Populate Midnight Mass | DE Populate of Vortex

[Romi Jade]

OBJECTIVE 1: CONSECRATION
AKAR TSIS, TEMPLE OF THE SITH
After: Prophecy of the Four: The Singularity Novel

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The oppressive darkness of Akar Tsis enveloped the vast throne room, its cold stone walls absorbing the flickering torchlight. Shadows danced ominously, creating an eerie and malevolent atmosphere. The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood and the metallic tang of fear. Romi Jade, hung suspended in the center of this hellish tableau, her wrists and ankles bound by energy binders that crackled with a torturous hum. Still she hovered a few feet above the ground, her form battered and bruised, her once formidable connection to the Force now a mere whisper of its former strength -- he wanted to embarrass her also.

Before her, Darth Solipsis stood on a raised dais, his dark robes flowing like a river of shadows. His eyes, cold and calculating, watched the carnage below with a cruel satisfaction. Around him, the members of the New Sith Order and cultists from the Church of the Dark Side fought viciously, blades clashing, and fists flying. The ritual to desecrate Tython had at first demanded a sacrifice, and they had taken it in the most brutal way possible. The blood of a fallen Jedi Master stained the floors, his lifeless body discarded like a broken toy.

Romi struggled against her restraints, the energy binders searing into her flesh with every futile movement. She tried to avert her eyes, but the horrific spectacle was impossible to ignore. The faces of the combatants twisted with primal fury, the weaker ones falling under the savage onslaught of their brethren. The air was filled with the sounds of agony and triumph, a symphony of chaos orchestrated by Solipsis himself.

Romi's heart ached with a mixture of sorrow and rage. Her eyes, once filled with the serene confidence of a Jedi, now burned with the fire of indignation. She tried to close her mind to the horrors around her, but the scene was etched into her soul. Every death, every cry of pain, was a dagger to her heart.

"You won't break me," Romi spat, her voice hoarse, tired but defiant.

Hope was a fragile thing in the face of such overwhelming darkness. Her body trembled with exhaustion, and the tension etched deeply into her features spoke of a spirit that was in actuality on the brink of breaking. Yet, somewhere deep within, the embers of her determination fought to put up a continued resistance, refusing to be snuffed out. She would endure, for the sake of those she loved, and for the light that still flickered within the galaxy.

Even if far from her touch...she knew that somewhere out there, the Force...a force still listened.

EXIT

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Briana Sal-Soren | Lossa Darcuhl | Darth Solipsis

Darth Immortuos | Olorion Fossk | Darth Bellum | Onrai | Darth Vinaze | Darth Ptolemis
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[Khamul Kryze]

BLACK MASS

THE UNCHAINED

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

Tags: Darth Solipsis , Darth Vinaze , Onrai , Cornelius Nibocaj , Derix Tirall , Darth Bellum​

Church

The sacrifice had been made, the blade of Olorion plunging deep into the old rival of the darkness. As what was left of the light within him was snuffed out, Khamul produced a wicked grin behind his mask. He had known the pleasure of killing acolytes of the Light before, and it always had a certain sweetness to it. As the Cardinal's corpse fell to the floor, the power of the Dark Side erupted within the chamber, cascading across the room as it filled those within with immense power...

Perhaps all a ruse, however. Something to stoke the flames of the Sith'ari's next words. Words that would pit them against each other, as they had been several times before. Solipsis was nothing, if not consistent, that much was certain. Only the strong... words that had echoed through the years as those that rallied under his banner did what they could to thin the heard. It was a sentiment that the Unchained could get behind, for his own crusade had operated under similar principles. The weak always needed to be culled, no matter what moniker or power they had claimed.

SNAP-HISS

Mandalore's Lament roared to life in a vicious display of blackened crimson as Khamul turned to face those nearest to him. He wasn't sure who would make the first move. Perhaps none would...

Perhaps provocation would be in order.

"Any who approach will find their corpse next to the dead priest."

Behind his mask, the Unchained's eyes scanned the room, seeking his first victim.

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Location: Akar Tsis.

[Atmosphere]

From Ptolemis’ fingertips the violet strands whipped forth to the sound of rock being drilled and immediately began to drain the Prophet of his very life. Still, without a flick of his wrist, without any movement or resistance Darth Vinaze suffered the vicious torture of the Blasphemer’s attack as his very skin began to wither and crack. - What was this? - A flash of doubt crossed the Blasphemer’s mind, yet as soon as the thought was born, it was already too late. Both the Prophet and the Blasphemer were Lords of the Mind, not mere warriors of the flesh. Was this the beginning of the end?

In the mere seconds that this dark deed fed Ptolemis, it also opened him up to a vulnerability; through this voracious lust for death he invited in something more… Something far more terrible. - THIS was his plan! - A voice screamed from the back of Ptolemis’ mind. In a fraction of a moment Vinaze invaded the Shadow Hand’s mind, whose draining projection of the Force instantly shattered. The masked Sith Lord collapsed to one knee, gaze fixed skyward, hand gripping the million pinholes through which Vinaze tore into his skull. Whatever happens next may only take a few minutes in the real world, but on these telepathic scales, time was slow, funereal.

The gates of the abyss fell, and Vinaze found himself in the desert of the self. On this barren wasteland the arid winds brought memories of failure and shame; the defeat of the Brotherhood of the Maw… The man behind the mask having sacrificed so much… Believed in Darth Solipsis ' victory so readily… That defeat crushed him. He fled. Nowhere to be seen as Exegol fell. The tale continues, but as soon as the message from the pale beyond came, another memory took its place from elsewhere; one that seemed to be the well of the masked man’s hatred.

It took the form of anger projected onto the faceless figures who reeked of greed and exploitation, an amalgamation of sentience in the galaxy. Ptolemis abhorred every thinking creature equally. There might have been a drive for change once, but the blind yearning for retribution took over this soulless space long, long ago. Somewhere in there, a fear lurked; was he becoming the same type of leech on this galaxy he swore to annihilate? In a jarring shift, everything falls silent and dim. As Vinaze’s strong presence withstood the suffocating air of Ptolemis’ mind, something stirred at his feet. Hostless arms quietly sprouted from the carcass of the self, coiling around his ankles, dragging him downward, deeper into the sands. But what’s this? The foul air currents seem to bring another memory toward him from the infinite horizon. Will the Prophet risk being scarred by the unknown?
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Will he peer deeper into the abyss?

Tags: Darth Solipsis Darth Vinaze Onrai Cornelius Nibocaj Derix Tirall Darth Bellum Khamul Kryze Shannic Wulf Darth Immortuos Pietro Demici Romi Jade Lossa Darcuhl Collector Darth Maledictio Briana Sal-Soren ​

 

[Darth Vinaze]

THE PROPHET

Darksiders: Darth Solipsis Derix Tirall | Jogon | Onrai | Detritus Ren | Darth Ptolemis | Darth Immortuos | Khamul Kryze | Olorion Fossk | Darth Bellum | Shannic Wulf
Honored Guests: Romi Jade Pietro Demici

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Vinaze plunged his psyche into the memory walk completely, leaving behind his mortal form to be ravaged by Ptolemis' force drain, or whichever enterprising Sith would catch the two Lords at in their moment of shared paralyzed weakness. As he did, he had not expected to find a feeling of familiarity.

Darth Ptolemis was a hard man to read, which made the prospect of unveiling his fears and crutches all the more sweet, but in the wastes of the man's soul he found a sentiment shared. Was it regret? Shame? Dishonour? Something in that vein. Vinaze too had long lamented the failure of the Maw, his failure to succeed at the ritual performed on the very steps they now stood. His failure had led him to be cast to Otherspace, then through a slow return to power in the Netherworld. By the time he had been able to face returning to the mortal world, his home of Exegol had been destroyed. The two Sith Lord shared a painful memory of their inability to serve the Sith'ari despite their rank and power.

As the winds brought shifting sands and a new perspective. The soul's lament became the soul's anger. Something every man to fall to the Dark Side knew well. He wondered who the Shadow Hand had been before he was the Mask, before ascending to the right-hand of ultimate evil. Had he been a Jedi with a long, painful fall? Or had he been like Vinaze, born into it and cultivated in the dark arts from a young age?

As he pondered his questions, he could feel an answer close by, but secluded in the hazy depths. The answer, as always, was fear. It never changed, not in the Sith, nor in the Jedi. Everybody ran from something, sometimes running into strength, sometimes into weakness. It was why Vinaze so deeply loved the memory walk, for it brought out that part of anyone that was most weak, bringing forth things locked so deep in the darkness that only another master of the dark could reach them.

When the sand shifted again with another gale, the revealed the manifold hands of a deep subconscious, grasping sharply to the disembodied psyche of Vinaze and dragging him down to the ground. The sand part for them, beginning to suffocate Vinaze as the sand filled his mouth. Before the final plunge, he smelled upon the wind another memory, but what was it?

As the darkness closed around him, he relaxed and opened his mind to the connection between them. It was cemented now, no doubt, as Vinaze was pulled deeper and deeper by the clawing hands. He was in the abyss of the Dark Lord's black soul, a void he stared into readily...

 

[Darth Bellum]

BELLUM CONTRA OMNES
[ Theme ]

| Location | Akar Tsis, Temple​

| Purpose | Slaughter​

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Bellum's fingers would release from the hilt of Fellsong, the large claymore floating telekinetically to his side as the hungry Sith Lord's spirit housed within it seemed to be choosing its next meal, the hungering blade that was drawn to blood and essence, yet who's own hunger was dwarfed by that of Bellum's own ravenous appetite for carnage and chaos. The foolish came to him, like moths drawn to flame - eager to prove their worth and merit by slaying a Sith greater than themselves; a futile exercise and display that would cost the unimaginative and weak their lives as Fellsong swung and cleaved any who attempted to approach Bellum with little difficulty whilst the lord of all that was war remained at ease, still as a statue observing the scene before him.​

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Those that had a modicum of sense were smart to leave him be - fear and arrogance would root out the weak from their masses as those too feeble to endure the slaughter would attempt to flee, only to be cut down by those who thirsted for blood and had something to prove. The arrogant would unknowingly challenge those they knew nothing of and realize the true gap between strength and would be cut down by those who were more than capable but simply wished to conceal their strength. Secrecy and deception were amongst the most powerful tools within a Sith's arsenal. The less one knew of a Sith, the less they knew of their strength, their influence, their capability and their schemes - and when the time came to challenge them, then the encounter would cost the foolish and unprepared their life.​

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It was not the simple folk, the executioner or the kings that held power but the ones that pulled the strings from the shadows - unseen and unbothered by whatever the Galaxy may throw at them because in the end it would all factor into play. It was a matter of adaptation, survival and evolution of one's self, where only the most capable would thrive in a Galaxy filled with chaos.​

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Bellum watched in silence as his gaze shifted amongst the remaining individuals present. The Jedi had managed to escape in the ensuing chaos as those with more sinister motives began to make their moves. He simply bid his time for an appropriate opportunity and time to make his own move should he decide that it was needed.​

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Location: Akar Tsis.

[Atmosphere]

The memory that the sharp winds carried were heralded by blood-curdling screams, louder and louder as they approached, painting the sky red. In equal measure, the world in Ptolemis’ head darkened, with Darth Vinaze being swallowed up by his corrupted psyche slowly, surely. The sands crept higher and higher until they filled the Prophet’s mouth, nose, ears… it was all so comforting. Yet, just before the cool, soft darkness enveloped him, Vinaze saw something nobody has ever seen before. A memory of change.

The screams of pain were clear now. House Ansonnir aflame. Standing before the lavish, archaic building a young Fondorian stands, hooded. His face? Obscured by time and trauma. With doors, windows and all exits blocked, the house was damnation made real. And the architect of this horror, standing outside this burning prison looked up at the topmost window, from which a man with peeling flesh cried: - Orlov! Save me! - But Orlov did not answer; for at that moment, the Blasphemer was born. - Burn, FATHER.

And with this final memory revealed, Ptolemis regained control. In a flash, all of his fiery anguish and sorrow punched through Vinaze’s mental projection, likely scarring him and ejecting the parasitic invader that was Lord Vinaze.

Without hesitation, in the real world, the weakened Ptolemis stands up, and attempts to push away the Prophet with as much Force as he can muster, then disappear. Both will carry this moment with them forevermore. As Ptolemis slithered away, he realized; only one winner stands among this entire crowd. The unmaker of the Great Error. The Sith’ari. The Emperor Solipsis.
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exit post

Tags: Darth Solipsis Darth Vinaze Onrai Cornelius Nibocaj Derix Tirall Darth Bellum Khamul Kryze Shannic Wulf Darth Immortuos Pietro Demici Romi Jade Lossa Darcuhl Collector Darth Maledictio Briana Sal-Soren ​

 

[Darth Maledictio]

Shadow Emperor, Leader of the Spear, Shadow Dragon

Information

Objective: To attend the meeting
Location: Akar Tsis, Tython
Equipment: Empyrean gland | OPBC-01m
Tags: Darth Solipsis | Onrai | Jogon | Derix Tirall | Darth Vinaze | Olorion Fossk | Cornelius Nibocaj | Detritus Ren | Romi Jade | Pietro Demici | Darth Bellum | Khamul Kryze | Darth Immortuos | Shannic Wulf | Lord Letifer | Spindle | Darth Ptolemis | Lossa Darcuhl | Collector | Briana Sal-Soren | Vora Kaar | Open

<"High Nelvaanian"> | ~ telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

The man folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. Curse did not want to get involved in the fight, he had no intention of doing so. The man had different views than the way of Darth Bane. In fact, there were probably very few people who looked at the world as a Sith as he did. The Spear and the ancient technology, cybernetic implants the shapeshifting man possessed gave him a rather unique perspective. The man knew full well that had he been an ordinary Sith, he would have agreed and participated. But Curse was no ordinary Sith.

"On the eve of the invasion of Coruscant, is this necessary? It would be much more reasonable to send them against the Jedi and see in that battle who is weak and who is not. At least they would take the enemy with them to their deaths..." the man said in the middle of the fight, which he also telepathically conveyed to Darth Solipsis and at the moment he didn't care if the Emperor tried to kill him for it.

After that, he was not really interested in this day. And his thoughts drifted back to his own project. After that, it was easily in the imaginary deck, or in the possibilities of the chess game, that the Coruscant invasion would be a failure. Maybe the Sith would turn on each other there instead of fighting the real enemy. But that was no longer the man's business. It was for the Emperor and his inner circle to deal with. Curse then pushed himself away from the pillar he had been leaning on.

"Such a waste..." the man said with boredom and contempt.

Then he turned and walked out of the room, his cloak trailing behind him as it had when he came in. For Curse, it had been a rather disappointing day and a waste of valuable manpower. So far he had not found anyone here worthy of being an ally. Perhaps at another time, or when the Emperor finally starts to think soberly. Although Solipsis had big plans before, in the days of the Maw, for Curse then the crazy thoughts somehow seemed more coherent than this duel now. He knew there was a good chance they were part of some larger plan. The Sith Lord knew it would be good to watch for these signs, even if only from a distance.

These will become clear over time…

Last post.​

 

[Jogon]

AKAR TSIS, TEMPLE OF THE SITH

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Jogon could feel it, indeed. His scaly flesh crawled as the Dark Side crept into this place. ​

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He might have been impressed if he bought into any of this superstition. As it stood, the feckless cardinal was only a man, and a commonplace specimen at that: weak and misguided and useless. Utterly lacking the cunning or strength to defend himself and preserve his life. How else would he have wound up here?​

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If Jogon ascribed any higher intellect to the Dark Side, he would have thought it might be offended by the quality of such a sacrifice. ​

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But that was not to be the end of it. Jogon felt a twinge in the Force while they were still murdering the cardinal. The doors. They were closing the doors. Sealing the exits... The dashade abruptly turned and briskly cut through the congregation, attracting annoyed stares from those more enraptured by this little episode. Ignorant slaves. Like the cardinal. And they'd die with him.​

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Jogon slipped through a crack in the cathedral's towering doors right before they silently shut. He was surprised to find himself panting, stooped over with his hands on his knees. Had he been holding his breath the whole time? Those responsible for sealing the doors were naturally standing nearby. A quick look at their wild, vacuous eyes and mismatched uniforms told Jogon that these were middling scum from the Dark Side Elite.​

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"He got out? A big guy like him?"​

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The other one sniffled. "Now what?"​

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Unlucky for them, Jogon's mood had soured. The muted sounds of the massacre were just barely audible through the door. The dashade drew himself back up, and his lightsaber snapped to life in his hand. "Run."​