A whole new world (TSA)

[Lark]

[member="Blake Morrigan"]

Lark inclined his head quizzically, exhibiting an intense curiosity, like a scientist who discovered some new form of life or a new type of matter floating around in the vast emptiness of space. There were not a great many things that piqued Lark's inquisitiveness, but the conflicts of the mind roused his interest like nothing else. So wonderful, was the enigma of one's innermost thoughts. A picturesque playground where one can run rampant alongside his most consuming desires, or most abhorrent nightmares. A workshop where an outside force can craft the will and aspirations of whosoever owns the mind being tampered with. The mind was a collection of everything that made someone, a being's entire history contained in something even the most learned scholars failed to fully comprehend. So fallible, and malleable like soft clay. How weak it could be when there was something it wanted to forget, and how easily it could be broken when polluted with unfamiliar, disagreeable situations. And yet it was designed so conveniently, sad memories could be forgotten as easily as a passing face in a dream. People can become whatever they want to be.

Blake's simple actions, a hidden grimace of pain as he approached, a quick movement of her arm as he spoke, anxious stares, they set off all sorts of signals in his mind. Lark smiled ethereally, and sat down across the table from the woman, trying to catch her golden eyes with his own. Eyes were a window into the mind, and Lark sought to capture them whenever he spoke, judging the reaction's of one's innermost thoughts. Well, shall we begin?

"Studying, hmm? That's not exactly the answer I'm looking for, but I suspect you know that already." He stared at her with unblinking, unrelenting eyes, noticing tear residue puddled up on her pale cheeks. "I'll take it you haven't been here very long. Would you like to hear about my first day?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. "I was training alongside a few other acolytes under Master Krest. A simple test to prove ourselves, for the Lords to judge whether or not we were worthy to be named Sith. Some of the acolytes disappeared afterwards. But one, one was made an example of what would happen if your weakness consumes you. Krest broke him down into tiny pieces, utterly destroying him." He paused for a moment, and chuckled smoothly. "And that was only his body. I wonder what was going through his mind as he died? I imagine he was afraid, but I don't recall that he cried." He let his words settle in before continuing. "And he wasn't broken when he arrived," he said, nodding towards her arm. He could sense some infernal aura screaming from within the curious mark, now hidden beneath wrapped bandages. "I know not what events brought you down to this lamentable state, but only the strong survive the Sith. And here you are."

"Crying."

"Like a lonely, abandoned, broken girl."

Lark sang his little song, attempting to tease out whatever power lurked within her. But you're not weak, are you? He thought. Why are you hiding? Show me. Show me the machinations of your mind.

 

[Poe]

​I relocated to the archives holographic star map, and began charting plot courses into the computer. Soon the map began to reveal my entry points, allowing me to formulate a well versed plan. There were five planets listed on the map, each one just as important as the next. I began to wonder internally that this was starting to shape up into a galactic wide scavenger hunt. But hard work and a strong fortitude to succeed would always reap the rewards for the effort. I downloaded a copy of the map to the small mechanical device after plugging it into the computer, then shut down the computer after the file transfer was complete.

​With my data filled device secure in my satchel, I looked out the archives lone, tinted window to the sprawling city that seemed almost to perfect. The Sith Ascendancy had brought justice, stability, and peace to the capital city of Bastion, but what laid on the surface was only an illusion. No city was perfect, and no city was entirely peaceful; especially with the operatives of those pesky Force Hunters roaming about. I made a mental note to investigate the allegations of reports of Force Hunter operatives moving freely through the city, but not until I returned from my own personal business.

 

[Myra]

Reading, this is what the Kaminoan was doing.. of all things he was reading. Of course, situated in one of the great libraries of the Sith Temple on Bastion, you'd expect him to be doing as such. But he, a Kaminoan... reading.. there were better things to be done, but no. He was bored and needed something to pass the time. Unlike his home-world, he had no true goal, no specific duty to accomplish continually day in and day out. He had time on his hands.. and he was bored, a feeling rare to him.

Yet as he reads, he's aware of many staring at him, glancing over their shoulders, or doing similar not so discrete actions in attempts to stare at the Kaminoan.. he was a rarity, a species not often seen off their own planet. His elongated neck and arms giving him a disproportionate shape, and his large eyes scan the room, many returning to their reading or other occupation to avoid his gaze.. He came here because there was order, somewhere he could learn and become more powerful in peace, yet this was proving difficult.. much more so than he had initially expected..

 

[Darth Ferus]

A smile formed on the Sith's lips as he felt more and more hopefuls enter the room, and this excited Krest. There was nothing better than hopefuls trying to learn, trying to take their futures in their own hands. "There's quite the crowd. Perhaps I'll show a trick or two." He turned his head to look all around the room and spoke up to catch the attention of all in the location.

"To all who'd like to, I will be teaching.. Something. What, I'm not sure of yet. Just meet me out front."

[member="Darth Genesis"] [member="Darth Sarcophago"] [member="Lark"] [member="Anya Loma"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

Interesting to note that when several Sith gather, others always arrive. It was something Tirdarius had observed many times over the decades he had worked among others of his kind, but the reason for it had eluded him. Perhaps it was a reflection of the suspicious nature of the Sith: if several of them banded together, they might deal a death-blow to a rival or even to a superior. They might be plotting behind the back of their peers, might be sowing dissension or quietly fostering resentment, the sort of slow simmering that might eventually bubble up and create a murderous environment.

And yet such things should be behind us now.

The purpose of the Ascendancy had ever been clear, to his mind: bring the Sith together under one banner, remove the subversions that had so often undermined the ability of the Sith to unify the galaxy behind their rule, and to ensure a clear and cohesive vision that they could all serve. The old habits nonetheless remained: he could see it among the Acolytes, each vying for position. The Knights, each seeking to add to their power and prove themselves worthy of Lordship. How many times in meetings of the Circle had he seen the Lords offer dangerous glances to the others when challenged, the ancient feelings of umbrage simmering beneath the surface, yet never offered dangerous release? Times are changing, but such things come slowly.

Still, in the days of the old Empire, a room this full of Sith would have seen some conflict by now: sharp, angry words exchanged, or a blow directed, maybe even a lightsaber drawn. The atmosphere was not nearly so heated here, which pleased him: it was evidence of the progress they had made. These were all intelligent, talented beings who might direct those skills to higher purpose. So frequently, they themselves have been that higher purpose, each one believing themselves unique and special, such that only they were fit to rule. The arrogance of it has been astounding: hardly surprising that so many Sith had fallen in pursuit of that power. But these...they all display a willingness to embrace a different path, and see the Sith ascend to where they should be, rather than merely themselves.

Krest's invitation intrigued him, and Tirdarius knew he would end up following the Zabrak into the courtyard that stood beyond the library, separating the repository of Sith knowledge from the other buildings of the recently-constructed Temple. It was a spacious area, paved with duracrete flagstones paved in tessellating patterns, smooth and flat, no ornament to break the monotony of it. Beyond the rest of the Temple could be viewed: the central building containing the living quarters and the myriad training rooms. Looking beyond it, rising far higher into the sky: the Ascendant Circle Hall, a not-so-subtle reminder to the Sith living here that the Circle ruled above all.

"Offer them a taste of power, to whet their appetites?", he asked Krest as they walked out of the confines of the library, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the day: Bastion was very much unlike Korriban, Dromund Kaas or Ziost, in that the weather was often pleasant by many standards. "I'd be interested to see you at work, my friend," the Sith Lord added, knowing that so many of the Sith Lords kept their skills to themselves: another holdover of the old days, but one that Krest had been working to change. "Been some time since we've had reason to match wits beyond the confines of the Circle chamber."

| [member="Krest"] | [member="Darth Valtryx"] | [member="Blake Morrigan"] | [member="Norin Kellarov"] | [member="Anya Loma"] | [member="Darth Sarcophago"] | [member="Lark"] | [member="Darth Genesis"] |​

 

[Myra]

Such an invitation intrigued Genesis.. This was the first time this had happened in all his time on Bastion and he was inclined to learn more, any skill or ability would give him the strength he needed. Pushing back his chair, the graceful Kaminoan strides over to the Zabrak, ahh.. A Zabrak, the memories.. "I am intrigued." Is all that Genesis feels the necessity to say. Admitting that he needed another life-form's help was already bad enough, but putting more words to it then needed was a bitter thought indeed.

The Courtyard intrigued him, it was simplistic but elaborate at the same time, something he could appreciate and something he could find a little too over the top.. indeed, he stands observing the pavement for a few seconds before moving on to the Ascendant Hall, the structure also intrigued him, this entire planet intrigued him. His master had always told him 'A Sith and an Apprentice' over and over again yet so many Sith living in one place shattered that rule into an ancient story to scare children, now they were a force to scare even the strongest of militaries, so many Sith, each growing in power and prestige.. this was something he would be interested in observing.

 

[Darth Sibilus]

The din suddenly enveloping the library irritated Drios. Voices bounced around the room in a confusing cluster of sounds, each one less meaningful to the Epicanthix as the last. How could he be expected to immerse himself within these holocrons and his studies with a racket such as the one berating Drios' poor ears. A library was no place for chit-chat, there were plenty of dormitories and cantinas within the academy for such frivolous social interaction. However, Drios' cravings for silence would not be answered, and so he would have to make do with the irritating background noise and continue with his studies.

Today, the Acolyte was studying from a less frequented source, from which emanated a crackling and untrustworthy voice, relaying knowledge of the art of Pyrokinesis, where the user could expel flames from their being, or combust objects without even touching them. It was an understatement to say that the boy was curious. The ability to ignite anything flammable would be a useful asset in his every expanding inventory of tricks, and a perfect alternative to the more advanced skill of Force Lightning.

"...pyrokinesis is an ancient skill, used by both Sith and Jedi alike to burn, used in scenarios ranging from simply lighting a candle to torturing your enemies with one of the most feared natural wonders. Fire." the holocron spoke, before pausing. An image of a Sith Lord projecting fire from his palms was projected from the peak vertex. "You must use the Force to vibrate air at a molecular level, heating it up until finally, combustion."

The Epicanthix stood, and laid his palm out, facing the ceiling. His eyes shifted to a hostile hue as the Force began to surround him and whisper to him, the power of the Darkness coming to him slowly as he attempted to channel every emotion he could muster into the midichlorians within his veins. All of a sudden, embers began to crackle a few inches above his palm, minuscule firecrackers rising into the air. Sweat poured from his temples as a ball of blue flame burst into existence and he stumbled backwards and into the chair, his body aching as if he had just ran a marathon.

Drios took a few moments to recover from the excursion, watching the docile flames dance with each other, suspended in the air as if held up by some invisible force. Then, as soon as they had come to life, the blue fireball dissipated into the air, as if nothing had ever occurred.

 

[Xevek Nekonis]

What was it that once one Sith joined a gathering, another soon would? Which would often lead to larger numbers joining in a continuous cycle. Was finding the answer as easy as looking towards the paranoia that seemed to be naturally bred into any who chose to learn and live at the behest of the Dark? Was the answer truly so simple? That all that lead to such an effect was solely that Sith were so afraid that any gathering that did not involve them may well lead to them soon experiencing the sensation of a knife to the back and the loss of power at the least and life at the most? Or was it more than that? Was there some underlying reason that drove such actions? Something deeper and maybe tied to the nature of the Force, of the Dark, itself?

Such questions ran through Lykos' mind as he stood in isolation, separated and removed from any of the other living beings that roamed the Archives. Concealed and hidden away at his own choice, the Zabrak had taken up root in one of the corners of the upper floors, the table at which he sat in silence half blanketed in shadows that did nothing to assist the dark clothed Assassin in standing out from the background. But, then, that was perfectly fine with him, after all. His life after choosing to embrace the Dark was one of Shadows, a path he did not regret walking and one he hoped that he had finally begun to physically resemble and embody; as much as was logically possible at least. For, no longer was the ideology of Shadows simple ideology for the Zabrak, it had evolved to become his life in all forms.

His lone amber gaze blinked lazily as the small collection of Sith he had been silently observing, his fellow Zabrak Krest and the man he recognised as Tirdarius among their numbers, uprooted and began to make their way through the halls of the Archives towards where he knew the courtyard to be. Such movement was what served to shatter the endless drift of nothingness that had been curling through the White Assassin's mind for the past few minuets, rousing him from his metaphorical slumber and dumping him back into the cold ebb and flow of life.

Such a jolt also served to restart his train of thought from where it had left off, for immediately he returned to contemplating what had exactly lead to a gathering similar to the one that he had just been watching over from his perch of solitude. Odd patches of text ran before unseeing eyes, memories of reading - and even adding some of his own theories in his youth - the conclusion of a long dead Sith being pulled forth from dusty corners of his memories and brought to his attention. Creatures such as Darkspawn, crafted through the perversion of nature that was found in most alchemical arts, were proof that the Dark could be given form, that living beings could be altered or created to be minor nexus of the insidious cold, to be extensions and impressions of his will. And that fact alone begged the question, were these creatures the sole example of this? Was this state only achievable through artificial means? Could it be possible that the pull that resulted in gatherings of Sith was simply nimbuses of Dark calling to like?

Shaking his head as if to physically rid himself of such thoughts and musings, Lykos sighed as he pushed himself to his feet, bared claws curling into the flooring beneath him as he did so. Despite how much he wished to continue his current research, it was evident to the feral looking Sith that his mind was in no state to cooperate with his wishes, his thoughts wandering at the slightly lapse of focus. As such, he might as well follow and observe whatever demonstration Krest and Tirdarius were seeing fit to preform for the curious and knowledge hungry disciples.

With care that seemed oxymoronic coming from the Zabrak, Lykos closed the book that he had been reading from, an archaic thing, a relic really, of leather binding and crinkled paper. A single finger would lay heavily upon the leather as soon as the book was closed, carefully tracing the harsh lines imprinted there, symbols of a language very nearly dead, one preserved solely by the Nomadic Clans of Iridonia, like Lykos' own Clan - Ru Rakama; of which he was the sole survivor and now Patriarch. The text was one that was well beyond centuries old, one of the remnants he had been able to scavenge to the desolation that had been laid upon his Kin and one that generation upon generation of Jath had written in. Preserved upon crumbling sheets of paper were the life stories and learning of those that had learnt of the Force not from Sith or Jedi, but from the Ancestors and, as such, the tome contained knowledge that only those of the Bloodline could know.

Scooping up the text in gentle arms, Lykos concealed it beneath the folds of his robes, holding it protectively to his side, as he set off towards the courtyard, leaving behind no evidence of his presence at the table he now abandoned.