Populate Blot Out The Sun | BotM Populate of GH-531

[Kyrel Ren]

Kyrel emerged into the gathering room. The doors rusting open, flanked by the gothic clad warriors of the Ren. His eyes scanning much of who was inside. With one of them, a hologram shutting itself off. As if the tension was mounting in the room. With the hilt of his signature lightsaber in hand, he eyed the man who had earned his hatred. Solipsis himself had reminded Kyrel of a Master he had once served as well, Sieger Ren in many ways was like Solipsis. Such men had eager control over empires, enforcing muscle like Kyrel to do the dirty work. Promises even scraps of power were given, but when full power was not given it was often taken, something of which Kyrel recently come to realize. Waiting could not be afforded anymore if there was a time to act the time was now.

His eyes started to shift to one of the acolytes that stood in his way. Before any utterance of a challenge was given, his focus was purely on the acolyte. A subtle growl came to the lips of the Master of Ren. Extending one hand out, and with such powerful telekinetic force he lifted the acolyte up bringing him close to the monster. Staring him with eyes that no doubt didn’t try to hide his fury. Removing his mask letting it fall to the ground with a clank. He let the acolyte stare at the deformed and monstrous face. With one quick move Kyrel placed his jaws on the shoulder blade of the acolyte. Taking one big bite of flesh, blood spurting out, as he poured a black liquid from his mouth like bile into the wound.


He soon tossed the acolyte aside, spitting the flesh from his mouth. The liquid put into the acolyte was the viral pathogen within his own body. What it would do to a host that wasn’t dead already, he had no idea. Something of an interesting gift he thought he would give, one of many today. His gaze returned to Solipsis a scowl formed on his deformed stitched up face. His eyes slowly went through all the whispering crowd, the guards even stood at attention raising weapons towards the Ren but not even making a move. Time seemed to stand still within the gathering hall.

At last Ren spoke, his words echoing across the hall. “Solipsis! Too long have you treated the Maw as if your puppet! You once promised a dark force free from Sith influence. A farce I clearly see now, and an insult that cannot stand. What is it that you Sith have taught? Power is not earned but taken? If that applies here, then I Kyrel Ren challenge you for the rite to rule the Brotherhood!” He emphasized by pointing his index finger straight towards Solipsis himself, the room stunned by such a declaration. Then at that moment the crimson blade ignited, Kyrel’s eyes shifting at all the eyes on him. The tension at any moment ready to ignite. The moment had finally arrived.

Darth Solipsis Maestus Khamul Kryze Arken Rhau

 

[Darth Solipsis]

​

DARK LORD OF THE SITH | VOICE OF THE MAW


​

The Imperator was dead.

News of the demise of Irveric Tavlar brought a smile to the face of the seated Dark Lord, another obstacle removed in the grand scheme.. in the Grand Plan. The resulting chaos would be the opportunity the New Sith Order would seize upon, ready in waiting until this very moment to strike like a serpent. There would be no greater moment, no better opportunity than now. A chance to decimate the New Imperial leadership once and for all.

"You have done well, Lord Caelitus. You've delivered to us a most worthy offering."

The Miralukan continued to speak to the addressed masses, the Dark Lord smiled with dark grimace in wicked approval. It was all coming together, the Brotherhood's time had come.

It was in that moment the massive stone doors into the antechamber of the Temple of Jendu swung open, a entourage of Ren strode inward flanking the Master of the Knights of Ren himself, Kyrel Ren . He approaches with his weapon brandished within the palm of his hand, gripping it tightly with intent as his eyes portrayed his truest desire. Long had the Dark Lord whispered into the ear of the Master of Ren, months, years, decades of mental probbing and implanted visions. The Elder had groomed him to take the mantle, to lead the Brotherhood should the Dark Lord's body finally give out and his soul plunge into the depths of Chaos. Always scheming, always a step ahead..

That was before.

The New Sith Order had flourished under his reign, the Brotherhood stronger than ever, his own body restored. There was no need for a successor, much less a Ren. If he was to be succeeded now, it would be by the blade of a Sith or one who had earned the right. To share power was to dilute it, and the Dark Lord would not allow the creation he had tended to for so long falter under idle hands. The monstrous nature of the undead fiend was chaos personified, a force that untamed would cause as much destruction to itself as to the galaxy around it. Solipsis watched with interest from the throne as the Master of Ren assaulted an acolyte of the crowd, a random devotee of the Brotherhood's creed. The victim's body went limp immediately after succumbing to the devastating jaws of the undead creature, he was tossed aside like fodder as the viral pathogen spread within the veins of the poor victim.

There waited the Dark Voice at the far end of the antechamber, seated within the confines of the stone throne. The elder man in his high collared black cloak sat regarding the masses before him, a view for his faithful to look upon their dark prophet, the Voice of the Maw. His mouth was cast in a feral grimace, his eyes burning with the unending fires of Mustafar, and his presence a consumptive void like a collapsing star. There was no victory here, no glory, only death. Even the Master of Ren should of known not to bite the hand that feeds.

“Solipsis! Too long have you treated the Maw as if your puppet! You once promised a dark force free from Sith influence. A farce I clearly see now, and an insult that cannot stand. What is it that you Sith have taught? Power is not earned but taken? If that applies here, then I Kyrel Ren challenge you for the rite to rule the Brotherhood!” He emphasized by pointing his index finger straight towards Solipsis himself, the room stunned by such a declaration. Then at that moment the crimson blade ignited, Kyrel’s eyes shifting at all the eyes on him. The tension at any moment ready to ignite. The moment had finally arrived.

"I promised you revenge against the Sith, to see them broken beneath your feet. The Knights of Ren renewed, a place of power within the Brotherhood, nothing more. I applaud your initiative, an example I pray passes on into the minds of those who would try again in the future."

The Sith'ari rose from the stonework throne, his crooked smile spreading to near unnatural lengths as he reached out into the empyrean with his mastery of the Dark Side. An oppressive wave washed over the immediate area in the toxic miasma of the Dark Side, an immediate symptom of the unnatural violation of the natural cycle, a technique gleaned from days of study from the very holocron discovered alongside Beltran Rarr on the world of Pillio years ago. Kyrel Ren had been brought back by Sith Magic, it was only fitting that Darth Solipsis would be the one to strip him of his undead body and cast him out as an unfettered spirit. That was, unless the Master of Ren found a way to counter his mastery of the Dark Side and escape his clutches or a divine miracle came down from the Avatars themselves.

​

 

[Romund Sro]

The Mongrel

​

Looking at them with his one eye Romund nodded along to their words. Even if he may not fully agree with them he understood where they were coming from. In some ways he could envy the man. Feeling no Force Sensitivity from them he could imagine that there was a bliss in not living with the harsh pressures of such a "gift". Romund wanted to do what he could to avoid the den of snakes that were those who practiced The Dark Side. A personal adventure into the Dark Side was horrid and riddled with pain misery at worse and melancholic or bitter sweet at best he found. He wasn't as deep in its knowledge and mysteries as others. But with his caution he still chased the dragon, even if he believed it was in his own way. Romund considered himself a betting man, and fear the odds were not in his side to be able to ever catch said dragon.

"I understand where you come from, despite all the schemes and plots the Sith seem ill equipped to deal with those he may be too frank, or honest with them. It seems like it could blindside even the most cunning Sith."

After that he heard The Mongrel talk about how this planet was under their control before mentioning Najra-Va, and asking what he saw in such a location. Looking away Romund thought for a moment. "There's several pragmatic reasons, one of them being the giant hole punched into it centuries ago. That goes along with extracting rescores easily from deep within the dwarf planet. However, I feel as though I could confide in you that I do have plans for it. Some see it's remote location and abandonment a weakness. It has no inhabitants, no local, nobody to protest against what I have in mind since I would be away and rather separate. Separation can breed autonomy, and from autonomy one can gain sovereignty. To be honest, I want freedom, and I believe Najra-Va will help me achieve that." He replied to The Mongrel. However after that Romund had a gloomy look.

"When you're possibly the last of your race, the last to carry the burden of your culture and the memories of a bygone civilization... You see the fragility in all these empires across the stars with their over commitment and overextension. They're all elaborate house of cards, and each one is more delicate than the last. Some go out with bangs, and others whimpers..." Romund realized that he probably was coming off as a hopeless nihilist but that's not what he was trying to convey to The Mongrel. "But despite the great threat of time and how it can drown out and mute even the most powerful legacies. We fight on, because we're all here now and doing our best to make the most of it." In some ways that's really why Romund wanted to work on developing a dead dwarf planet. He needed meaning, which was in short supply for him given his position as one of if not the last Morellian.

 

[Maestus]

The Lethan stood stone still. Her face an impassive mask, unreadable. Her eyes were like molten lava with soulless black centers.

She gazed out as people arrived. She assessed them, one by one, weighing their measure. In her mind, many were found wanting. Weak. Gluttonous. Lazy. Very few possessed the fortitude to do what must be done. Regardless of what others thought of her, she viewed herself as one such person.

She knew her strengths. Mentally, she was without many rivals. Darth Solipsis was one of the very few who could pierce her mental barriers. She hated him for that fact. And others, but that really got under her skin. The way he could invade at will, it showed her an area for improvement. An area was she was less than. And she could not tolerate that, or allow it to continue.

This was the primary reason she pounded mental exercises into the heads of her apprentices. She was not allowed weakness. By herself or her Master. Why then, would she allow it in her own apprentices? Were they not the future of the Sith? What good would come from training weak minded individuals? The Sith would become weak once more. Fall into stagnation, a shell of their current glory.

And it was a glorious time to be Sith. The New Sith Order had put an end to the schism, rising victorious. The undercover manipulations were going very well. And soon, they would begin their conquest into the core. The grand prize lay at the center at the end of a very long road, filled with many trials. She could nearly taste victory, so confident was she in the NSO as well as herself.

She was lost in thought when Zachariel Steelblood arrived. She paid him no special attention. He was simply one of many who stood as a warlord. Not to say Maestus was discounting him. The opposite really. Zacharial was a powerful and skilled.....Well whatever he was. Maestus was not entirely sure. She did know he was strong in the Dark Side of the FOrce, and that earned a slight modicum of respect. She would watch him with interest.

Then came the hologramn of Halketh and his proclamations. Yes yes, more war, secede from the Imperials. She knew precious little of the holographic figure. Save that he and Darth Solipsis had battled once. Solipsis, of course, standing victorious. She was caught unawares that the man had risen so high.

Her eyes shifted from Caelitus to Silpsis. What game was he playing now? What scheme was he manipulating? Oh, she had no doubt that even in this moment, she was being manipulated. In her younger years, she would never have been aware. But now, she knew. What she did not know, was to what end. She suspected that Solipsis was attempting to sow discord between herself and Halketh in an attempt to weed out the weaker one. Her head tipped to one side as she regarded her Master.

And then he pronounced Caelitus his Shadow Hand. A position that was rightfully hers. Was she not his student? Had she not stood as his second? This insult would not stand. Already, the hate welled within her. It was always close to the surface. Such was the way of a being forged in the fire and lava of Mustafar. The red hot flames of rage were easily stoked. Darth Solipsis knew this. Maestus was aware of this, and struggled to maintain control.

Outwardly, she projected calm, control and poise. Inwardly, she was seething. Who was this unknown that had risen to such lofty station? She made it a goal to find out all she could about him. To know your enemy, was to stand a better chance of defeating them. And she was determined to defeat Halketh .

And then entered the beast of Kyrel Ren . She couldn't stop the eye roll, and made no attempt to try. Kyrel had cornered her, one night on Gehinnom. Demanding to know who and what Solipsis was. She knew Kyrel was obsessed with the Sith'Ari. That's how Maestus saw it, at least. Right now, she hoped for nothing more than Solipsis to put the mad dog down. He was rabid, chaotic and unpredictable. Not suited to leadership, except for his paltry Knights of Ren. Once, they had been fierce, formidable. Now, they were a shadow, a shell of their former selves. She saw no reason for them to be allowed to continue in this uprising Kyrel was attempting.

She folded her arms over her chest. Then set her eyes upon the challenged and challenger, And waited.

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Mar'Zambul, city of Zambul Rix
Tags: Romund Sro

Could honesty blindside a Sith, as Romund said? Certainly it was the last thing they would ever expect from one of their allies. They seemed to rely on the simple, open good intentions of Jedi in order to manipulate them, but when it came to their own side, they always anticipated treachery... probably because it was exactly what they would do. History had taught its lessons, and a clear one was that all the scheming was self-destructive. The fault lines brewing even now within the Brotherhood could easily tear it apart... right on the eve of their great war against the entire rest of the galaxy.

That frightened The Mongrel more than any foe.

But when you held a fistful of vicious snakes to wield against your foes, you had to expect that some would turn back and try to bite you as well; that was their nature. The Warlord could only hope that the first of the Dark Voice was a strong one indeed, and his figurative forearms armored against venomous fangs. If he could continue to effectively wield the Brotherhood, this massive collection of marauders and dark mystics and petty tyrants, as a single cohesive whole, the galaxy would burn in the wake of their conquests. But if he could not, the Maw would collapse under the pressure.

They were playing a zero-sum game, jockeying for position, and if the weight of anyone's ambition became too much it was all going to come tumbling down.

The Mongrel listened carefully as Romund described his desires for Najra-Va. It was not what he had expected. Most Warlords wanted their planets to be raid bases as much as kingdoms, launching points from which their tribe would march forth to seize plunder and glory. Some even imagined their worlds to be petty capitals, planning to rule a great swath of galaxy once the old regimes fell. The Mongrel was guilty of the former, if not the latter. He had no desire to rule, only to fight and sweep away the decadent and corrupt governments of the galaxy, and he intended to use Mar'Zambul simply to fuel his tribe's participation in that great war.

What Romund was describing was altogether different, a place almost of refuge, a place to be alone with his lost heritage. Although they fought for a galaxy with more freedom, with the old kings and aristocrats toppled from their thrones, freedom was not something generally granted to Mawites on a case by case basis. Even Warlords, given mastery of entire planets, were expected to serve the Dark Voice without question, and even the Dark Voice was subservient to the commands of the Avatars. Would the freedom Romund sought lead him to stray from the great galactic war?

"What will you do with your freedom?" The Mongrel asked bluntly, as was his way. "Will you create a museum to that lost heritage? A mausoleum? Will you withdraw from the galaxy? Or do I misinterpret your words?" What did Romund actually want, and what did that mean for the Brotherhood? It was a question worth asking. The two men were of equal rank, and The Mongrel could not reprimand or command a peer no matter his answer, but he found himself curious. He himself was eager to forget the past, to forget the weakling he had been before the Maw reforged him.

Why was Romund so eager to hold onto the dead?

 

[Dakrul]

​

"Ahhhhhhhhh...guuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhh...pppppb....pleaseeeeeee"

The severed skull now firmly rooted into the giant's shoulder silently pleaded. Dakrull was busy. He was so close. Dakrull knew it. The Sith'ari was speaking. Sound was an iffy thing. For as he saw the world unlike the mortals did he also heard it differently. The Nether wasn't silent but neither was this plane. He was forced to endure both.

Kiiiiiiiiiiii... KiiiiiiiiiLL meeeeeeeeee" the Gundanbard managed to push out of his withered lips. Along with the begging and overall tumult of the gathering, there were the crisp sizzles of the dancing flames all around him. The sparks of living force energy that burned more or less brighter depending on its host. In these halls, it was like standing in a burning cremation chamber. Accompanying those were the echoes of thousands upon thousands of souls that had been massacred here. Their wailing, and howling and weeping.

But the zealot was skilled in tuning in and out of the noise, not to drown in its depth but instead to fish for just the right frequency and then listen. As he did his twitching, worming body grew very still.

Kyrel Ren was talking to Darth Solipsis . What he chose to say, and how he chose to say it disturbed the Faceless Hunger more than the pleas of ten thousand more culled souls. He'd rather have seen all life wiped off this astral body than to hear the prophet be slandered like this.

Was this undead mongrel seriously suggesting to overturn the Master's rule? The twitching kicked back in, the tick's motions more drawn out now.

"pleasssssssseeeeeee"

But Dakrul was not listening, they were the clearest words the cadaver had managed to utter so far. Dakrul didn't hear it. Instead, his massive form now stalked the crowd, circling in front of the large throne on which the chosen one had been seated. He rose out of the crowd to such an extent that a single step split the masses before him. Marauders and acolytes, in some cases even Darklords stepped aside to give space to gigantic undead insectoid.

Still decorated in the limbs and inners of the dead Aul dual, he paced the group of Ren knights. He was so confused. How could he have said that? Why would he say that?

His visage dotted from the throne to the walking corpse before it, and back, and forth.

Maestus hadn't intervened, neither had any of the others. Was this a game? Were they playing? What were the rules? Or or was it a task? Did the heathen priests forget to tell him?

The zealot hissed notably under his rotten breath.

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Tags: Darth Solipsis | Syrenno Maraan | Darth Senthral | Darth Tennacus | Maestus | Halketh | Derix Tirall | Arken Rhau | Kyrel Ren
Links: Chosen​

Standing where he was, Zachariel was given a perfect and heightened view of the room. He saw all within it and was given the dubious joy of watching Kyrel enter, marching forward with dark purpose. More than joy however, Zachariel felt dark amusement at Kyrel's approach, already suspecting just what the undead Master of Ren wanted. That amusement mounted as Arken stepped into the path of Kyrel, hoping to stop or even slow the man. Zachariel thought to intervene but stopped himself. This would teach his acolyte that some targets were not to be interfered with, and to listen to his betters.

Watching with disinterest as his acolyte was Force handled, Zachariel simply watched on impassively. His followers followed suite, not interfering, knowing they could do nothing, and also held back by Zachariel's lack of action. As Arken was thrown to the side and Kyrel spat out his flesh, Zachariel finally jerked his head towards his fallen acolyte. His command was immediately followed by the Chosen that had spoken earlier, while the other remained watchful.

Stepping over to Arken's form, the Chosen crouched next to him while drawing a plasma blade. Applying it to the wound to cut away at any infection and to ensure scarring, the man in the armor laughed at Arken.
"Did I not tell you to mind your betters, boy? Even if I never mentioned him, it's pretty obvious that Kyrel Ren's not someone you can simply interfere with, much less stop. Only other warlords stand a chance against him, only the likes of our liege. You? You're nothing but an acolyte, a trainee in every sense of the word." Chuckling once more at the foolish student, the Chosen finally applied some bacta to the wound, aiming to help the healing process. Everything else would be up to Arken. Rising, the Chosen snorted down at Arken. "Really boy, what were you hoping on doing, die before our master could use you?"

Zachariel meanwhile hadn't moved further, instead focusing once more on Kyrel as he proclaimed his challenge. His gaze shifted then, searching about for any who might attempt to interfere. Any who did would face him, and yet none did. He did catch the eyeroll of Maestus, but otherwise there was a distinct lack of action. None sought to stop Kyrel or aid him, how intriguing. He had at least assumed Maestus would interfere, hoping to either kill Solipsis or end a challenger to her own mission.

Leaning his head back, Zachariel barked out a short peel of laughter, before refocusing with more amusement. This would be quite the show. Rocking somewhat under the Force powers, Zachariel took a step to the side. Jerking his head to Maestus, he indicated she do the same. Let the two fight it out with some space, one would no doubt die by the end of this. But no matter the outcome, they deserved the space to murder as they saw fit. Grinning a bloodthirsty grin, Zachariel simply continued to watch on, mind blazing with plans.

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

Deep down, this is what was made the Sith. What they always had been. Years had not changed their mindset, even after so many a failure brought on by internal conflicts. It truly was Sith eat Sith; as it was in days long passed; as it were today. The initial approach of Kyrel Ren did bring about a disturbance in the Force which distressed itself in his announcement. From where he had stood idle, far enough to avoid the likeness of the Dark Side hurled upon him, Tennacus had turned to the newcomer's approach, and maintained his calm demeanour despite his declaration of combat. Even before such conflicts instigated, he knew this fight was not one to interfere with. Not unless the Dark Lord, Darth Solipsis , announced for their intervention. Like a tribe of warmongers they'd stand by and watch while the contestants took their stances and fought in an almost zealot-like manner to proclaim the title of the strongest candidate. Either way, the Sith would live ever on. A thousand years of fighting hadn't stopped them yet, and it wouldn't stop them now.

Tennacus pressed his arm against his his Apprentice's chest in silence. The gesture alone was enough to tell Darth Senthral not to intervene. The tides of the Force would ever sway in the violence, twisted, pulled and torn apart in the wake of any Jedi's nightmare. For the Sith, these harbingers of power were only natural to witness, no matter their respective factions, ideologies and motives. The Light held no place here; this was but a playground for the eternal dark.

 

[Arken Rhau]

​

Arken tensed, a sudden tide of terror threatening to wash across his form as the undead Kyrel Ren let loose a low and dangerous growl. A thing more animal than man, but Arken defied the icy tendrils of doubt creeping across his heart, melting them instead in inferno borne of his rage. Arken Rhau did not submit to implication! Arken Rhau did not submit at all! The days of his cowering in abject helplessness were done. He had been chosen by the Bloodsworn, hand picked for a purpose by scion of war himself! It was time to show the world what he was capable of.

‘Know yourself’ he muttered beneath his breath. The acolyte knew he was no craven dog, no weakling to be pushed aside by an unspoken threat. He also knew that this creature’s ruin -before all in attendance- would bring him great glory and an infamous reputation. One worthy of not just his master’s name, but Arken’s as well. Here, before the conclave of the strongest and the greatest the dark side of the force had gathered, he would earn his place in history and begin his rise to power with one, single, glorious act. As the beast outstretched its hand, Arken reached for his blade, ready. All he need do to claim his destiny was take the first step.

His boot never found the ground.

“-Ah!” A surprised gasp, his body enveloped, hoisted off the temple floor like a toy in a child’s hand. Blue eyes bulged as he felt that hand begin to tighten, felt his body crushed beneath unseen fingers slowly beginning to draw him closer… and closer. The cold grasp of fear returned like a blizzard, seizing his chest tight as Kyrel removed his mask and revealed the horror of mangled flesh and sinew hiding beneath. “Wait!” he squealed, but nothing came out beyond a bubbling croak. He tried to scream, but even his breath had abandoned him. Instead, he watched in bewildered dread as the undead abomination pried open its blackened maw and sunk its jagged teeth into his shoulder. No! Nononon- “Argh!” The world went white hot with pain, his vision blurred, the distinct sensation of fangs tearing into skin and meat and bone beneath driving all reason and sane thought from his mind.

I should have stayed on Osseriton.

“What happened?” asked Arken, only his jaw would not budge. Faintly, he recognized the ceiling of the stone temple high above, but everything was distant and blurry, sound and light digging into his aching skull. He tried to move, tried to raise his head- Pain stabbed through his neck and his stomach heaved. What had happened? Even trying to think was painful. He lifted his arm to feel his shoulder, but found he couldn’t. He tried to shift his legs, to push himself upright, but he couldn’t do that either. He worked his dry tongue loose, grunting and moaning, his body a shroud of spasming agony. A terrible sensation was spreading out from his shoulder, ensnaring the entirety of his left side in a burning numbness. Panic started to claw at him. Every part of his body screaming, heart hammering, breath snorting in his nose until it seemed his very soul would be rent asunder-

“…nothing but an acolyte, a trainee in every sense of the word.” A familiar form swam into view above. The chosen. Arken grabbed at him wildly, but the armored helot caught his hand in his own armored paw and pinned it with deplorable ease. He felt the Chosen’s other hand on his shoulder, working at the bite there. That’s right… that thing bit me! The cool douse of bacta hit him without warning and he nearly melted, the smell tickling at his nostrils and mingling with the scent of blood and black bile bubbling in the wound. “Really boy, what were hoping on doing, die before our master could use you?” He could hear laughter, harsh and throaty, callous and cruel. He could hear it from everywhere and nowhere all at once. They were laughing at him. All of them! And none were more amused than the cackling voice in his head.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted his burning gaze to the throne, to the giant standing tall atop the dais. There was no reaction in the Gen’dai hulking form, no disappointment or the promise of his wrath shining back via bloodshot eyes. Zachariel Steelblood was simply, entirely indifferent. Somehow, that was far worse.

Soon enough the pain began to lessen, the medical ministrations of the chosen having found fruition. Awful still, but within his control. He just needed to... rest. Just for a moment. That was all.

Arken’s breath slowed.

His eyes closed.

 

[Romund Sro]

The Mongrel

​

After Romund spoke to The Mongrel about some of his intentions he was beginning to fell an unpleasantness in The Force, he quickly recognized it was the great irritant, most commonly known as The Dark Side. Perhaps there was some great energy being produced else where on the planet by the New Sith Order and their efforts. Letting how a sigh he listened to The Mongrel's reply.

Hearing them ask what it really was that Romund planned to achieve with the freedom he desired. Lowering his head some Romund thought about how to answer their questions. "If I'm being honest with you, it's a bit of open secret for the Sith. Freedom and power are the endgame to any Sith. I was taught the Sith Code, and the end of it reads like this, "Through victory my chains are broken, The Force shall set me free." I was so absorbed by just that part of the Sith Code I even stopped being a Sith all together. Ironic I suppose, but I didn't want to see myself enslaved by ancient ideologies But acquiring this sort of, self determination that I desire is just one part of what I really want to achieve. Because freedom can create opportunities that others may be gate keeping."

After speaking he sensed that The Mongrel why he felt burdened by the past, and that he should elaborate some. "You probably wouldn't know this but I'm almost a thousand years old, technically. I was frozen in carbonite for hundreds of years. Before I was though the old republic was still a thing. But more importantly to me there were still Morellians left, very few, but still some. The end was nigh, and I expected to die along with my people. But the universe seems to have other plans for me, and I found myself hundreds of years later like a fish out of water on my people's desolate homeworld. In those lonesome years on Morellia I grew bitter at the indifference the rest of galaxy had for the extinction of my people." Romund explained to them, hoping to shine some light on some of his secondary motives. Unlike the Mongrel he wasn't really as single minded, even in his desire for freedom. "So while I'm still here, and with a great galactic war on the horizon. I can leave my own mark on the galaxy, and leave behind a legacy for Morellia that the rest of the galaxy won't forget."

Romund hoped that what he said satisfyingly tied The Mongrels questions together with worthwhile answers. Part of why he sought freedom and sovereignty, why he went on earlier about carrying the burden of a lost civilization, and the struggle of leaving behind a worthy legacy. These were all part of the greater pursuit of meaning that Romund was truly looking for.

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Mar'Zambul, city of Zambul Rix
Tags: Romund Sro

The Mongrel listened carefully to what the Morellian had to say - it was good to understand both one's allies and one's rivals, and he was not yet sure which Romund would prove to be. In the brutal hierarchy of the Maw, probably both. Warlords, he was learning, constantly competed for glory, and for the favor of the Dark Voice. Yet what mattered in the end was the victory of the Brotherhood as a whole, and any warlord who threatened that victory in order to posture and seek dominance over another... well, that one would not be a warlord for long. The Dark Voice would punish them.

It wasn't so different from being a marauder, really. The Mongrel remembered the earliest days after his dark rebirth, when he'd been the lowest of the low. Larger, stronger marauders had beaten him, commanded him, taken whatever he had... until he'd grown tougher and more experienced. He still carried the necklace of teeth and finger bones he had taken from those "stronger" warriors, proof to all who beheld it that he was not to be pushed around. Among warlords there was less death, perhaps, but there was still jockeying in the ranks... and it was tolerated so long as it made them stronger.

But no one must jeopardize their unity now, on the eve of war. The Brotherhood could not afford a schism while battling half the galaxy. Let the warlords compete to kill the enemy, not squabble amongst themselves.

"That is not so different from the teachings of the Heathen Priests," The Mongrel said, beginning to understand what Romund meant by Freedom. "The Maw is an engine of renewal, destined to bring about an end to the old, corrupt cycle of tradition in which the galaxy has been trapped for so long. Ancient ideologies should be allowed to pass from memory, so that something new can take their place. If you have lived across a thousand years, you know this better than most: little has truly changed. Empires, Republics, Jedi, Sith: the same now as then."

The freshly-minted warlord shook his head, gazing out across the soot-belching spires of the industrial city. "Fear of the unknown is the enemy of progress. For thousands and thousands of years, people have clung to the same old ways. There have been Jedi since the fall of the Rakatan Infinite Empire, an order spanning tens of thousands of years, fighting the same struggles over and over... and holding themselves above those without their sorcery. They teach serenity because they want stasis, preserving their position of privilege until the end of time."

The Mongrel grinned. "But we are the end of their time. Forge your legend, Morellian, but let it be your legend, not another tale of your vanished people." He could not relate to the desire to preserve a vanished culture, and could not understand being burdened by the past, because he had already allowed his past to die. His memories of who he had been before there was The Mongrel had been stripped away... and he was glad, because that person had been a weakling, a victim in a dark and cruel galaxy. He was stronger now, and his life had purpose. Why look back? Why remember?

 

[Khamul Kryze]

Location: Mar'Zambul

Khamul watched as the acolyte fell to the ground. What was he trying to accomplish? The Hellhound believed that he could stand his ground against Kyrel, but the idea of a mere acolyte doing the same was enough to make him scoff. Despite this, there was something admirable about such blatant defiance of your betters. In the end, however, the same result would always happen. The strong would continue, and the weak would perish.

"Fool," he muttered under his breath. The room remained silent, for the most part, as Kyrel pressed his way toward the Dark Voice. On could hear a pin drop, should they take the time to listen.

As Kyrel proclaimed his challenge to the Dark Voice of the Maw, Khamul looked to the rest of Death's Hand, motioning for them to give the two some room. Looking back to his fellow Mandalorians, he whispered in Mando'a once again.

"Keep an eye on the rest of the Ren. Should they interfere, kill them all."

His hand continued to tap on the hilt of his lightsaber, almost as if he were going to compulsively draw it and begin shedding blood. He would stay his hand for now, however. Instead, he continued scanning the room to see if anyone else planned to interfere. To his amazement... nothing. No one sought to stand in the way of the lord of the Ren, nor was there a move to take down Solipsis before Kyrel could do it himself. The lack of interference from the others proved to Khamul that he had finally found a band of proper Sith. Here, he could finally create a powerbase from which to launch his campaign to become Mand'alor.

 

[Kyrel Ren]

Location: Gathering Hall Throne Room
Nearby: Maestus Darth Solipsis Darth Thonrin Darth Tennacus Arken Rhau

Kyrel was bursting with fury unlike the which no one had seen. Years of serving as a dog of the First Order and now the Maw had finally taken it's toll. The madness on which the voices in his head spoke to him had only increased his anger. Now here he stood within the mix of a new breed of Sith and the Barbarians that were much like himself. Even after disposing of a Sith Apprentice, his own infection granted upon the young man. Now his focus had been drawn to the new Lord of the Sith. It was here in this moment that history echoed like Vader like Ben Solo, the heir apparant to such a dark legacy stood before an evil on which he struggled to rid himself of and yet not entirely was able to free of his shackles.

Solipsis had all but seemed unphased by the dead man's challenge. The waves in the Force did not give off anything that resembled fear, or worry of any kind. It had almost seemed as if the man was expecting such a thing to happen, hell even applauding Kyrel for such ego to impose said challenge. Even as Kyrel brandished his signature crimson lightsaber the old man didn't even draw upon his own weapon, something that had made the Master of Ren somewhat wary. This all had a case of deja vu as if he could recall a similar time when he attempted to make such moves, only to have it all backfire on him.

With his first steps he tried to move, to strike upon the Sith Lord, and yet found himself being pulled. His body stood to a halt, as if the knees were too heavy. The inside of his body, the corrupted thing that he would call a soul was felt as if being tugged upon. His eyes widened in shock, his mangled teeth clenched as the black fluid within his maw started to spill out onto the floor. His hand gripping his saber tightly as he struggled. It dawned on him in that single moment that what was happening was the work of Sith Magic. It was a weakness that he was brought back from hell through the likes of Sith Sorcerery and now it seemed that Solipsis exploited such a weakness with little error. 'Sieger again.... Failure again.... The moment is not upon us...' His mind had thought as he struggled to will his body to move a single inch.

The effort of it all had increased his anger, and soon found himself relying on what he learned so many decades ago. Through the Force anything was possible, but only through raw emotion could he accomplish his goals, and so found himself concentrating on the darkness from within. Amplifying his own power to allow himself a brief moment of control. With a roar through the Force that could cause pain to the eardrums of anyone within the vicinity, even the surrounding windows exploded as Kyrel moved with sheer willpower.

With what control he could, he leapt with the Force and now stood only a foot away from Solipsis. His trembling saber arm struggling to move in a slash upon the puppet master. He found himself cursing his actions upon acting too soon, he couldn't even will his saber arm to strike down the dread man before him. He finally began to speak. "I've grown tired of serving men like you! I demand something more for my efforts! I demand something more worthy of a follower such as myself. If you desire to destroy the galaxy Solipsis, I demand a title, a position worthy of the harbinger of death for all!" He said in pleading arrogance knowing that in this critical moment he had failed for now, but unlike Sieger Ren, Solipsis perhaps could be persuaded to make a deal with the dead man, that is if he isn't killed first or much worse than death.

 

[Romund Sro]

The Mongrel

​

Romund after speaking and opening up some about himself and his goals he thought some about their discussion. Thinking some on the notion or idea of creating a museum. It was an interesting prospect. But seemingly monumental in scope. He wondered if that would be a possibility to pursue for later. He already felt so burdened by the past, why not turn that burden into a strength, and source of passion and interest for himself. Romund had noticed with himself that he had become much more apathetic, and dispassionate about a great deal. The existential dread of his predicament didn't help with that at all. Dispassion was toxic for the dark side. Possibly why Romund was by far never the most potent in not only the Darkside but The Force in general. The biggest thing going for him being gifted to him by his force sensitive family. That being a high aptitude precognition and extra sensory abilities.

Listening to The Mongrel speak he found the budding dynamic between them very interesting. He was in no way threatened by their seemingly opposing world view and wished that the feeling was at least mutual. Romund wasn't quite aware of The Mongrel's background. Perhaps they didn't have a background, or were unaware of one. Possibly given new memories or purpose from their cybernetics.

Eventually Romund would reply to what The Mongrel had to say. "I suppose some of our goals and ambitions are not wholly mutual. But that's not really an Issue I think. Here's some food for thought that I'll leave you with Mongrel." He said, before getting ready to leave, having really completed his tasks here before their discussion. "Even the most calculated, pragmatic, and forward thinking of people can still find great wisdom from the past. The present controls the future, but the past controls the present." He said to them. Retelling an old saying he'd heard before. Some what fitting in with the though provoking but rather paradoxical idea that we all make our own choices in live. But at the same time, our choices make us... Looking back at The Mongrel one last time he gave them a nod before beginning to walk off to make his way off world.

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Mar'Zambul, city of Zambul Rix
Tags: Romund Sro

In the end, The Mongrel was still not sure what to make of Romund Sro. The man was so different from other warlords. Maestus and Zachariel and Tegan might wield artifacts and techniques from the past, but their gaze was set firmly on the future, on the conquest and devastation the Brotherhood was poised to unleash. But while they all looked forward to their rise, to the power they would gain, Romund was rooted in the present, with the goal of preserving all the things that had made him who he was. He wasn't trying to go back, to restore what had been, but he embraced his ancient heritage.

"Food for thought," The Mongrel agreed, watching him go.

It was not a philosophy that The Mongrel himself could imagine adopting. He hated his past self, glorying in every new scar and cybernetic augmentation that scraped away the weak victim he had been. But Romund hadn't been a victim, and had no reason to despise his past. To him, history was full of wisdom, not pain. Perhaps that difference of thought, and of goal, would one day put the Morellian at odds with the rest of the Maw, who sought to tear down all kings and erase all traditions so that the galaxy could begin anew. Perhaps it would not. Perhaps the hidden Sith would change Mawite dogma.

Whatever the case, it was clear that Romund would make a good ally - and a reliable industrial partner for the forges of Mar'Zambul - simply because his ambitions differed. He did not appear to be one who would scheme and covet The Mongrel's new world, or seek to steal his battlefield glory in order to jockey for position. The trade flowing between Najra-Va and Mar'Zambul would strengthen them both, and all their followers. That much was all but assured. The more intriguing question in The Mongrel's mind was this: when would be their next opportunity to compare philosophies?

He was eager to learn more of how Romund thought... and fought.