Private Two Sith On A Mission

[Drane T'keen]

Spoiler: Music IC

Smoke lingered leisurely in the dimly lit chamber, white and pale as a ghost, rising from the center as a near perfect pillar. It swayed ever so gently side to side, movement slow and easy to miss with the naked eye. One had to watch the way one pondered, gaze fixated in thought, to glimpse it. Then the smoke split, no less rhythmic, as a separate path began to twist into a thin ribbon, only to evaporate all the same.

The smoke was limited in vision but its scent permeated the chamber. This incense was rich with woodland, resinous in myrrh, with a hint of musk. The aroma amalgamated into the senses, offering clarity of mind when breathed in, encouraging the right kind of meditation. Though, not on its own, of course. There was someone to smell it who knelt alone on the floor beyond the only door.

The room was round and otherwise not so profound. The ceiling was high before the smoke could reach it, the bare walls not too close or far, as with the very air itself. They surrounded the figure who was motionless, eyes closed, and though not emotionless his thoughts and feelings were for himself, not worn on his sleeves, yet the smoke could see beneath.

The Force shall free me.

Those walls surrounded him, like the wraiths who haunted him, but he was not daunted as he breathed the fumes and did not move. On his knees, Drane T’keen, the Thyrsian dark of skin garbed in a darker outfit, welcomed the darkness in. The light too, dim though it was from the flame at the base of the cup with the incense sticks. Fire flickered like the sunlight in his veins, brighter inside, as he tried to remember his other name.

Perhaps he would only moments later when it came time to ignite his lightsaber’s blade.

For now, amid the smoke, the son of the red suns listened to his heart beat and blood pump—as much as the flute, bow and drum in the music coming from the ceiling.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Drane T'keen​

A cold line of sweat traced the path of Lysander's spine. The black tunic stuck to his back where the second form had scraped away all comfort; his leggings remembered every pivot and lunge of the long morning. Under bare feet, the stone lay cool. Toes spread for balance-that old correction, drilled into him a hundred times over the last hour.

Across the chamber, a figure knelt near tendrils of smoke. A courteous distance, really. Room to work. Maybe even room to fail without witness.

And beneath it all, the Dark waited. Anger could sharpen the hand, certainly, but anger also loved to overreach. Pride wanted the final stroke. Across from Lysander stood no one. But that hardly meant the space was empty. Its own kind of mirror. No different than shadowboxing with a ghost, really.

"Not this time," he murmured.

Another shallow step carried him forward, his lead foot skimming over the stone, never fully committing. An answering blade cut toward the outside line. Lysander rotated his wrist, guided the imaginary strike several inches wide, then slipped off center before the unseen attacker could recover.

The feet remained uncrossed. One angle would yield because another promised greater control. Just constant repetition, seeking not perfection, but something like grace.

 

[Drane T'keen]

Spoiler: Music IC

Movement. That tendril of mist, alive like a creature’s tentacle or limb, shifted. The smoke lingered as it ever did, rising higher and higher from the fire stick. This was no light of the Jedi though. It was different. For a son of the red suns of Thyrsus, sunlight was blood in his veins. For someone like Drane, a Sith, such flame was his Force.

Brighter. Darker. Deeper. Harder.

“The sun comes up as it always does.”

Drane T’keen whispered, this figure draped in shadow on his knees, to nobody and nothing in particular. He wasn’t alone though. He never was.

The light shines and guides my path.

“The blood from those in my shadow...”

Becomes a flame to show the way.

Though, this was indeed not the Sith Code.

Movement interrupted him. It wasn’t his, it wasn’t the smoke, but came from another position upon the stone. It was swift as the wrist, kissed the wind as with a fist; a strike coming from someone upright. There was no recipient though, no hit, no opponent to throw with, no better time for the shadow to show his.

“You’re quick.” The words escaped Drane’s lips but he stayed where he was in the darkness. “Such practice is adequate enough,” he continued, his tone not laced with sarcasm but truth. “Yet perhaps you may be in the mood to train with someone who can punch back?” He left it at that and would wait.

Lysander von Ascania