With legs idly swinging over the edge of the balcony, causing an absolute scintilla of distortion in the air as they moved, The Slave watched with withheld excitement as the various members of this Sith Ascendancy walked out of the freighter and into the temple. Each was made tall by their overconfidence, each stood on the precipice of reckless suicide through the faintest of corners on their lips and the brashness in their blood. They knew not what they stood against, yet they held the strongest sensation of clout.
For not would the bell toll for the unwieldy. The Slave hummed in quiet appreciation for the way the world would serve them their needed due, and glanced through the crowd at each of his could-be opponents. To take on a master and kill morale quickly, or enjoy the smaller of the pickings? To cripple or kill? Decisions, decisions. This was a buffet of man, with the choice of this or that and endless opportunity to be had.
There was of course [member="Krest"] and [member="Vengeance"], each a master in their own right, but both served with years of brutal decadence. They considered themselves men of war, but when was the last they truly saw the death they so desperately clung to for power? The idle drippings of a singular neck, or the casual cumberance of a mass grave? No, they knew not what it meant to swim in the abyss; only dabbled in the idea like children whose feet are wet a the edge of the pool.
Or perhaps this [member="Rakkus"], whose movements were drenched with insecurity. He moved with inexperience, and yet he found power in the crowd that came down. Perhaps it was presumptuous, but he didn’t look like he’d last long in a fight; little more than fodder to the feed in this case. He made up nothing more than a pittance of what they had brought. No true opponent to try and face down.
But of course, he couldn’t count out the rest of this audacious collection; from [member="Bjorn Heartholm"] who strolled with strength in step but not in heart, or [member="Drios Rapux"] who carried just an arrogance that he assumed only his way the truest, without even the smallest idea of how to enforce such a thing without the guidance of his superiors. The Slave couldn’t help but consider just where many of these people would be if not for the dogmatic corruption of their elders, forever setting a cycle of decay that ate at the very soul of who they sought to be.
A shame in truth.
Ah, but how could he prattle so blindly when the likes of [member="Darth Sarcophago"] sought to intimidate her own kind with rudimentary cannibalism? Did she truly think such grotesque displays of dominance were going to intimidate the other side of the very coin she sat upon? A fool's errand, but one that came back to something deeper than simple scare tactics, but absolute cretinous mentality. Entertaining if nothing else.
Yet, even then, those like [member="Orion Darkstar"] or [member="Ariealla Vareldi"] held an aura about them that reeked of displaced annoyance. They came to fight perhaps, but neither walked as the others, nor did they cry out with such arrogance as many had. Each was respectful in step, but blind in purpose; following leaders who held to no higher esteem than the dirt under their boots. Though, that was to be assumed considering how the Sith often operated.
But the last to be seen, and perhaps the most interesting, was [member="Serenity Loveheart"]. Everything from her hesitated departure to her less than volatile nature was something he could appreciate from the distance he was at; and yet she seemed to be as deadly as all the rest. She carried herself differently, whether that be in purpose or demeanor alone he could not tell, but it inspired a curiosity in him he’d have to decide just what to do with in time. Perhaps offer her a chance at his blade, or ignore her entirely.
A calm hand moved to grasp Ishtar as she stood sheathed in her leather cage. It was a sword that knew blood like a child knew air, a virgin to the sun as much as she was the dark; and something that gave out a cacophony of song that gave only a glimpse into its need for blood. She was unmatched in alchemic blades, and when her banshee like cry would pierce the air so too would the Sith who approached with anger in their hearts know fear in their minds. There was no peace to be had, no sin not to be forgiven, for she came like a horseman bound for war; with flames at her hooves and destruction in her wake.
Muscles tensed with equal ambition, all waiting for the moment he’d finally decide on who exactly was to be the first to face him in combat. With his presence in the force all but negated, his armor ceasing all visual spectrum mention; he was a ghost in the night like those who who could only dream. There was not a way he could be seen, even the stars above him ignored his form and passed through to the ground below; forever to not understand the transcendent form that he was. Shrouded in their sorrow watch, he soon found his target. A ripe one for the picking, and so he prepared.
Feet held themselves to the wall as a hand held the ledge; angling him for a drop that’d hit the earth with such a force that not even Gabriel’s Trumpet could sign a better acknowledgment of absolute rending. He was apocalypse in wait, armageddon in slumber, and those below would learn the name he lacked, and with it;
Utter respect.
To the victor go the spoils, and to the sanctimonious the choking they so deserved.
