life in a way he had never felt before. Old too. Much much older than she looked. He couldn't tell how old, but certainly the oldest person he'd ever met. If he had the time and she stayed still enough, he might have been able to use Life Sense to count her rings, but not here and now. Her cells were entirely different from an animal's, yet their structure implied a shifting elasticity all the same. His cheeks flushed as he imagined the kind of control she must have had over her form.

Every sapient was an ecosystem, their own cells outnumbered by symbiotic micro-organisms, but there were still commonalities. Not so with her. In a reversal of most animals, fungi grew along the roots of her leaves, while mites lived within her digestive tract, breaking down waste products and converting them into something useful. With the efficiency he saw there, she could likely sustain herself on nothing more than dew and sunlight, as pure a creature as there ever was. He doubt she even needed to breath more than once an hour, if that.

His excitement doubled as he sensed she held a biot at her waist. Blaster shaped, but clearly the complex, engineered biology of a miniturized Yaret-Kor. Er, well, roughly based on it anyway. Actually, perhaps it was merely a case of convergent evolution? He was being presumptious again. The point was, it was proof outsider technology could be used to engineer biots just as he'd predicted. Or at least modify them.

It was better too. Far better. The genius part was how the mycellium network within functioned akin to neurons, creating positive and negative differences through manipulation of ionic electrolytes. The same mechanics as firing synapses, but turbocharged to the extent they created a powerful and more importantly precise magnetic field through purely organic process. This meant it's mechanism was something between a blaster and a slugthrower, the magnetic fields used to compress a sporific propellant into plasma, which then cradled a non-magnetic projectile, and allowed it to be accelerated to immense speeds. And if even a percent of those pseudo-neurons were devoted to processing power, then the item was quite intelligent as well.

Fascinating.

But the piece de la resistance was undoubtedly the core of power he sensed within her chest. His eye locked on, as if it could see it through her bark, but there was no such luck. It was part of her, but also not. An organic implant that had been incorporated into her form, pulsing with vibrant life. How exciting! The Living Path had access to such things, but they were a great investment of resources. Technically, an outsider possessing one was sacrilege of the highest order and he had a duty to ritually execute the infidel for stealing such an important biot, but if he were following tradition, he'd have to kill everyone on the planet and then himself- or die trying. And he didn't want to die.

No, much more exciting was the idea that this was not a biot of the Living Path, but something else entirely. Oh no, what was he thinking? Of course this was outsider technology! The woman's biology would be incompatible with their implants, and it was clearly plant based besides- something wildly different. If he hadn't been utterly enraptured by the woman's exotic beauty, this alone would have stolen every ounce of focus he had. As it was, taken together, he could have died from sheer exitement, his expression growing more gobsmacked with every passing moment as his thoughts jumbled together.

"You have a magnificent vascular system," He said, his whole face burning the moment the words escaped his lips. Without delay he bowed his head again, cursing his lack of restraint. Even now he could barely prevent himself from studying her.

Kriffing hells but he never wanted to stop.

OPEN


​

​

 

[Vexorion]

​

[]

Torture Me - Davey Suicide
​

Tag: Open

Vexorion moved through the concentric training circles like a thought that had slipped free of causality, his presence unnoticed yet oppressively felt. Students clashed lightsabers in disciplined arcs of crimson, their blades screaming as they bit into the air, but to him their motions were crude imitations of inevitability. He watched footwork repeat ancient patterns, parries echo doctrines written in blood centuries ago, and he felt the subtle tremor of futures collapsing into sameness.

Each strike carried ambition, each misstep the promise of maiming or death, and Vexorion cataloged them with the patience of something that had already seen the end of the exercise; and the end of those who practiced it poorly.

Beyond the sparring rings, acolytes bent the Force to their will, dragging stones skyward, crushing durasteel into screaming blossoms, or reaching into one another's minds with clumsy, invasive tendrils. Vexorion lingered at the edge of these displays, sensing not power but hunger, the vast, hollow appetite beneath every act of dominance.

He tasted fear in the air when concentration faltered, when a student felt watched without knowing why, and he smiled faintly at the realization that none of them understood how small their grasp truly was.

From shadowed balconies and archways, he listened as Masters lectured on Sith philosophies; on hierarchy, cruelty refined into purpose, on etiquette that masked savagery with ritual and restraint. Their voices droned with certainty, carving ethics from dogma as if the universe itself cared for their rules.

Vexorion began watching a lone young girl from the periphery of reality, noting how her lightsaber drills lagged half a breath behind her intent, how the Force answered her not with obedience but with a cautious, almost curious whisper. She was new to the Order, still wrapped in the thin armor of belief, still mistaking instruction for safety, and this made her luminous in a way the veterans no longer were.

He approached the girl, stopping before her without ceremony, saying, "What is your name?" The girl, slightly taken back replied with a cautious tone, "Bianca."

Vexorion began circling Bianca with the slow deliberation of a tide studying a shoreline it would one day erase, his gaze peeling back layers of posture, breath, and half-formed intent. At last he inclined his head, a gesture that mimicked courtesy while denying it, and said, in a voice like stone grinding beneath deep water, "Perhaps you would like a few pointers, if only to assist in beating your equals, and properly embarrassing your lessers."