Walk on the Wild Side

[Ras'kala'han]

TAKODANA, MID RIM​

NEUTRAL TERRITORY​

Spoiler: Image

From far above and far away, the world of Takodana is singularly beautiful. It strikes a balance between civilized and wild, Mid Rim and Outer Rim, rampant criminal and peaceful ascetic. A few kilometers into the wilderness, away from a town, Sintel Kay meditated, so to speak - a rare, spiritual moment.

He was never the type to lie still for long, or contemplate too deeply on one thing. One thought lead to another, and it would be tragic if his wondering lead him in a circle - no, his meditation was pacing. It was pensive. He felt brushing against bare skin the damp bark, and the grainy soil, and inhaled the smell of decay and new life - every electric sensation of the forest. It was something of what he thought a Sith should be, and it was something of the Sith he had created in himself.

And he reached down, asking himself - Do they know? That these lakes are filled-up blast craters? That these roots fed on the blood of a million bodies? That these canyons are scars, this scrap is sharpnel? For Takodana was once a place, thousands of years ago, where the Jedi and Sith marched to war against each other - and perhaps, someday in the future, they would again.

The Light Side burned in nature's perfect peace - and the Dark Side lingered in nature's perfect brutality. Perhaps, here in the wilds, the war had never ended.

He knew there was something painfully elusive here - some remnant of the war, if he combed these forgotten battlefields finely enough - to further his knowledge of the Sith. And he knew he wasn't alone. He breathed for a moment, oriented himself in the wilds as he slipped on his Death's Head mask, and set out to follow the faint trail the Dark Side had laid to him - hunter, or perhaps hunted.

[member="Nisha Skaiyr"]

 

[Nisha Skaiyr]

Nisha was at peace. Well, that was a lie. She was never at peace, not really, and she had no desire to be so. But the poison smoke that these so called 'civilized' aliens surrounded themselves with couldn't touch her here, and that was close enough. Nisha could feel grass beneath her bare feet, not 'duracrete' or whatever it was they called their false-stone; she could feel the heartbeat of the planet when she put a hand to the ground.

And as always, the Dark Side whispered in her ear. Right now, it whispered that she was not alone. That there was another child of the Darkness nearby. An ally? An enemy? Nisha could never be sure when dealing with her brothers and sisters.

Moving quietly through the brush and undergrowth, the grey-skinned Warrior-Witch stalked towards her target. What she found was something that looked like a demon, skull-faced and carrying a wicked blade at its hip. A normal person, a modern person, might've taken that as a sign that she should retreat.

But Nisha knew better. She could feel the feel this 'demon's' soul, and when she did so, she tasted blood on her lips, felt a blade in her hand. He, like she, was a warrior. He was a hunter. He was kin.

And so, the young woman did what any lonely person might do upon finding a kindred spirit; she approached him.

---

[member="Sintel Kay"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Direct, open approach. Unexpected, but not unwelcome - and there's something to be said for taking the direct approach. Sintel had presumed he'd get embroiled in some kind of game of cat and mouse... but who's to say that he couldn't find some other game to play?

He stepped forwards, keeping quiet - shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a way that made each step look like some sort of precarious dance, until he slung his arm around a tree and spun to a stop - getting a better look at the woman who just emerged from the foliage -

Scars. That was the first thing he saw - her greyish skin rippled with the marks of past battles, [member="Nisha Skaiyr"] looked half like some sort of ancient statue, save for the fact that her entire body seemed like a coiled spring to him, her facility at killing written on her skin and in the Force.

In her eyes, he saw his own eyes reflected. Predator's eyes.

"Hel-lo," he said, talking in sing-song. His helm's filter raised his voice two octaves, and gave it a metallic edge. "Lovely weather, isn't it?" His emotions roiled off him in true Zeltronian fashion - his chipperness was no facade, and the air seemed to have a saccharine, perfume tinge around him. "I should come 'round here more often."

 

[Darth Ferus]

Targets were everywhere in the galaxy. Those who needed to be killed for the betterment of the Sith. Criminals, Jedi, Politicians, even other Sith. Here on Takonda it was no exception. In the nearby town a startled scream signified the finding of another slain target of the Sith Assassins. His body was still warm, as was the blood that coated his chest in it's crimson embrace. There was nothing left of the assailant, but the wound was frightfully familiar.

Krest had fled to the nearby forest after his kill, taking shelter among the trees. It was there, dressed in dark armor meant to blend into the foliage, that the Force spoke of something occurring. Hunters, warriors, meeting nearby. Curiosity mixed with a desire to find a scapegoat sent him jumping through the trees to the location, to watch and wait.

[member="Sintel Kay"] [member="Nisha Skaiyr"]

 

[Nisha Skaiyr]

Despite his unsettling appearance and his cold, metallic voice, the man before her was quite pleasant. The way friendliness and cheer rolled off of him put even a huntress like she somewhat at ease, and he smelled of berries, sweet and inviting. She wondered for a moment if he tasted as sweet as he smelled, and then failed to stifle a grin; she'd briefly entertained the idea of taking a bite out of him to find out.

"It is pleasant, yes" came Nisha's response, her voice carrying with a thick, rich accent of Indoumodian origin - not that her companion would likely recognize it. Most off-worlders couldn't even name the world she hailed from. "Brighter than my home - the sun here stings my eyes." Her tone was casual, friendly even, and her body language was the same. Yet she kept a single hand on the long-handled hilt of her sword, ready to draw it at any time. It wasn't that she wanted a fight; rather, it was that recent experiences had made clear that not all of her fellow children of the Dark were as reasonable as she. Slaughter, regrettably, seemed to come naturally to her brothers and sisters.

Best be prepared, and not take chances.

---

[member="Krest"]
[member="Sintel Kay"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"I guess that's why I like to keep my helmet on -" Sintel was not one to ignore the fact that she clearly wasn't at ease, or to ignore the fact that, however much he may stifle with his own infectious cheer, she radiated darkness still. It seemed that this woman was angry on a fundamental level. This was one to, definitely watch, and kinda closely at that.

He made sure not to stray within arm's reach. "So... you here for the same reason I am? To get a bit more, well, Sith in your life?"

He began to weigh his options. If she was after the relics, they could quite possibly pull a little team-up. Carve through the opposition, see if she'd make a good apprentice/partner type, and if not then just stab her in the back when he got the chance - or maybe just convince her that he was a god by waving around a glow rod.

If not... well, he guessed if not then he tipped his hand, but he was vague enough on the specifics that he could try and pull a getaway. Did Sith vanish into the rustling leaves? It seemed like something they'd do. Then again, they also bathed in the blood of their enemies. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

[member="Nisha Skaiyr"] | [member="Krest"]

 

[Nisha Skaiyr]

Nisha couldn't help but smile at the man's words, at the utter eagerness with which he uttered the name Sith. If the frail creature in front of her wanted more Sith in his life, then Nisha was in the perfect position to give him what he wanted.

With predatory grace, the Warrior-Witch padded over to Sintel's position, bare feet making hardly a sound as they made contact with the soft, lush grass beneath them. When she got within arm's reach of the man, she released the grip on her sword, and instead stretched her arms out to the side, as if presenting herself for his inspection.

"I am Nisha Skaiyr, last of my name. I am Apprentice to Darth Carnifex, the Butcher King, who slaughtered my kin, down to the last mewling babe, so that I might be unburdened by ties to my old life." Despite her best efforts, her voice shook and quivered with rage and grief. Her aura in the Force, as well, shuddered and shook, becoming momentarily wild and raw. Wounds so fresh were not painlessly reopened, but the man needed to be taught a lesson. "I serve a creature for whose death I pray with my every waking breath. The Sith are glorious, brolin, they are godly. But to gain their interest is to invite unimaginable pain and unknowable loss."

With a heavy sigh and a throat-clearing cough, Nisha lowered her arms again, returning to a more casual stance. "You must decide for yourself whether the price is one you are willing to pay."

---

[member="Sintel Kay"]
[member="Krest"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Sintel had known what he was getting into. He had read about the One Sith, about their wars, about the genocide they committed. This woman... had lived it. But she also didn't know much about Sintel.

Her "Butcher King" master had clearly ripped away her family to tear out her heart. He needed a blank space to work, a center, to replace that with the darkness of the Sith. However, Sintel had never had that center in the first place. His mother, his father... how long had it been since he had seen them, and he already had trouble calling their faces to mind?

What she had lost was something no would-be Dark Lord could have. But it's something Sintel had never possessed in the first place.

"I go by Death's Head. It's the name I took when I decided to start calling myself Sith." He paused for a moment, tapping his helmet. "And paying that price... I honestly don't mind. I don't think I even care."

He laughed, wryly. No, he didn't care at all. "I invite it, Nisha. Give it to me. Whatever pain he inflicted on you, I want it. No... I need it." He grinned wildly beneath the mask. "I'll let 'em cut me open. Rip me to pieces. Sew me back together - if you could take me to this 'butcher king', I'd want nothing more. Let him crush the screams out of my lungs and take me to hell, and I'll finally be home."

Every word, he meant. Never again would he lie down and accept an ordinary life. He's tasted the secret. Let it eat him alive, and set him free.

[member="Nisha Skaiyr"] | @ Krest

 

[Nisha Skaiyr]

Hate. Nisha listened to the man before her speaking, and suddenly, all the pleasant fragrances in the Galaxy could do nothing to lessen the utter hate she felt for this man she'd just met.

"He has never laid a hand upon me," replied Nisha bluntly, shaking her head. "There would be no point. He took everything from me; nothing he can do, no pain or misery he might inflict, could surpass what he's already done. His intent was to break me, to remove that which he felt held me back." That animal fury that rested itself in Nisha's heart sprang to life once more, and her next words sounded more like the snarling of a beast than anything a humanoid creature might make. "And he succeeded."

She looked into the eyes beyond the mask her companion wore, and chuckled. It was a dry, humorless chuckle, one without mirth or life. "I can take you to Carnifex, but you will never be Sith. You have no heart; there is nothing to break. You are a pretty shell with nothing inside."

Nisha turned on the balls of her feet, and began walking away.

"And you disgust me."

---

[member="Sintel Kay"]
[member="Krest"]

 

[Darth Ferus]

"The apprentice of the Butcher King. A pleasure." [member="Nisha Skaiyr"] would turn to find a man of red skin in a tattered red cloak standing before him. No visible weapons lined his sides, but danger was still present. As he neared, the air would cool. The Dark was oozing from this man so thick that it was clear how strong he was in it. A Sith Lord. Yet under that ruined cloak red lips thinned to a smile, pleasant and warm.

"It is not often I find one of his out and about. Then again, it is a rare thing for him to take on any apprentice." From what little could be seen of his eyes, the blue orbs that were his eyes turned to focus on this.. Wanna be Sith. Krest had been listening, waiting. And now he was certain. Blue turned to red as his gaze narrowed and the smile turned to a thin line. "Death's Head, correct? You wish to be found by a Sith to be tortured, hmm?"

The question wasn't a question.

[member="Sintel Kay"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Empty. Empty? No one called Death's Head empty. He was full of life - more than that angry, bitter witch - just because he didn't care about things, because he found his life before this so unfulfilling, because sometimes he still couldn't help but feel that same numbness creeping in as though this was just some cheap thrill that was wearing off, but it couldn't be, this was definitely the thing that would finally make him happy.

Even though he was already happ - Hey, look, a man. He realized he unconsciously had drawn his sword, and tried to casually sling it over his shoulder.

"It was metaphorical... I think. Unless it's like some kind of, what do you call it, hazing ritual for you to actually be Sith. Then go ahead and torture me. Although I prefer people that torture me to at least buy me dinner first."

He laughed, somewhat nervously. His heart was... pounding. Not excitement. His mouth was dry. That presence was more than anything he had ever seen before - overwhelmingly. That wasn't scary. He had expected that. What he didn't expect was for it to appear a few meters away like someone had flipped a kriffing lightswitch. He had hidden that much power with sickening ease.

"The Sith are glorious, brolin, they are godly."

"Also, please pretend I said my lord after every time I addressed you in that last sentence. My lord." Believe it or not, Sintel had practically rehearsed to a "T" what he was going to say when he finally found a Sith Lord. And he just forgot it all. Because it didn't happen how he expected, because he didn't expect for you to bump into a Sith Lord like an old relative at a food store.

He swallowed. This was crunch time. The real deal. He looked between the two. "Have I mentioned how Korriban is my favorite planet because krill is my favorite letter? I mean, um - I'm really good at killing people, I mean... Uh."

"Peace. Totally a lie, am I right?" Kill me now.

[member="Krest"] | [member="Nisha Skaiyr"]

 

[Darth Ferus]

Fear? So [member="Sintel Kay"] wasn't as hard or cold as he wanted to seem. Death's Head was filled with as much terror as any other. And awkwardness. Did his appearance startle him that much? Despite his intimidating entrance, the Zabrak couldn't help but let a chuckle loose at the 'Peace, totally a lie' part. Casually the Lord pulled down his hood, revealing the red face and wide smile.

"Relax, I'm not a Butcher King or otherwise threatening sort of Sith." Well, that's a lie. "You do want to be Sith though, joking aside. Join the order of those who find true freedom and knowledge unhindered? The Butcher's apprentice doesn't think you're cut out for it, for you have nothing to hate or fear. So why not prove her wrong? Tell us what you truly fear." As he spoke he stepped forward. Krest wore a disarming smile on his lips, and his eyes seemed calm. If not for the darkness still emanating from his form, he very well could have been a trust worthy fellow. But even with his kind words and even kinder demeanor, the dark only twisted it. Made it wrong.

"Fear leads to power, after all."

[member="Nisha Skaiyr"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Sintel looked at the humanoid - ruddy, blood-colored skin, Iridonian, rather handsome - stopping his rambling to actually listen, take in what his senses were telling him. The sweetly-phrased advice [member="Krest"] had offered in a honeyed, nigh paternal tone was no request. It was a Sith Lord's command. And Sintel was in no mood to disobey. For a moment, he simply searched for the right words to express it, his mask remaining inscrutable - albeit his presence betraying him to the Master present.

"I fear numbness. Before I found the Sith, the hunt, the kill... life was pointless, endless, stupid. It was... useless. I had no point. I fear that someday, it won't be enough. That I won't have enough murder, enough torment, enough pain to suffer and inflict to feel anything. At that point, it'd be worse than dead."

It was plain and simple to sense that [member="Nisha Skaiyr"]e hated him. She had been burned by the Sith, and it was all a game to this stranger.

"I need power to feel powerful. I need knowledge to feel the thrill of knowing a secret. I need more of these, nonstop. I'll burn bright or burn out."

It was a game. But there was one thing she didn't know about him. Games were the only thing worth living for. Everything was a game. Win or lose... He needed to play. He realized he was sweating beneath his mask - was this man throwing him this off-balance? He inhaled slightly, centering himself, steadying his feet. They were in on his secret, it was time to own it. He had nothing left to hide.

Though maybe he should kill the primitive just to cover it up. We'll see about that.

 

[Nisha Skaiyr]

"The pleasure is mine, my Lord. It does not surprise me that Carnifex has had few apprentices; I cannot imagine many would willingly serve him."

Nisha was no fool.

She might not have known who this red-skinned alien was, but she could feel the darkness rolling off of him in waves - it was a different sort of darkness, however, than that which her Master radiated. It was dangerous, yes, and it was powerful - but there was life behind it. When she looked at Kaine, all she felt was emptiness.

It would be good for her to act politely towards the red-skinned Lord. He could turn into an ally - or at least, she might avoid making him into an enemy.

As Nisha listened to the two converse, she realized gradually that the man who wore the face of death couldn't be helped. His darkness was not like Krest's - it was not a darkness that spoke of passion, but of hunger for passion. His soul was a gnawing, empty void that always cried out for more, more, more.

She knew what would happen. It'd happened with some of her fellow tribesmen and women. They did not find fulfillment in the wielding of a blade, or the shedding of blood, not like Nisha did.

It was never enough.

There was never enough blood, never enough death.

Eventually, wild beasts and off-worlders would fail to satisfy them.

People like Death's Head started wars for sport, and when even that failed to slake their ever-growing thirst, they turned on their own.

With that in mind, when the man ceased speaking, Nisha wrapped her right hand around the hilt of her sword, turning on her heels to face him.

The soft hiss of leather-on-steel, and the blade was in her hands.

---

[member="Krest"]
[member="Sintel Kay"]

 

[Darth Ferus]

A dry chuckle escaped the lips of the red man as he listened to [member="Nisha Skaiyr"] . "No, many don't. Fewer still survive." What he said was meant to be a warning, not that he needed to give Nisha one. She had seen the Butcher's ruthlessness first hand, and knew full well what he could do to her if he so chose to. A terrifying prospect, one that was probably utilized as a training method.

But, even Krest with his casual smile soon joined the Butcher's Acolyte in her mindset on [member="Sintel Kay"] . The boy had fallen too far. Given in to a primal urge true Sith managed and controlled. He was a slave to his blood lust, chained down by the prospect of becoming more powerful to kill more. Narrow minded and short sighted. Unlike the Acolyte however, the Lord did not just pull free his blade.

At the sound of metal sliding free from it's scabbard, the Red Assassin stepped behind Death's Head. He would use the distraction of the acolyte to move as a shade, his footsteps unheard, and the withdrawing of his lightsaber falling upon no ears. Only the snap hiss of the red beam would signify his punishment and reward. Two quick slices, and the burning plasma would arc to remove Sintel's arms at the shoulder.

He took no pleasure in such a final action. What he did, he hoped to cultivate and teach. Bring Sin back from a point only monsters existed and humble him. Only then could the boy truly become Sith.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Sintel felt a rush of danger like a cold wind blowing down his spine. He didn't hear [member="Nisha Skaiyr"] step forwards, he didn't hear her draw her sword - but he did hear the motion of the blade against the wind, a slight whistle that betrayed her. He pivoted on his feet, sword in hand, ready to meet her in battle and feel that ultimate rush - and he was tinged with anger, too.

The anger of a man denied - and when he lopped her into liquid, she'd know what it was like to feel real passion. Then, a silenced ripple in the Force, a sound of rustling leaves, then a whiff of ozone.

Snicker-snack.

For a moment, he stood, looking at Nisha blankly, his arms making a dull thud as they collided with the soft soil. It was as though wheels were turning for a half-second, the pain signal not yet received - when in fact, it was simply too intense to react immediately. What he lacked for in speed, he made up for in sheer volume.

"AAH! AAAAAH - " His screams echoed into short gasps as he slumped to his knees, sucking in air through his mask, only now realizing how constraining it is - an almost comical sight as he fumbled, trying to block out the intense agony. He was failing.

"You worthless bastard kriffing piece of karked - " Okay, we're making it to words - "I'll rip out your throat with my teeth -" Sentences, that's a good bit of progress. "AAGH! Ah - I - AAAAAH!"

He tried to make his way to his feet, halfway between that and curling into a fetal ball of raw pain, before keeling over off balance - the wound cauterized, but the area around it was a mass of plasma-seared blisters, and around even that the skin was swelling where it was scorched raw - even where it hadn't been crisped into black ash. All four degrees of burns were present in different places, and thought evaporated as he writhed in defiant helplessness.

No words. No quips. No pheromones, only pain. Passion. Screaming. All his latent power - undeveloped, untrained - poured out of his mouth in a wordless, ultrasonic shriek. His box's vocoder sparked, then died. Earth scattered away from him in a dust cloud, the air whirled and rippled around him, he screamed and screamed, praying by instinct that this somehow blasts to pieces those who wronged him, until, still conscious, he slumps to the earth - blood trickling down the tortured walls of his throat, a scraping whimper all that was audible as he focused on the only thing left to focus on.

Breathe in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Stay awake.

--

[member="Krest"]