A P E X
D A T H O M I R
Warlock Gate, Rekali Territory
As the Undying walked among the worlds, a question reached his ear. It formed and fell from the lips of a cultist - one who worshipped Death as a god. She, Mati, was curious as to why the late Alor tormented himself so. She was curious as to why he would forsake eternal bliss in favor of a sordid existence. At the time, Isley Verd was lost for words. There was an answer, but his own sorry state blurred it from his mind. Time moved ever forward, the encounter was left in the past...yet still the question lingered. Why did he force himself into undeath? Why did he accept the agony of feeling his flesh boil perpetually?
Ijaat.
The realization came as thunder, rattling the Undying to his core. In death, he had heard the wails: the final laments of those claimed by Mandalore's collapse before moving on. Yet...he did not listen. Too caught up was he in his own demise...too distracted was he by the reunion with Ember and others of his past. The truth was there, but he had been too blind to accept it. Yet now, he recalled the wails. Now, the reason for his being was made perfectly clear. The very same man who had restored Isley's honor in life...had caused his death. The Bastion of Honor himself had the blood of millions on his hands.
This would not stand.
His fury erupted from the stone and reverberated through the Force. The ground before the Warlock Gate shuddered, as if something mammoth was thundering forward. The meek - squirrels, serpents, and all manner in between - followed base instinct. They fled from that which they did not understand...they scurried away from that which seemed a threat. But there was one who did not. His face was that of a Kyr'tsad named Var Halo...but Isley knew him better than that. For a lifetime, they had been one and the same. For a lifetime, they had quarreled over control of a single body.
But where Isley chose to die saving his kin, Metus chose to live.
With helm tucked under the crook of his arm, the Sith watched the emergence of wrath personified. A spectral hand slid forth from the stone, gripping for purchase upon its runed surface. It trembled with effort, pulling forth the rest of the Undying's charred existence. It took quite some time...but the Sith waited patiently. Silently. Until both stood before the other.
You...Coward.
"Hello to you too, old friend."
The Undying bared his teeth at the Sith, taking an angry step forward. You left me to burn.
"You'd have done the same, had I decided to play hero to a bunch of Sithlings."
And so you've come to gloat.
"And so you've come to strike me down." came the Sith's response as a smirk formed upon his lips. "But...I'd wager that's not the case, actually. If it were, you'd have come back like this much sooner, yes?" He stepped forward, coming to a halt within arm's reach. "And, while it would amuse me to no end to see you squirm one last time, I have come to make sport of your demise."
The Undying parted his lips, as if to contest his words...but he was right. The Sith before him was not the object of his malice. Then why are you here?
"Because I am a rational being." he began. "Because I could feel you stirring eighteen sectors away. And..." the Sith then paused, motioning at the both of them with his freehand. "Because we are diminished."
Diminished? Hardly.
A chuckle escaped Metus as he began to pace. He walked a slow, deliberate circle about the wraith, keeping his sulfuric gaze upon him perpetually. "Truly? Then explain...why one who learned to walk the realms between by Mother Petra...struggled to emerge from the Warlock Gate? Or. How about this. Tap into that lovely talent of yours and make it rain, just like old times."
Silence.
"You can't. I know you are far too proud to admit it, so I'll just say it for you. It takes everything just to maintain this lackluster form. And I...It's a small miracle if I can keep a butter knife from rusting. I can't even conjure properly."
I don't give a flying kark about what you cannot do.
"Good to know your vocabulary hasn't changed..." came Metus' retort. "What matters to you is being able to avenge your demise, yes? To make your mentor suffer for the lives he claimed? Well. I doubt you'll have much success if you can't even hold yourself together long."
I highly doubt you've developed a care for others besides yourself in our time apart.
"You assume correctly. Your quest means nothing to me, but, I am a rational man. As were you. So, I've come with a proposition that...well, the idea once made us both gag decades ago."
You don't mean...
The Sith extended his hand.
"We blur the lines once and for all. I'd rather be whole and stink of Mandalorian than be unable to live. And, before you refuse...remember what you came here to do."
The Undying eyed the flesh before him...and looked down upon himself. His manifestation was bleak. Opaque in certain places. Deformed in others. He was a shadow of his former self...a far cry from his former might. And, although the thought disgusted him immensely...failure he could not stomach even more. He could not rest - he would not - until vengeance was his.
I...That body. We cannot. It would erode.
"Says the man with a very obedient and very stable clone running around somewhere."
Just how long have you been planning this?
"Nine months, thirteen days, and eleven...no wait...fifteen minutes."
And with a scoff did the Undying wrap his spectral fingers about the Sith's. A firm shake was given, but neither relinquished their hold. Their banter came to an abrupt conclusion. The Undying's form began to waver as amber bands slithered forth from Metus. They coiled about his arms...and the sensation...it was as if he were being diminished all over again. But. Just as the wraith's appearance disappeared completely, there was power. There was a feeling of completeness.
The Ram closed his fist.
Warlock Gate, Rekali Territory
As the Undying walked among the worlds, a question reached his ear. It formed and fell from the lips of a cultist - one who worshipped Death as a god. She, Mati, was curious as to why the late Alor tormented himself so. She was curious as to why he would forsake eternal bliss in favor of a sordid existence. At the time, Isley Verd was lost for words. There was an answer, but his own sorry state blurred it from his mind. Time moved ever forward, the encounter was left in the past...yet still the question lingered. Why did he force himself into undeath? Why did he accept the agony of feeling his flesh boil perpetually?
Ijaat.
The realization came as thunder, rattling the Undying to his core. In death, he had heard the wails: the final laments of those claimed by Mandalore's collapse before moving on. Yet...he did not listen. Too caught up was he in his own demise...too distracted was he by the reunion with Ember and others of his past. The truth was there, but he had been too blind to accept it. Yet now, he recalled the wails. Now, the reason for his being was made perfectly clear. The very same man who had restored Isley's honor in life...had caused his death. The Bastion of Honor himself had the blood of millions on his hands.
This would not stand.
His fury erupted from the stone and reverberated through the Force. The ground before the Warlock Gate shuddered, as if something mammoth was thundering forward. The meek - squirrels, serpents, and all manner in between - followed base instinct. They fled from that which they did not understand...they scurried away from that which seemed a threat. But there was one who did not. His face was that of a Kyr'tsad named Var Halo...but Isley knew him better than that. For a lifetime, they had been one and the same. For a lifetime, they had quarreled over control of a single body.
But where Isley chose to die saving his kin, Metus chose to live.
With helm tucked under the crook of his arm, the Sith watched the emergence of wrath personified. A spectral hand slid forth from the stone, gripping for purchase upon its runed surface. It trembled with effort, pulling forth the rest of the Undying's charred existence. It took quite some time...but the Sith waited patiently. Silently. Until both stood before the other.
You...Coward.
"Hello to you too, old friend."
The Undying bared his teeth at the Sith, taking an angry step forward. You left me to burn.
"You'd have done the same, had I decided to play hero to a bunch of Sithlings."
And so you've come to gloat.
"And so you've come to strike me down." came the Sith's response as a smirk formed upon his lips. "But...I'd wager that's not the case, actually. If it were, you'd have come back like this much sooner, yes?" He stepped forward, coming to a halt within arm's reach. "And, while it would amuse me to no end to see you squirm one last time, I have come to make sport of your demise."
The Undying parted his lips, as if to contest his words...but he was right. The Sith before him was not the object of his malice. Then why are you here?
"Because I am a rational being." he began. "Because I could feel you stirring eighteen sectors away. And..." the Sith then paused, motioning at the both of them with his freehand. "Because we are diminished."
Diminished? Hardly.
A chuckle escaped Metus as he began to pace. He walked a slow, deliberate circle about the wraith, keeping his sulfuric gaze upon him perpetually. "Truly? Then explain...why one who learned to walk the realms between by Mother Petra...struggled to emerge from the Warlock Gate? Or. How about this. Tap into that lovely talent of yours and make it rain, just like old times."
Silence.
"You can't. I know you are far too proud to admit it, so I'll just say it for you. It takes everything just to maintain this lackluster form. And I...It's a small miracle if I can keep a butter knife from rusting. I can't even conjure properly."
I don't give a flying kark about what you cannot do.
"Good to know your vocabulary hasn't changed..." came Metus' retort. "What matters to you is being able to avenge your demise, yes? To make your mentor suffer for the lives he claimed? Well. I doubt you'll have much success if you can't even hold yourself together long."
I highly doubt you've developed a care for others besides yourself in our time apart.
"You assume correctly. Your quest means nothing to me, but, I am a rational man. As were you. So, I've come with a proposition that...well, the idea once made us both gag decades ago."
You don't mean...
The Sith extended his hand.
"We blur the lines once and for all. I'd rather be whole and stink of Mandalorian than be unable to live. And, before you refuse...remember what you came here to do."
The Undying eyed the flesh before him...and looked down upon himself. His manifestation was bleak. Opaque in certain places. Deformed in others. He was a shadow of his former self...a far cry from his former might. And, although the thought disgusted him immensely...failure he could not stomach even more. He could not rest - he would not - until vengeance was his.
I...That body. We cannot. It would erode.
"Says the man with a very obedient and very stable clone running around somewhere."
Just how long have you been planning this?
"Nine months, thirteen days, and eleven...no wait...fifteen minutes."
And with a scoff did the Undying wrap his spectral fingers about the Sith's. A firm shake was given, but neither relinquished their hold. Their banter came to an abrupt conclusion. The Undying's form began to waver as amber bands slithered forth from Metus. They coiled about his arms...and the sensation...it was as if he were being diminished all over again. But. Just as the wraith's appearance disappeared completely, there was power. There was a feeling of completeness.
The Ram closed his fist.
