"If this were any other moment," Antherion said, sighing and shaking his head, "I would call you a fool for trying to give me the Jedi party line. Especially when you speak to me like this - like a student. Like a child." He smiled, softly, pained. "I might anyways. We both tried to climb the great, Galactic ladder. We both fell - hard. It's a pain we've bought with our weakness. In terms of making some great difference, both of our philosophies are utterly bankrupt."
Glancing around, the Sith raised his hand - a single, flat platform of oblong stone was thrust up from the ground with a grinding and a shifting of earth. With a sense of weight beyond his slight frame, the Sith slumped down onto it. He patted the space next to him, beckoning for Cedric Grayson to come and sit.
"I don't want to hear about how you can 'save my soul,' either. If I wanted something like that, I would have gone to that grey-bearded fellow with the walking stick and the tea. He could tell me all about how there's a seed of some sparkling perfect flower lying under the mud I've heaped on my spirit, or some other such tripe; he's probably better than you at that sort of thing. I came to you for what you're good at."
He raised a finger, pointing it at the bare-chested man.
"Take a seat and tell me, if you feel the way I feel about the things I've done, why you haven't hacked me to pieces with that pretty toy of yours. I'm damn sure you personally don't harbor some great personal investment in the spiritual growth of a participant in genocide. Maybe make that bubble trick of yours a bit bigger while you're at it - I'm soaked."
He kept his demeanor haughty, but it rang somewhat hollow given the utter imbalance of power. Still, it was the thing that let him stand being here.