We Lost

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Cyrene was gone. So were the others.

This was what his chosen path had led him to. Naught but a few medals and accolades to show for his service. For ten years, he fought the Sith. For ten long, bloody years he watched as friends, family, even his love either fell or turned against him. For all that time, Cyril served the Jedi Order loyally; served the Republic without question. Eventually even the Galactic Alliance.

He would have continued to do so, had he been able to bring himself to join the conflict at Lujo. His heart was too clouded to lead men into battle. His soul was entombed in a cage of lethargy. This war had taken so very much. This conflict forged by pretenders; Sith who were not what they claimed to be, politicians lobbying for power. What had he been to them? A pawn, perhaps? His padawan, dear and departed? He too, was a simple piece in a larger game.

This could have been avoided.

Deep in his heart, Cyril knew it to be true. On Utapau, he had slain the last Sith Lord known to the public at the time. He could have taken his title, and perhaps slowed the One Sith's growth; could have given the Republic a chance. Yet, due to his mother's urging, he had walked the path of a Jedi.

That path had led him here in the end. Dromund Kass was a dead world; a frozen tundra plunged into an ice age by asteroids redirected toward it during the Sith's last stand. It was here that his father had been slain. It was here that his old master had risen to power.

It was here that he might guide his own destiny. Swallowing hard, the grief-stricken Jedi Master wandered through one of the dead cities. The Mandalorians held an outpost near the ruins of Kass City, but the outlying settlements had been left untouched. It was here he hoped to commune with his father. It was here that he might find some answers.

He drew his cowl over his face and pulled his coat up close to his chest, snow crunching beneath his feet with each step as he explored the frozen corpse of a civilization.

[member="Sinistra"]

 

[Sinistra]

Sometimes, she just wanted to be alone.

No apprentices, no acolytes, no spy business. Just quiet contemplation to be with her thoughts. On the fringes of Kaas City, she had managed to find a serviceable domicile, transforming it into a small sanctuary. She came here to plot, to plan, to be invisible from the rigors of leading a double life. There was nothing left on this planet, no one to hide from, no one to posture for, no one to prance for. She let the deep pull of the darkside sing to her and to sooth her in the cold darkness.

Her normally mahogany eyes bled to gold under her mask and she would have removed it altogether had she not needed it to keep her face warm. She let her full presence unfold in the force, stretching out like the wings of a great beast kept cramped and caged for far too long. Rolling her neck from side to side, she drank in the seductive melancholy of the ancient Sith homeworld.

On the edge of her periphery, she felt it.

A niggling feeling. A nagging pull, a tug like a child on a pant leg.

She was not alone here.

Her presence raced back in on itself as she drew it back down, suppressed it, hid it again. Her weapons were at her side, and she looked towards the humble door to the outside of this ruin. She could take no chances. This was not One Sith space.

Easing it open, she stepped out, her boots crunching in the bitter cold. Her red lenses flashed under her hood as she swept her gaze around and narrowed her eyes. The HUD picked up a heat signature, but it was a little further away. She took to the rooftops, a force jump dropping her lightly on the top of some neighboring ruins. She stalked along through the small settlement until she came upon the one she felt.

She only had a moment, but it was all she needed.

She stood up, her sudden movement sure to draw attention. Her vocoder rasped through the open area, her voice mechanical and sounding wholely unfeminine although the silhouette of her armor gave her away against the backdrop of her worn black cloak. Her voice carried an imperial accent nonetheless.

"You are a long way from home stranger."

[member="Cyril Grayson"]

 

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"So I am."

Cyril drew in a deep breath. He had allowed himself to become so mired in his own thoughts that he paid little mind to his surroundings. This woman could have, if she wished, skewered him from behind, and there would have been nothing he could do about it.

He stood up from his hunched position, fingers twitching at his sides. There was no clarity within the Force here. This woman was a myriad of things, all of which he was not. He could feel nothing, save for a faint warning whispering at the fringes of his mind. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"Perhaps you are as well." He murmured, blue eyes narrowing as he glanced about. The woman seemed to be alone. Everything here was dead.

This was the enemy. Of that he knew. Perhaps not a Sith, but one who dabbled in the dark arts all the same. The kind of person that brought about the destruction he was trying so very hard to get away from.

Fury rose within him like hot bile.

His baleful gaze swept over the woman to the city beyond her. His destination was not far. He did not dare speak another word.

[member="Sinistra"]

 

[Sinistra]

Sinistra jumped down from the edge of the roof, her hands open and empty. Brooding, anger, melancholy. She might have pegged him for another Sith. His self absorbed demeanor was only broken for a moment as he looked in her direction, then past her to the distant skyline. If she hadn't been wearing the mask, he might have caught her rolling her eyes at his melodramatic attitude, but instead she leaned her head over, looking him over.

He was not moving to attack, he barely registered that he was not alone here and now that he knew of her presence, he did not give her the impression that he was hunting her. He was here for something else. Considering the strength of the darkside here remained untouched by the destruction wrought across the surface, she did not gauge him to be much of a threat.

"Why are you here?" She mused aloud but not directly to him. Dromund Kaas was a dead place, where nothing but the whispers of the lost sang through the ruins, with the voices of cold wind.

She did not move, her arms at her sides, several feet away. It was not in her nature to be forthcoming with herself. She kept her own nature suppressed for the most part, contained. Her armor looked standard issue One Sith inquisitor, nothing remarkable about her whatsoever.

"Treasure seekers have long since picked these bones clean. The ghosts are all that remain. So what do you seek?"

[member="Cyril Grayson"]

 

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"I search for a different kind of treasure." Cyril grumbled, blue eyes peering from beyond the hood of his robe. Drawing in a deep breath, he pulled back the cowl, revealing features one might associate with nobility. His mother had been the Queen of Naboo for a time. He had been blessed with her looks.

Though the wind chilled him and his cheeks were pink from the cold, Cyril stood his ground. He recognized the trappings of the Sith Inquisitors. He had fought a great many. With visible effort, he managed to bring himself some semblance of peace. Part of him - a very large part - wished to cut the woman down. She was the visage of all that brought him grief. Yet, she might prove to be too much of a challenge in his current state. Further, he was unsure of where he stood in the galaxy now. He had no reason to attack this woman.

None yet.

"I am Cyril. I've come to commune with the dead." He stated plainly, shoulders visibly relaxing; the contempt slipping away from his voice. He strode a step or so toward the woman and folded his arms over his chest, doing everything in his power to ignore the biting cold.

"My father died here before the asteroid fell. My master was crowned emperor here. I've come to speak with them."

He frowned.

"Yourself?"

[member="Sinistra"]

 

[Sinistra]

She did not move as he stepped forward but with his hood swept back, she found herself looking into the face of none other than Mephirium. The fleets master. The one who had killed the emperor and then walked away from it all for absolution and redemption. Her blood ran cold, an finger of ice on her spine.

Way to go, Sinistra. This was just what you needed this afternoon. She held her composure though, the man before her at one time had been pillar of the ambitions of her kind. How low the mighty could fall. In the end, he had been his own enemy, allowing his path to be swayed. Where had that redemption lead him? Right back to Dromund Kaas it would seem.

She allowed her hands to come together in front of her, fingers knitted together as she looked up at him, his height requiring a slight correction in her posture. She was comically short, barely over 5 feet tall. It never seemed to bother her that she was not tall and statuesque. She was nimble and her diminutive stature greatly benefited her in combat. However, it was just another thing most just used to dismiss her with. She was nothing if not extremely proficient at looking like a non threat.

She replied to his query plainly.

"I like the quiet. I come here to study."

[member="Cyril Grayson"]

 

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Cyril drew in a deep breath.

"You're free to study with me then."

He cracked a thin smile that did little to assuage his own misgivings. this woman was a Sith, of that he understood. It took but a moment of examining her. The Dark Side swelled around her like a bloated storm, simply waiting to strike down whatever she chose with a bolt of lightning. Some might have looked down upon such a diminutive form. Cyril was not so arrogant. Vulcanus' hubris had been his downfall. It would not be his own.

I'm thinking like him again.

The robotic whir of his false-cybernetic arm brought him back from his thoughts. He was here for a purpose, and it was not to have idle conversation with a Sith woman. If she wished to join him; to be his companion in this frozen waste, then so be it. If not, then he would leave her be, though he would not turn his back to her. He could not see her eyes, and her voice was steady, but he knew of his reputation. Most knew him as a Jedi Master and veteran of the war. An enemy to be put down. Some knew him as something older; something greater. Only a rare few recognized him as such.

The Force spoke to him clearly now.

"I would take a name, if you are to join me." He stated plainly as he strolled on past her. His target was a large snow-laden building to the east that bore Imperial banners on either side of its main entrance.

He knew that place well. His father had held command there. His master had killed him on the doorsteps.

"Have you spoken to the spirits before, stranger?"

[member="Sinistra"]

 

[Sinistra]

You could learn much about another from simple observation. Outwardly, she had not given any indication that she knew him, it was only behind masked eyes did recognition dawn. She however had been steeped so long in the game of subterfuge that even masked and hidden, she guarded her reactions and body language.

His offer to study with him to her was more an offer to study him. He moved forward, towards his original destination now, pausing to speak about a name as he moved past her. She saw no harm in giving it to him, hers was an existence that few were aware of to begin with.

"Sinistra." No lord, no darth, no pompous exclamation of her prowess and hubris. Just a name as she turned in the snow and walked with him. Her skirts and sashes covered her legs as they moved, the hem of her long black cloak dragging over the snows and muffling the sounds of the crunching frozen ground.

"The spirits and I are well acquainted."

She did not ask his name, just kept up her pace as he moved to the decrepit building with the tatters of the Imperial banners.

[member="Cyril Grayson"]

 

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"We shall see." He mumbled in mired amusement. Gone was his uncertainty. Gone was the grief. His was a stoic visage. His heart was sure, and his feet brought him along well along the path. He knew the way well. He had walked up these steps a thousand times in his childhood.

His gaze shifted to Sinistra for a moment. He did not recognize the name, though that came as no surprise Many of the One Sith's rising stars were lost to him. Such tended to happen when you cut yourself off from the galaxy for years at a time.

His boots scuffed the old durasteel floors as he strode beyond the threshold of the doorway. What he was about to attempt would be a deeply personal affair, and he would allow [member="Sinistra"] to witness every moment of it. His entire being was out to bare. He had nothing to hide; not from the galaxy, and certainly not from this shrouded woman.

He came to stand in front of a ruined command table. The chairs had long since been lifted out by scavengers, but the table was bolted down. That normally would not stop your more resourceful scavengers, but the bolts had frozen over. Moving the old slab of durasteel would be more effort than it was worth.

With his hands clenched at his sides, Cyril turned toward Sinistra. "I'm going to speak with specters. My old master, and my father. I'm in need of their advice." He offered a hand. "Assist me?"

 

[Sinistra]

She followed him up the steps, and into the dimly lit structure, her HUD switching modes to allow her to see her surroundings. She had explored this ruin before, and in the center of the debris, he would find her handiwork. A circle cleared of detritus, wide enough to stand 5 men across fingertips to fingertips. She stopped just short of the space, a sorcerer always has their intentions set before they walk into a circle.

He stated his purpose and then he did something she did not expect. He asked her for her help.

She stood a moment, then with a nod, she stepped forward across the threshold of the sacred space. The small sheltered presence of power and magick unfolded again, and rushed out like a torrent on a dry creekbed. Her vocoder was retuned so that her words were clear and precise, and she began to intone words of ancient magick. Her hands raised and began to weave the powers called forth, a crimson spell of summoning taking shape until she spun it off to grow on its own in the center of the clearing, a beacon to the spirits of the Netherworld.

Her voice sounded ethereal as she spoke now, echoing through the air around them, not merely from a vocoder.

"Call to them."

[member="Cyril Grayson"]

 

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Such powers were not something Cyril had ever specialized in. He had no need. Combat and the mending of the wounded had always been his talents, at least as a Jedi. Things had begun to lean more toward the former as a Sith Lord.

Yet still, he tried. He called out to them with his mind alone, hearkening back to the times when Vulcanus had haunted his mind. His powers, amplified by those of Sinistra, seemed to reach nothing for a time. Then something shifted, and the light within the ruin grew dim. Something massive shifted in the shadows in one corner; the other was much smaller.

The massive thing reached out with a clawed hand toward the sky. Eyes like black holes blinked slowly as its large scaly head breached forward into the light. The other was human. It was dressed in the trappings of an Imperial Moff, and looked to be middle aged.

"So you finally call, little slave." The great beast rumbled, "Took you long enough."

"He's right." The human settled his predatory gaze on Sinistra. "And you bring us a woman. This can't be the one you spoke of."

Cyril frowned, though he did not let his concentration slip for a moment. "The woman is an ally. I've come seeking advice from the both of you."

The scaly beast lifted its massive head. "Conflicted? The path is clear, slave."

The man shook his head. "What is the issue?"

Cyril folded his arms over his chest. "The Order. It's led me down the wrong path, and I've no idea how to go about fixing it."

The two specters fell silent. Then, the beastly ghost turned its attentions toward [member="Sinistra"] and snarled. "The boy worries over his choices, woman. He was Sith once. Worthy of my old titles. Now..." The monster snorted. "What would you make of him?"

 

[Sinistra]

If the mask were removed, he would see a brilliant red glow from her eyes, the magick of the ancient Sith coursing through her. She let her gaze sweep to him, then the great hulking beast coming out of the shadows. Through the gaze of the sorcery, he looked altogether more terrifying. She did not quiver in the face of the spirits; she was in familiar territory. The uniformed man was cold, bitter. His presence was disapproving as well but in a more personal way. The spurn of a father can be eternal.

She took a deep breath and narrowed the sinister red gaze on the nameless one, her thoughts forming themselves on the tips of her tongue.

"You cannot fix the Order. No more than you can fix the Sith. You discard it, you destroy it, but you do not fix it. To ask a fallen master of the blessed dark to help him build a path through the light is folly. He was a Sith once, he is one no longer."

She cast the spell quickly, a flick of her wrists, a twist of fingers and a word was all it took to send tendrils of the dark side to ensnare him, to trap him in the embrace of the nexus running beneath their feet.

"Do not fight it, your path brought you back here, accept it once more."

Her voice was hard, and strangely not mechanical as she amplified her true voice through the force in the room.

[member="Cyril Grayson"]

 

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Cedric Rade shook his head in disapproval. Even in death, the former Grand Moff of the Sith Empire still harbored a deep hatred for his former masters. Now his son was one of these creatures. What had he done wrong, for such a fate to befall his eldest boy? He waved a hand in dismissal and turned about, fading back into the shadows. He would remain to watch his son, to see what his little boy did to the galaxy.

Vulcanus came to things a little differently. His scaly lips pulled back in a murderous sneer. Teeth sharp as daggers parted in glee as Cyril was enveloped in the shadowy tendrils. A deep, bellowing laugh escaped the ethereal being.

"No, no he cannot. I trained the boy - - you hear me Graxin? We made you," the monster gestured between himself and [member="Sinistra"], "You are what we have designed. There is no escape. This is your future. Accept it. Save this galaxy."

Cyril struggled against the shadowy bindings, but his attempts were all for naught. No matter how much he struggled, they would not budge.

Was this truly what the Force would have of him? To fall back into the depths of depravity? Narrowed blue eyes shifted to Sinistra.

He had come seeking out his old teachers' counsel, and they had both been in some form of an agreement. The Jedi had failed this galaxy. The alliance did more harm than good. The One Sith, as they were, could be a powerful tool, but only if they were reforged. As they were, the Sith would continue to grow soft until the Jedi finally returned and shook them from their holdings.

None had the power to do so. The Dark Lord had grown complacent.

Cyrene had chosen the Sith in the end. His soldiers had died, and for what? To satisfy and old monster's ego?

He stopped struggling. "I didn't come here for advice on how to fix the Order. I want to fix everything. All of it."

Vulcanus rumbled with quiet laughter. "And you know, boy, in your heart what that will require. The price will be paid in blood. There is no other worthy of the title."

Cyril's lips pressed into a thin line. He knew what Vulcanus wanted. He know what the great beast asked of him. He did not know whether he was ready for such, and yet, it would be so very easy, wouldn't it?

"Say I do it. What then?"

"Surely I've imparted you with the wisdom to understand. This woman, she is one of them. She can lead you to your goal. All you must do is take it." The specter turned toward Sinistra, voice thrumming with power. "Won't you, whelp?"

Cyril's gaze shifted back to the Inquisitor. His eyes drilled into her. Gone was the momentary fear and panic; replaced by something far more profound.

"I was a Sith Lord once, Sinistra. One of the last few. Now they - - we are many, but the Sith have grown complacent," his arms fell to rest at his sides, "The Jedi failed. The Sith will fail. I-...I won't."

 

[Sinistra]

A crimson blast emanated from her hand and the ghost roared as the sorceress banished it back into the Nether. She snorted loudly as the beast's presence receded into the void.

"Calling me a whelp earns you no favors, creature."

She walked over to the spot where the nexus had him bound to the floor, though his struggles had ceased. She looked up at him with glinting red glass shining in the dim light.

"Not all of the lords have accepted stagnation and decadence. Some of us deal in secrets and information. The Sith are on the road to ruin. You truly believe you can lift them from the jaws of oblivion? You who followed doubt to the lair of the dead?"

She wasn't sold on him. He could have had the old titles, but this one? The one who seemed to need the guiding hand of his old master was not instilling confidence in the sorceress spy. She contracted the binds around him, drawing them to squeeze the air from him, her tone cold as she rasped at him, through the vocoder.

"Why should I not kill where you stand? We require action, not the indecisive vacillations of a Jedi who once played at a Sith."

[member="Cyril Grayson"]

 

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Vulcanus was gone. That brought a certain amount of comfort with it. He could only stand the dead Sith Lord's presence for so long before it began to grow tiresome. He liked Krag dead. You could simply banish him. Things had not been so simple when he still drew breath.

Then [member="Sinistra"] turned her attentions on him, and all her accusations came with it. Her disbeliefs were paramount; her doubt thundering in his ears. His gaze fell to the ties that bound him, his mind shifted to the air being forced from his lungs. This would not be his end; not at the hands of an Inquisitor that he barely knew. His will to survive was a powerful one, and that passion lilted into something more.

The force whirled around him like a storm. At first it seemed to react to the bindings rather than his calls. Then something shifted, Cyril felt its power thrumming through his veins. It was a simple matter to release it outward, tearing away the bindings and spreading forth a wave of telekinetic energy in every direction.

Cyril fell to his knees at first, gasping for breath with wild eyes. After a moment, he rose to his feet, baleful gaze locked upon [member="Sinistra"].

"I won't allow you to kill me," he stated plainly, "You tell me you've never had doubt woman? That you've never needed guidance?" He lofted a brow, though some of the contempt fled from his expression. "The Sith are a tool that can be used to bring some semblance of order to galaxy. That is my goal. Anything else is secondary."

His chest rose and fell violently with each breath. Her constrictions had caused some legitimate damage to his torso, though he wouldn't admit such. He stood his ground, staring down at the short woman warily.

 

[Sinistra]

She did not bristle as he broke free of her binds, collapsing and rising again. Still in his words, she heard ambiguity, and doubt. She heard optimistic idealism and the middle of the road moderation that would do him no favors among the darkling throng.

"You call me woman again and I promise you will beg for death long before it liberates you from my clutches."

She stepped closer to him, her curled fingers resting on the curves armor plates that sat on her hips. She look up into his face, studying him, looking for something that would give her insight into him, into what he truly sought for the galaxy and for himself.

"What order do you think needs to be brought? The Sith assault the world of Thracior as we speak. It's a planet of short sighted war lords who bring nothing to the table but their hatred of their own people simply because they were born to one tribe over another. What order are we righting? What do you possibly think this will net the Jedi if they are left alone? What is this order you seek? And do you think the Sith will fall so easily behind such a noble pursuit?"

The way she spoke the word noble, it sounded as through it had been spit out through her mechanical speakers.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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He understood it now.

The nature of the Dark Side was power. It was only natural for any one being to crave it, and while Cyril was particularly starved, he did not allow his temptations to rule him. For years, he had restricted himself. For years, he had kept his ambitions in check, biding his time for the right solution to come to him. Recent realizations made things clear; a solution would not come to him. He would need to create one for himself.

This woman needed an explanation. He could provide.

"What use is power if you do nothing with it?" He asked quietly as ran his fingers along the table's cracked durasteel. "Explain that to me. There is the ecstasy of victory, of course, and the weak are destined to be ruled by the strong -" I understand that now. " - but again, I ask, what purpose does it serve?"

He paused when he finished his first circle, a brow lofted as the woman. "The force is a tool. We do not serve it. I take no pleasure in childish cruelty when it has no place. I have a vision for this galaxy."

Another pause.

"In my youth, I ruled a section of the Sith Empire. When the time came, I killed my Master and took his title. He was a mindless thing, as you've seen. A sadist that thrived off of slaughter and destruction. He, like the force, was a tool."

"Some say the Dark Side corrupts. That is true, to a degree. In reality, it simply shows our true selves. My master was a tool. He had no vision. He only wanted to destroy; to fulfill his desires. My desires are different. I see a galaxy united under a singular banner. I see armies sweeping across whole other galaxies, bringing order to the masses."

His lips twisted into a predatory smile.

"I am a builder. I build empires. When it is needed, I am a destroyer. Men and women who cannot master them both are damned to their own primal urges. The builders become complacent, sitting on their iron thrones in their obsidian citadels; bestowing pretty titles upon those lesser than themselves to secure their loyalties. I'm sure you can think of a rather prominent one."

"The destroyers accomplish nothing. They become little more than animals, and are given these pretty titles so that they might continue serving."

The smile faded.

"If you threaten me again, I promise you that threat will be very much returned."

He stared down at her, blue eyes narrowed as he explored her iron visage. There was no expression for him to read, but Cyril was a smart man. He had a hunch as to what she might be thinking.

"As for Thracior - you said warlords, yes? They, like certain Sith, are destroyers. Tools. Better we subjugate them and direct that rage toward something productive, rather than let the Jedi simmer them down."

[member="Sinistra"]

 

[Sinistra]

There was a tug at the corner of her mouth under the mask, maybe he wasn't a complete waste of oxygen. He had several points that echoed her deeply seated ideals. At least the ones that she had been devoted to the second half of her life. She did not follow the ham handed destroyers, she did not appreciate the decadent excesses of sycophants. Cunning, and finesse. These were the tenets of the Sith that spoke to her.

"I have no use for tools. If you are a builder, then I am an architect. The keeper of knowledge to build the foundation, the one who knows where the weak spots are in the aging structure."

She did not wither under anyone's gaze, she did not wilt in the fires of pressure. And in her opinion, the One Sith needs to be burned. She had watched Sith Lords burn themselves out on the Dark Lord's campaign. She had seen the under lords run themselves into the brick walls and be thrown aside. Cast aside. The One Sith was a furnace that destroyed everything they touched, even the Sith themselves.

"Threats aside, I agree with your assessment of Thracior."

She sidestepped him at this point and crossed the threshold of the sacred circle, making strides for the door.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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A title was little more than words, but on rare occasions, it could carry a more profound meaning. In his youth, Cyril had been known as Darth Mephirium, a powerful Sith Lord known for his liberal stance on certain issues plaguing the Sith of his time. It seemed, given his newfound revelations, that it was time for Darth Mephirium to be an object of relevance once again.

He strode out after Sinistra.

"I'm going to Coruscant," he drew his hood up over his face, "From there, I'm going to challenge [member="Darth Arcis"] to a Kaggath. If I win, I'll gain control of his fleets and access to his soldiers."

He grit his teeth at the biting wind as it swirled about him. He'd never been a fan of the frozen planets. Once, Dromund Kass had been a verdant world - he found that he rather missed that version of the former Sith capital.

"I'm sure, Miss Architect," a hint of humor laced his words, "You can guess as to what I will do after that."

The re-minted Sith Lord cracked a cool smile. There would be things to attend to before he dared go after the Dark Lord; allies to be bought and alliances to be forged. You could not take a world without an army, after all.

[member="Sinistra"]

 

[Sinistra]

"Then you have work to do. Especially if you are set on a Kaggath."

She turned from him and headed down the steps, her cloak sweeping through the snow behind her, wet spots darkening the material from her walk earlier to the temple. She wasn't particularly interested in following on his Kaggath, or his trip to the Core.

Vulcanus had spoken to her as whispers in the force, his echo a tremor in the darkness of her mind. He wanted her to forge him into the Sith he was meant to be, but the demonic bass in her head was just a ghost. An informative one at that. She had a name, she had a face. Should she want to track him down again, she could do so. She was curious if he would survive the coming trials, curious to see if he would fulfill his path.

If nothing else, it would be entertaining to watch.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]