Julius Heydrich
New Member
Western Sector of Sith Space
Sith Vice Admiral Julius Heydrich's patrol fleet, officer's quarters of the Flagship Basileus
Pain.
It seared through his skull like uncontrolled flames eating away at the bark of trees, scorching his brain until he swore he could feel the nerves char and the flesh peel away. Burning away at the very fiber of his being, a glutton eating away at his consciousness until every cluster of nerves cried out for a cease, anything - anything that could relief the searing of the soul. In a brief moment of realization between the pulses of agony shooting throughout his body like arcs of lightning, he knew only one thing could stop this fire - his own personal messiah.
The spice.
The Admiral's pale, gnarled hands twitched uncontrollably, his whole body racked by shattering convulsions. He gasped for the recycled oxygen of his flag-ship, easing down his throat like the flow of molten ore. For a moment, he managed to gather his faculties long enough to steady himself. Julius moved quickly, his hands darting at the peak of human ability, the cybernetic implant calculating, receiving and sending the most insignificant and minute details of trajectory. Like the stroke of the master artisan, he had emptied the jar of the earthy brown Glitterstim into the chalice of Alderaan wine. A fine vintage, one brewed before the destruction of the original Alderaan by the first Death Star.
Julius' cloudy, gray eyes watched as the spice dissolved into the deep purple liquid, and as delicately as possible, downed the contents of the goblet into his gullet. The glitterstim began to take hold within his body, flowing into his bloodstream, digesting within his stomach. Immediately, the sensation of a supernova exploding within his skull was replaced with the lethargic mellow of euphoria. With a final shiver, the incessant twitching of his body ceased and the darkness that had clouded the corners of his vision had retreated. Closing his weary eyes, he leaned back within his bantha leather seat, his mind with the aid of glitterstim now cooperating perfectly with his Analytic cerebral implants.
He now became intimately aware of the slick sweat that stuck the fabric of his uniform to his flesh, the subsided motions of his chest whilst he breathed, the soothing rub-dub of the heart at work, pushing the spice-saturated blood throughout his veins. His mind melded, spreading throughout the confines of his cabin - the manifestions of the telepathic ability the spice imparted, combined with his implants - which ceaselessly picked upon and scanned over the tiniest of details constantly.
Eventually the Vice-Admiral stirred himself from his brief rest. With his implants, he had perfect control over every aspect of his body functioning. He could trigger his adrenal glands in order to release a flood of pain-relieving hormones, suppress the mewling of his pain from his nerves, twitch and flex the smallest of muscles within his face to send the most subtle of messages and reinforce suggestions subliminally. He needed the force not for this. In this regard, his Sith Overlords were a dying breed - soon one would not be able to tell apart one gifted with an abundance of midichlorians and one equipped with cutting-edge technology. Yes, both the Jedi and Sith would be obsolete.
But not today. The thought came with a wistful sigh.
Today, he would delicately trim his beard and cloth himself in his impeccable uniform, and march out to the command bridge to follow the idle whims of this pathetically corrupt magocracy like a good leashed hound.
And so he did, marching down the bland, grey, utilitarian halls of his flag-ship, Julius bemused to himself that he had a certain "magic" of his own. Glancing over to several officer-cadets having a civil conversation on the topic of pod-racing, he sharply clicked the heels together of his polished black jack-boots, hastily snapping the men upwards into a well-drilled salute. He smirked inwardly at himself.
"At ease, gentlemen. I trust you are enjoying the improved rations?" In order to keep up morale, and reward good-service Julius went to great lengths to ensure his men had decent basic-comforts. It was difficult to find a steady supply of fresh ingredients and keep the food-processors in optimal order, but such a thing was necessary for the continued efficient function of his fleet - the lubricant of the machine. Besides, it allowed him a non-lethal punishment for minor infractions as he could strip away the quality rations and put disobedient or incompetent men upon the thin vitamin gruel that provided all the essential nutrients one would need but absolutely none of the favor, a despised punishment among his forces.
"Yes, Sir." Came the response from the soldiers, though he could tell by the subtle twitching of facial muscles that they wished to say more but fear stayed their hand.
"Anything else, soldiers?"
One of them, a tall lanky darker skinned one, gulped and offered a nervous smile.
"Well, they use more... ehm.... salt?" The man winced, but Julius only offered a brief clasp on the man's shoulder.
"Noted." In truth, Julius cared little - but his calculations again and again showed that fostering a good-will of camaraderie within his ranks significantly decreased his chances of dying in a mutiny, as tempting as that sounded at times.
The Vice-Admiral continued on, and he soon found himself within the main-bridge of Basileus. Hundreds of staff-officers, engineers and systems operators scurrying around like dutiful worker ants within a durasteel colony. As he calculated the high-rate of efficiency, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride swelling within his breast. Taking a seat within his Commander's chair, he looked out to the vast emptiness of space, only filled with the occasional twinkle of the distant stars and his numerous ships.
Malrion Zatrion, a bright-faced, eager and ambitious member of Julius' staff soon arrived to heel, one obedient hound subordinated to another. The boy, with his clean, ironed uniform and intelligence within his emerald eyes reminded the Vice-Admiral of himself at a younger age.
"Status Report, Lieutenant Zatrion." Julius commanded with his powerful aura of authority, one accumulated through decades of blood and experience.
"All quiet in the Western Sector, Vice-Admiral." He responded in a strict, professional way, but through the readings of the nuances of his facial expression, Julius could tell this man was disappointed - he had hoped for some action, something that allowed him to prove himself and finally work his way up to some position that was actually significant. Once again, Julius couldn't resist a vague smirk.
The experienced fleeter knew that little within this turbulent galaxy stayed "quiet" for long, and that the young cadet officer would have his day. With a flicker of his hand, he dismissed Zatrion and checked his communication systems for any updates upon his standing orders.
(OOC: Anyone is welcome with sufficient reasoning, though fellow Sith are the most likely of guests. Note that for anyone hostile to the Sith, moving into the a relatively large enemy fleet would likely carry a very high probability of critical injury or death. Shoot a PM if you intend to join, please. )
Sith Vice Admiral Julius Heydrich's patrol fleet, officer's quarters of the Flagship Basileus
The Basileus surrounded by escorts.
Pain.
It seared through his skull like uncontrolled flames eating away at the bark of trees, scorching his brain until he swore he could feel the nerves char and the flesh peel away. Burning away at the very fiber of his being, a glutton eating away at his consciousness until every cluster of nerves cried out for a cease, anything - anything that could relief the searing of the soul. In a brief moment of realization between the pulses of agony shooting throughout his body like arcs of lightning, he knew only one thing could stop this fire - his own personal messiah.
The spice.
The Admiral's pale, gnarled hands twitched uncontrollably, his whole body racked by shattering convulsions. He gasped for the recycled oxygen of his flag-ship, easing down his throat like the flow of molten ore. For a moment, he managed to gather his faculties long enough to steady himself. Julius moved quickly, his hands darting at the peak of human ability, the cybernetic implant calculating, receiving and sending the most insignificant and minute details of trajectory. Like the stroke of the master artisan, he had emptied the jar of the earthy brown Glitterstim into the chalice of Alderaan wine. A fine vintage, one brewed before the destruction of the original Alderaan by the first Death Star.
Julius' cloudy, gray eyes watched as the spice dissolved into the deep purple liquid, and as delicately as possible, downed the contents of the goblet into his gullet. The glitterstim began to take hold within his body, flowing into his bloodstream, digesting within his stomach. Immediately, the sensation of a supernova exploding within his skull was replaced with the lethargic mellow of euphoria. With a final shiver, the incessant twitching of his body ceased and the darkness that had clouded the corners of his vision had retreated. Closing his weary eyes, he leaned back within his bantha leather seat, his mind with the aid of glitterstim now cooperating perfectly with his Analytic cerebral implants.
He now became intimately aware of the slick sweat that stuck the fabric of his uniform to his flesh, the subsided motions of his chest whilst he breathed, the soothing rub-dub of the heart at work, pushing the spice-saturated blood throughout his veins. His mind melded, spreading throughout the confines of his cabin - the manifestions of the telepathic ability the spice imparted, combined with his implants - which ceaselessly picked upon and scanned over the tiniest of details constantly.
Eventually the Vice-Admiral stirred himself from his brief rest. With his implants, he had perfect control over every aspect of his body functioning. He could trigger his adrenal glands in order to release a flood of pain-relieving hormones, suppress the mewling of his pain from his nerves, twitch and flex the smallest of muscles within his face to send the most subtle of messages and reinforce suggestions subliminally. He needed the force not for this. In this regard, his Sith Overlords were a dying breed - soon one would not be able to tell apart one gifted with an abundance of midichlorians and one equipped with cutting-edge technology. Yes, both the Jedi and Sith would be obsolete.
But not today. The thought came with a wistful sigh.
Today, he would delicately trim his beard and cloth himself in his impeccable uniform, and march out to the command bridge to follow the idle whims of this pathetically corrupt magocracy like a good leashed hound.
And so he did, marching down the bland, grey, utilitarian halls of his flag-ship, Julius bemused to himself that he had a certain "magic" of his own. Glancing over to several officer-cadets having a civil conversation on the topic of pod-racing, he sharply clicked the heels together of his polished black jack-boots, hastily snapping the men upwards into a well-drilled salute. He smirked inwardly at himself.
"At ease, gentlemen. I trust you are enjoying the improved rations?" In order to keep up morale, and reward good-service Julius went to great lengths to ensure his men had decent basic-comforts. It was difficult to find a steady supply of fresh ingredients and keep the food-processors in optimal order, but such a thing was necessary for the continued efficient function of his fleet - the lubricant of the machine. Besides, it allowed him a non-lethal punishment for minor infractions as he could strip away the quality rations and put disobedient or incompetent men upon the thin vitamin gruel that provided all the essential nutrients one would need but absolutely none of the favor, a despised punishment among his forces.
"Yes, Sir." Came the response from the soldiers, though he could tell by the subtle twitching of facial muscles that they wished to say more but fear stayed their hand.
"Anything else, soldiers?"
One of them, a tall lanky darker skinned one, gulped and offered a nervous smile.
"Well, they use more... ehm.... salt?" The man winced, but Julius only offered a brief clasp on the man's shoulder.
"Noted." In truth, Julius cared little - but his calculations again and again showed that fostering a good-will of camaraderie within his ranks significantly decreased his chances of dying in a mutiny, as tempting as that sounded at times.
The Vice-Admiral continued on, and he soon found himself within the main-bridge of Basileus. Hundreds of staff-officers, engineers and systems operators scurrying around like dutiful worker ants within a durasteel colony. As he calculated the high-rate of efficiency, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride swelling within his breast. Taking a seat within his Commander's chair, he looked out to the vast emptiness of space, only filled with the occasional twinkle of the distant stars and his numerous ships.
Malrion Zatrion, a bright-faced, eager and ambitious member of Julius' staff soon arrived to heel, one obedient hound subordinated to another. The boy, with his clean, ironed uniform and intelligence within his emerald eyes reminded the Vice-Admiral of himself at a younger age.
"Status Report, Lieutenant Zatrion." Julius commanded with his powerful aura of authority, one accumulated through decades of blood and experience.
"All quiet in the Western Sector, Vice-Admiral." He responded in a strict, professional way, but through the readings of the nuances of his facial expression, Julius could tell this man was disappointed - he had hoped for some action, something that allowed him to prove himself and finally work his way up to some position that was actually significant. Once again, Julius couldn't resist a vague smirk.
The experienced fleeter knew that little within this turbulent galaxy stayed "quiet" for long, and that the young cadet officer would have his day. With a flicker of his hand, he dismissed Zatrion and checked his communication systems for any updates upon his standing orders.
(OOC: Anyone is welcome with sufficient reasoning, though fellow Sith are the most likely of guests. Note that for anyone hostile to the Sith, moving into the a relatively large enemy fleet would likely carry a very high probability of critical injury or death. Shoot a PM if you intend to join, please. )