@[member="Samanthe Quiwl "]@[member="Dranok Lussk"] @[member="Lucien Cordel"] @[member="Valik"] @[member="Shinjū Aÿasha"] @[member="Anaya Fen"]
@[member="Kaine Zambrano"]
Dromund Kaas
A shadow descended upon the capital of the Empire. Once a great and proud civilization, the Empire was now simply proud. The most powerful of that circle of renowned Sith Lords - read as infamous - had departed, seeking better prospects than a crumbling government. But now... they returned. And worlds trembled at their coming. This was not an invasion, nor a skirmish between two different nations. This was not war. This was insurrection. This was a regime change. This was a bloody tradition stretching back millennia. This was nature at work. The strong would rule. The weak would perish.
A yacht settled into a secluded spaceport near the palace structure. It bore the identification of a well known humanitarian... Behind the machinations of these Sith Lords, a smirk, a flash of blue eyes, and a mischievous chuckle; the Sith Lord of derision and deception: Mikhail Shorn.
Mikhail stood before the enormous doors of the throne room. He had waited so many years for this moment. Vengeance. The Sith had taken him when he'd fled, a fugitive of the Republic, but they had deceived him. Their peaceful arms had been the arms of a nightmare. Instead of bliss he found pain. In place of rest he felt only a hollowness inside that would never be satiated. They had taken a confused and lost soldier and turned him into a monster of destruction. But he was not their monster. Their creation was not their's to rule. He was one of them, but he would never be ruled by them.
There was a notable difference in Mikhail's appearance. For one, in place of his typical leather jacket and pants, he wore robes; black, Sith robes. He seemed more aloof, more distant. He still retained his recalcitrant disdain for titles and governmental structures, but his aura now had a dark gravitas. Or perhaps it was merely the unlit lightsaber he held in his right hand. A black cylinder, with a bronze dragon wrapping around it, open jaws forming the emitter. The Soulsaber, now fully under his control. Oh, it still tried to talk to him, to seduce him with talk of death. Only this time, he had enough power to control it.
Battlemind fueled his powers, granting an anger brought on by the Dark Side to fill his hollowness.
He would have an audience with @[member="Tyrin Ardik"]. And he would have it now. He raised a hand, his fist curling tight. The doors began to crumple and groan at the hinges until finally he wrenched them free. They fell to the floor with a tremendous clang.
Then he waltzed right in.
@[member="Kaine Zambrano"]
Dromund Kaas
A shadow descended upon the capital of the Empire. Once a great and proud civilization, the Empire was now simply proud. The most powerful of that circle of renowned Sith Lords - read as infamous - had departed, seeking better prospects than a crumbling government. But now... they returned. And worlds trembled at their coming. This was not an invasion, nor a skirmish between two different nations. This was not war. This was insurrection. This was a regime change. This was a bloody tradition stretching back millennia. This was nature at work. The strong would rule. The weak would perish.
A yacht settled into a secluded spaceport near the palace structure. It bore the identification of a well known humanitarian... Behind the machinations of these Sith Lords, a smirk, a flash of blue eyes, and a mischievous chuckle; the Sith Lord of derision and deception: Mikhail Shorn.
Mikhail stood before the enormous doors of the throne room. He had waited so many years for this moment. Vengeance. The Sith had taken him when he'd fled, a fugitive of the Republic, but they had deceived him. Their peaceful arms had been the arms of a nightmare. Instead of bliss he found pain. In place of rest he felt only a hollowness inside that would never be satiated. They had taken a confused and lost soldier and turned him into a monster of destruction. But he was not their monster. Their creation was not their's to rule. He was one of them, but he would never be ruled by them.
There was a notable difference in Mikhail's appearance. For one, in place of his typical leather jacket and pants, he wore robes; black, Sith robes. He seemed more aloof, more distant. He still retained his recalcitrant disdain for titles and governmental structures, but his aura now had a dark gravitas. Or perhaps it was merely the unlit lightsaber he held in his right hand. A black cylinder, with a bronze dragon wrapping around it, open jaws forming the emitter. The Soulsaber, now fully under his control. Oh, it still tried to talk to him, to seduce him with talk of death. Only this time, he had enough power to control it.
Battlemind fueled his powers, granting an anger brought on by the Dark Side to fill his hollowness.
He would have an audience with @[member="Tyrin Ardik"]. And he would have it now. He raised a hand, his fist curling tight. The doors began to crumple and groan at the hinges until finally he wrenched them free. They fell to the floor with a tremendous clang.
Then he waltzed right in.