Xevek Nekonis
From The Shadows
When a corpse began to rot, maggots would naturally come to consume the decaying flesh. The body would continue this decay, being eaten away at bit by bit, until nothing remained. And, as if often the truth within the galaxy and reality, what can be found in nature can be mirrored on a much larger scale when one chose to look at the subconscious, primitive and feral actions of the populous of the galaxy. When an empire would weaken, its borders would rot and insurgents would make their way inwards to consume the dying flesh. Admittedly, not all of the insurgents could be compared to maggots, some could easily be compared to predator species, but, they would consume and take nourishment from the holdings of this weakened Empire.
And the more that was 'liberated' and seized by viscous hands, the weaker the empire would become and, in a perfect example of a unending, unyielding and in-compassionate self-contained cycle, the weaker it became the more that would be taken from their grasp and so on until, much like the corpse in nature, nothing was left. Like a God abandoning their disciples, a Lord their bondsmen, a shattering of power would consume the empire as the decay continued, that cycle viciously unending until only a void remained behind.
But, within that shattering of power, through the cracks that wound their way through the empire and in a futile defiance of the laws of nature, potential may be found. Desperate fingers might try and grasp at fraying edges. Commanding voices may try to order the complete halting of the march of time. Defiance would spark, roars of flame visible from a distance, and, as all flame would do, it would burn at the decay. It would cauterise, it would serve as a stop gap, and, for but a moment, that futile defiance would be successful. Of course, in time that moment would end, the rot still present and safe from the flames, and the decay would resume. However, even if the march of time would continue for the doomed empire, that pause would hinder the seeking hands of those that sought the strength of the empire. And so, it would of course come to pass that death would be brought to those that exemplified the flames.
Such as this story had been told once before, it was being woven into the tapestry of the galaxy once more. This time, the empire named was called no empire; named, instead, The Dominion. Its name spoke of attempts to dominate the galaxy, to dominate life and to dominate nature and the cycles found within. But, it had failed. Its name not enough to carry forth the weak will of the beings that gave it that very same name. Arrogance? Complacency? Whatever the reason, it had fallen to weakness and, so, it would soon be expunged from the galaxy as it should be.
However, as the story foretold, flames could be seen trying to burn the corruption - a voice of defiance speaking against the march of time and fingers trying to pull back together what was breaking. And, as the story told, outside forces would not see that happen, would seek to see the end. And so, the Shadows of the galaxy stirred and made their way to Vjun where the embers of those flames had been born. The cold grips of death would soon be present upon that Dark-soaked planet, adding to its strength and snuffing out the flames that fought.
The Shadow that arrived upon Vjun left no trail of itself, no evidence to speak for it nor to point towards it, instead, the Shadow only walked with the looming specter of death - its heavy presence in the Force enough to hide the Shadow. Death to the person or death to their pursuits, separate or both? That was unknown, and, in truth, the Shadow cared not for what the truth was. Lies and nature were their domain and, so, lies and nature would guide them. Truth was for the so called honourable. And Death? Death was for all so it spoke no stories as to what was to be taken into its embrace.
But, still, curiosity cautioned the Shadow none the less. It cared not for what would die, and should not care either. But, still, caution was present. Caution because a pull had guided them to Castle Bast once before and given him nothing, but, this time, the pull directed him there once more along with his duties of delivering Death. Why such a pull existed, the Shadow did not know. But, it was bound to their soul none the less, a nature more pure that mother nature itself. And so, it caution itself upon approach to Vjun. It cautioned itself upon entry to Castle Bast. And it cautioned itself upon stepping across the boundaries of the library found within the fortress - signs of the conflict it had been a part of still present. And, finally, it cautioned itself as the need was prepared to be used, poison already coating the end.
The Shadow would halt, the pull speaking to them as Death hissed in a keen ear. Not Now, they both spoke. Not Yet, they both urged. And so, guided by Death, guided by nature in its purest, the Shadow died and Darth Lykos, the Sith Lord, cocked his head beneath the veil of a variety of manipulations of the physical world and the metaphysical to hide his body and presence.
Turning from the form of Ra'a'mah as the silver haired woman hunched over a book before her, whispered words falling from slightly parted lips as her eyes and fingers roamed across age-worn pages inside books that contained the written word - a rarity and a relic within the age of data. On silent footsteps, his Presence still occluded from all but the Deities and the Force itself, he would pace around the wooden table, finger tips running along the casings of other books that lay scattered across the table. However, the occlusion, the Oblivion, that clung to his form as a second skin would soon began to melt, peeling away bit by bit with every footstep he took.
One step and his natural, masculine scent - he had ensured that his skin held no artificial scents on the mission leaving him to hide only what was natural - would begin to be able to be scented by those with the ability to do so. A third step would set itself upon the floor and it would be heard, the sound echoing off of the shelves that lines the library, holding the knowledge of the past. With every step, the sound of his footsteps would be more and more easily heard, their obscurity fading. And so they would ring out as he rounded the end of the table.
A ninth footstep and his Presence would begin to detach from the Dark it his within. Heavy, heady with power yet as graceful and fleeting as the Shadows he concealed within, it would reach out, pressing down upon all living things within a short distance - still hidden from those that moved beyond the distance that he allowed his Presence to be felt. The chair opposite Ra'a'mah would draw back, carried by invisible hands and Lykos' phantom body would settle into the seat.
As the last of his weight was lifted from his feet, his from would suddenly appear, as if glass had shattered around him, reality no longer able to bear the damage the impossible was doing upon it. A feral smirk was playing across scarred lips and nothing else of his face could be seen, concealed by shadows cast by a hood. Enshrouded in a cloak as dark as the Shadows, he would lean forward with nary a whisper, breath ghosting across the gap between the two Sith Lords. And when he spoke, a single amber glow would form within the shadows of his hood - a fire of ice that flared within his eye and fueled itself with the Dark - as his words would be growled out, taunting in their stoicism.
"Ra'a'mah. How the fortunes favour you today. For you get to see me, and not the blade that would have slit your throat - spilling you life into the void of Death. The only question: why are you so fortunate when so many are not?"
[member="Ra'a'mah"]
And the more that was 'liberated' and seized by viscous hands, the weaker the empire would become and, in a perfect example of a unending, unyielding and in-compassionate self-contained cycle, the weaker it became the more that would be taken from their grasp and so on until, much like the corpse in nature, nothing was left. Like a God abandoning their disciples, a Lord their bondsmen, a shattering of power would consume the empire as the decay continued, that cycle viciously unending until only a void remained behind.
But, within that shattering of power, through the cracks that wound their way through the empire and in a futile defiance of the laws of nature, potential may be found. Desperate fingers might try and grasp at fraying edges. Commanding voices may try to order the complete halting of the march of time. Defiance would spark, roars of flame visible from a distance, and, as all flame would do, it would burn at the decay. It would cauterise, it would serve as a stop gap, and, for but a moment, that futile defiance would be successful. Of course, in time that moment would end, the rot still present and safe from the flames, and the decay would resume. However, even if the march of time would continue for the doomed empire, that pause would hinder the seeking hands of those that sought the strength of the empire. And so, it would of course come to pass that death would be brought to those that exemplified the flames.
Such as this story had been told once before, it was being woven into the tapestry of the galaxy once more. This time, the empire named was called no empire; named, instead, The Dominion. Its name spoke of attempts to dominate the galaxy, to dominate life and to dominate nature and the cycles found within. But, it had failed. Its name not enough to carry forth the weak will of the beings that gave it that very same name. Arrogance? Complacency? Whatever the reason, it had fallen to weakness and, so, it would soon be expunged from the galaxy as it should be.
However, as the story foretold, flames could be seen trying to burn the corruption - a voice of defiance speaking against the march of time and fingers trying to pull back together what was breaking. And, as the story told, outside forces would not see that happen, would seek to see the end. And so, the Shadows of the galaxy stirred and made their way to Vjun where the embers of those flames had been born. The cold grips of death would soon be present upon that Dark-soaked planet, adding to its strength and snuffing out the flames that fought.
The Shadow that arrived upon Vjun left no trail of itself, no evidence to speak for it nor to point towards it, instead, the Shadow only walked with the looming specter of death - its heavy presence in the Force enough to hide the Shadow. Death to the person or death to their pursuits, separate or both? That was unknown, and, in truth, the Shadow cared not for what the truth was. Lies and nature were their domain and, so, lies and nature would guide them. Truth was for the so called honourable. And Death? Death was for all so it spoke no stories as to what was to be taken into its embrace.
But, still, curiosity cautioned the Shadow none the less. It cared not for what would die, and should not care either. But, still, caution was present. Caution because a pull had guided them to Castle Bast once before and given him nothing, but, this time, the pull directed him there once more along with his duties of delivering Death. Why such a pull existed, the Shadow did not know. But, it was bound to their soul none the less, a nature more pure that mother nature itself. And so, it caution itself upon approach to Vjun. It cautioned itself upon entry to Castle Bast. And it cautioned itself upon stepping across the boundaries of the library found within the fortress - signs of the conflict it had been a part of still present. And, finally, it cautioned itself as the need was prepared to be used, poison already coating the end.
The Shadow would halt, the pull speaking to them as Death hissed in a keen ear. Not Now, they both spoke. Not Yet, they both urged. And so, guided by Death, guided by nature in its purest, the Shadow died and Darth Lykos, the Sith Lord, cocked his head beneath the veil of a variety of manipulations of the physical world and the metaphysical to hide his body and presence.
Turning from the form of Ra'a'mah as the silver haired woman hunched over a book before her, whispered words falling from slightly parted lips as her eyes and fingers roamed across age-worn pages inside books that contained the written word - a rarity and a relic within the age of data. On silent footsteps, his Presence still occluded from all but the Deities and the Force itself, he would pace around the wooden table, finger tips running along the casings of other books that lay scattered across the table. However, the occlusion, the Oblivion, that clung to his form as a second skin would soon began to melt, peeling away bit by bit with every footstep he took.
One step and his natural, masculine scent - he had ensured that his skin held no artificial scents on the mission leaving him to hide only what was natural - would begin to be able to be scented by those with the ability to do so. A third step would set itself upon the floor and it would be heard, the sound echoing off of the shelves that lines the library, holding the knowledge of the past. With every step, the sound of his footsteps would be more and more easily heard, their obscurity fading. And so they would ring out as he rounded the end of the table.
A ninth footstep and his Presence would begin to detach from the Dark it his within. Heavy, heady with power yet as graceful and fleeting as the Shadows he concealed within, it would reach out, pressing down upon all living things within a short distance - still hidden from those that moved beyond the distance that he allowed his Presence to be felt. The chair opposite Ra'a'mah would draw back, carried by invisible hands and Lykos' phantom body would settle into the seat.
As the last of his weight was lifted from his feet, his from would suddenly appear, as if glass had shattered around him, reality no longer able to bear the damage the impossible was doing upon it. A feral smirk was playing across scarred lips and nothing else of his face could be seen, concealed by shadows cast by a hood. Enshrouded in a cloak as dark as the Shadows, he would lean forward with nary a whisper, breath ghosting across the gap between the two Sith Lords. And when he spoke, a single amber glow would form within the shadows of his hood - a fire of ice that flared within his eye and fueled itself with the Dark - as his words would be growled out, taunting in their stoicism.
"Ra'a'mah. How the fortunes favour you today. For you get to see me, and not the blade that would have slit your throat - spilling you life into the void of Death. The only question: why are you so fortunate when so many are not?"
[member="Ra'a'mah"]
