Children of the Dirt

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

«Marr.»

She weighed the name on her tongue. The names and long dynasties of long fallen darths had never held much sway with her. She, child of the dirt, had risen above many whose families had accomplished much and who sailed on their familial infamy. Now, they were served to her as potential apprentices. Little did they know about her tutelage.

The dark side of the Force could not be inherited. It belonged to those who could seize it.

«I will see him; send him to Fiviune.»

---

Fiviune

A ruinous world cloaked in dark clouds. Its cracked surface was littered with razor sharp mountain ridges, marring the surface like the scars left by a rancor’s claws. The Tsis’kaar rarely invited anyone outside their ranks to this desolate place, yet they had constructed significant citadels. Old foundations were excavated, researched and catalogued, and new pyramidine structures sprawled out. In many ways, it was beginning to resemble the resurgence on Malachor V.

But Malum was not asked to meet at the citadels. Rather, the coordinates were set to a ledge in the jagged highlands overlooking the first excavation and rebuilding of Fiviune.

There, standing at the cliff edge, stood a solitary figure clad in black silk. She was barely visible against the black rock, revealed only by the wind shifting through the fabric that draped her form.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

«Marr.»

She weighed the name on her tongue. The names and long dynasties of long fallen darths had never held much sway with her. She, child of the dirt, had risen above many whose families had accomplished much and who sailed on their familial infamy. Now, they were served to her as potential apprentices. Little did they know about her tutelage.

The dark side of the Force could not be inherited. It belonged to those who could seize it.

«I will see him; send him to Fiviune.»

---

Fiviune

A ruinous world cloaked in dark clouds. Its cracked surface was littered with razor sharp mountain ridges, marring the surface like the scars left by a rancor’s claws. The Tsis’kaar rarely invited anyone outside their ranks to this desolate place, yet they had constructed significant citadels. Old foundations were excavated, researched and catalogued, and new pyramidine structures sprawled out. In many ways, it was beginning to resemble the resurgence on Malachor V.

But Malum was not asked to meet at the citadels. Rather, the coordinates were set to a ledge in the jagged highlands overlooking the first excavation and rebuilding of Fiviune.

There, standing at the cliff edge, stood a solitary figure clad in black silk. She was barely visible against the black rock, revealed only by the wind shifting through the fabric that draped her form.

A nervousness pawed through his gloved fingers, sweat marking their new home as he calmed his breathing, though his ship was as cold as anything constructed out of durasteel, it seemed his body did not deem it cold enough. It was not common that an acolyte to be invited to personally attend an audience set by one of the former Sith Council, one of the current Sith Triumvirate. Once the message had been delivered to him, simply ordering him to Fiviune, he had made his way immediately, so immediate in fact that he had informed no one at the Palace of Silver Rain, perhaps a mistake in retrospect, though one he was more than willing to pay, compared to the punishment of disobeying the leader of the Tsis'kar.

Lachris came out of hyperspace with the gentleness he always appreciated, it was not a new ship by any means, but it was well maintained, the Caedus-class Superiority Fighter had served him well, time and time again, without it he would not have reached or escaped Korriban. A wince echoed the memory of Korriban, it was far gone from the homeland of the Sith that he had been raised upon as a child, he had not even been able to see the great Sith Academy, not seen much of anything really, the planet crawling with the zealots of the Light. He had truly felt fear those days, escaping detection, hiding amongst the enemy, it was worth it in the end, though not in the way he would have wanted.

Dromund Kaas and Zakhuul, both in almost opposite directions, and equally as dangerous for far different reasons. With the documents he had found, he was confident, they were where they were. On Dromund Kaas the Holocron of the great Darth Marr would be found, on Zakhuul his lightsaber. He resisted the smile that wished to so break onto his face, stopping the excited shaking of his legs, he was so close, he could feel it. Soon, he would have it, all the proof that anyone would need to convince everyone that he was the heir to the reverent Darth Marr.

His reddened eyes blinked, and he breathed great heaving breaths. He needed to stop doing that.

To a degree, it was why he was eager to be here as well, past the nervousness of the order to be here that was. He knew he was too weak. He could attempt a sortie into Imperial or Eternal space, to find information, but if he was detected? A shiver went down his spine, there was every chance that he would be destroyed without a second thought.

Darth Ophidia could provide a solution. The thought had crossed his mind, as Lachris entered the planet's orbit, pushing past its atmosphere and darkened thunderous clouds, and providing Malum's eyes with the first glance of this new world, it was angry, desolate, ruinous. His mind had idly wondered why one of the Triumvirs would invite him here, passing by the first thought that it was for his death, as he passed by an old pyrimidine ruin, but why invite an acolyte out here just to kill him? His mind went to other ideas, perhaps less likely ideas, but ideas nonetheless. Perhaps she wished to take him on as an apprentice? It was an idea, an idea he was hopeful regarding, under the tutelage of one as powerful as Darth Ophidia he would have the skill and ability to carry out his desires, yet this theory existed without much of any evidence to prove it. As it stood, as far as he knew, there was nothing to make him particularly appealing to any Sith master. Well, apart from...

'Your name.' His mind treacherously whispered to him.

That was an idea, one he was not certain of. He was proud of his lineage, perhaps too proud, he would carefully admit. Yet after being raised through the mockery given to his House, the idea that one such as a Triumvir would readily accept his truth... was a disconcerting idea. If it was the case, he should be happy, should be joyous in fact, yet the very fact he was not, said enough. His quest to recover the Holocron and lightsaber was to prove it to all the doubters, doubters that would include Darth Ophidia, thus... why would she believe him without the evidence? The paranoia whirled around him, the fear, the doubt, the worry, the anger, the rage.

He blinked again, breathing again great big breaths. He would find out soon, he just... had to calm.

The panel by him beeped in increasing frequency, a signal that he was closing in on the coordinates given to him. From the distance, he felt her presence before he saw her, dark energy passing through him, alerting him to the Dark side unlike what he had known, as his reddened eyes found themselves fixed on a solitary figure clad in black silk, rivetting through the wind, unfeeling, unknowable.

Lachris came down slowly and carefully onto the ground, beaching herself on the broken ground, a slight thud alerted him that he was down in one piece.

---

He found himself on his knees, one hand parked on his chest, the other at his side. His black locks flowed through the wind, as his face looked down upon the blackened surface. He made out small dentations, plants, and rocks that somehow survived this planet, each and all of them distracted him from the nerves he felt throughout his entire form.

"Darth Ophidia, Acolyte Malum, at your service."

In the battle for his nerves, the fact he had not introduced himself as from the House of Marr was quickly forgotten.

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

A little known fact: While Ventruun was the administrative and executive centre of the Tsis’kaar’s power base, Fiviune was the black pearl of their burgeoning territory. Amid the excavations of an ancient and mysterious civilisation, new structures rose to house the darkest elements of their profane order; it was the spiritual centre of their dark congregation.

An old was darkness stirring among the black crags of Fiviune, and Darth Ophidia was at the centre of it all.

Her eyes remained closed even as the young acolyte approached, but she was far from blind to his movement. She sensed the crunch under his feet, the echoes of his breath, and the anxieties that trailed off his head like smoke from a chimney. Only when he stopped, knelt, and introduced himself did her eyes open.

Coal-black eyelids in an ashen face parted to reveal the irises beneath, glowing like molten gold. She did not turn, but released a deep breath as the wind ripped past the two of them. She was not blind to his choice of introduction either.

«Acolyte Malum.»

Her voice was like a sudden chill; sharp like a knife pressed to the skin. It carried the distance between them, yet had the sensation of a whisper.

«What does it mean to be Sith?»

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

A little known fact: While Ventruun was the administrative and executive centre of the Tsis’kaar’s power base, Fiviune was the black pearl of their burgeoning territory. Amid the excavations of an ancient and mysterious civilisation, new structures rose to house the darkest elements of their profane order; it was the spiritual centre of their dark congregation.

An old was darkness stirring among the black crags of Fiviune, and Darth Ophidia was at the centre of it all.

Her eyes remained closed even as the young acolyte approached, but she was far from blind to his movement. She sensed the crunch under his feet, the echoes of his breath, and the anxieties that trailed off his head like smoke from a chimney. Only when he stopped, knelt, and introduced himself did her eyes open.

Coal-black eyelids in an ashen face parted to reveal the irises beneath, glowing like molten gold. She did not turn, but released a deep breath as the wind ripped past the two of them. She was not blind to his choice of introduction either.

«Acolyte Malum.»

Her voice was like a sudden chill; sharp like a knife pressed to the skin. It carried the distance between them, yet had the sensation of a whisper.

«What does it mean to be Sith?»

What did it mean to be Sith? His nerves still played at his breath, yet a new clarity had revealed itself in the question, as his mind went to work as it always did, considering in thoughtful silence. Was it a trick? It was a rather open-ended question. Did she have an answer in mind, or was she simply curious about what his answer would be?

It achieved nothing considering that, yet as seconds ticked by, with his mind still in thought, the worry of if a delay in an answer would reflect on badly occurred. Did she wish for him to be resolute, firm and quick in answer, confident in his conviction? Or did she wish him to consider thoughtfully, analysing, looking for a trap?

He pushed the thought away again, it did no good to him to consider this either.

'Perhaps consider the question?' His mind, helpfully, whispered.

What does it mean to be Sith?

To be Sith was to follow the code, he had it recited to him so much in youth that he could recall it in an instant.

"Peace is a lie, there is only passion."
"Through passion, I gain strength."
"Through strength, I gain power."
"Through power, I gain victory."
"Through victory, my chains are broken."
"The Force shall free me"

Yet Darth Ophidia would hardly be impressed if he would recite what every Neophyte had drilled into their head. Perhaps the great Darth Marr could give insight, he believed in a philosophy of strength above all, and conflict was the only true test of one's ability. Conflict challenged both individuals and civilizations, and so forced them to grow and evolve. Pacifism touted by the fools of the Light only would lead to stagnation and decline. The strong should be elevated above the weak. By encouraging strife, the strong would be able to exercise their power while the weak were weeded from the ranks of the Sith. The goal was self-reliance, an individual only deserved what they were strong enough to take.

He believed these things... he did... but was that, all that it was to be Sith? He was empowered by emotions, both the ones he felt whirling within him, and those that he felt and could steal from all those around him. The Jedi taught that fear, anger, and pain were negative emotions to be overcome, yet that it was a lie these strong emotions were natural, and aided in their survival. By harnessing their emotions rather than suppressing them, they achieved true power. Indeed, passion was the only real way to fully understand the Force. Yet only the worthy could control their emotions and use them, while the weak were ruled by them. Was he a slave, or was he a master of himself?

That was part of what he believed in, yet, with the leader of the Tsis'Kaar in front of him, perhaps it would not hurt to consider her ideology. Now, he did not know much of it, only having done a cursory study at his arrival at the Palace of Silver Rain, not helped by the fact that the Tsis'Kaar were evidently the most secretive of the Triumvirate. Yet, what he had found, had intrigued him. Ensuring beyond any political structure that the Sith philosophy survives, that all the great histories and relics of ages long past must be preserved, that those with the will and resolve to wield the dark side ruled over their lessers, and finally that as the Sith fell and rise, that a Sith should fall and rise.

So, with so much thought and wisdom in the philosophy of the Sith, the question played in his mind again.

What does it mean to be Sith?

His reddened eyes finally were brought upwards, fixated on the black silken form, opening his mouth.

"It means the mastery and control of one's emotions, to derive strength from them, to use that strength to test oneself in conflict to grow and evolve to be powerful alone. Through that power to achieve ultimate victory against any that would stand against one. Through victory, against others, to achieve victory over the self, breaking the chains of limitation placed upon onself, to achieve perfection. Thus, the final true objective, mastery over the Force itself."

He felt power in the words he spoke, almost as if it was an incantation for ritual, he felt the darkness within him swirl with energy, he felt them all, fear, anger, pain, jealousy, frustration, doubt, sadness, shame, envy. They whirled within him, begging for release as still bowed down, he resisted every muscle in his body demanding that he fall, remaining bowed, his reddened eyes blazing as they continued to stare resolutely ahead.

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

A pause followed his words.

Wind whipped up a trail of dust and made her dark robes snap. Then the silken figure turned.

Her face peered over her shoulder as the fabrics twisted around her. Her skin was like ash. Tattoos streaked her cheeks, her chin, and the sides of her head. It was perhaps not the face one would have imagined a triumvir to have, older, pinched, serious. But her eyes, they glowed like embers against the ashen skin, accented by dark makeup.

There was as if something deeply sinister hid behind those molten rings.

Her expression was unchanged, stuck somewhere between indifference and festering anger. He had given a good answer, better than most, but she would not give him the satisfaction.

She took two steps toward him, each footstep sharp like cut glass.

«And what makes you worthy?»

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

A pause followed his words.

Wind whipped up a trail of dust and made her dark robes snap. Then the silken figure turned.

Her face peered over her shoulder as the fabrics twisted around her. Her skin was like ash. Tattoos streaked her cheeks, her chin, and the sides of her head. It was perhaps not the face one would have imagined a triumvir to have, older, pinched, serious. But her eyes, they glowed like embers against the ashen skin, accented by dark makeup.

There was as if something deeply sinister hid behind those molten rings.

Her expression was unchanged, stuck somewhere between indifference and festering anger. He had given a good answer, better than most, but she would not give him the satisfaction.

She took two steps toward him, each footstep sharp like cut glass.

«And what makes you worthy?»

It seemed she would only ask questions that brought on contemplation. His eyes had dimmed once she had turned, when they were forced to face the sheer cold power of orange embers, indeed, seemed the only light that would come from the dark, cloaked figure in front of him. He had felt himself growing in power, the emotions of all whirling around him to grant him strength, it took only her to turn, for him to feel so cold. He felt fear, sure, but where he once could draw strength from that fear, now all he could draw upon was the ability to speak, and the consideration of what he would say next.

'And what makes you worthy?'

That was the million credit question, was it not? The question should have perhaps provided him some hope. By now the previous question, and now this, had long since convinced him that he had not been brought out here to be executed for some phantom crime. Not that he had seriously thought it was the case, but the human mind was anything but rational. Indeed, what it meant was something that he should have taken pleasure in, it was more and more likely now that she had some intention to take him on as an apprentice. What else could asking such questions mean? Yet, even if it had been his goal, a long-term goal of his to find a master that would bring him further into the Sith hierarchy, and truly what better a master did there exist apart from one of the Triumvirs herself? It was still problematic in numerous ways. First, he had perhaps erroneously wished this sort of test to be on his terms, wished for it to be once he had earned himself renown to all the Sith, once he had increased in knowledge and skill, once he was able to prepare. Secondly, the question of why him specifically still had not been answered, for the weight he had given his own bloodline, others did not give it a similar weight, so why had Darth Ophidia sought him out?

'She is waiting.' His mind whispered, breaking him from the trance of contemplation he found himself in.

What had made him worthy? He was the heir to the great Darth Marr, the true ruler of the Old Sith Empire who had balanced a traitorous Emperor with a jockeying and vassalitating Sith Council. He had been told all his life that his worth was measured in the blood that flowed through his veins. It was blood he was proud of, a legacy he would give himself entirely to defend, protect, and expand. Yet, that was not him, that would not be an answer she would desire.

A hollowness grew in him, as the realisation sprinkled slowly, like the first rains of spring. His worth had been measured by his birth, yet even that had not been guaranteed if he had been born without the great Darth Marr's eyes? If he had failed to show aptitude in the Force? He would have been nothing.

Despair gripped him, flowing from his mind to the rest of his soul, yet it was countered, by the rage that was flowing from his heart to the rest of his body. How dare she, how dare she make him doubt like this, how dare he think such weakness. Yet with it, was the linger of hope. She must have seen something, anything, about him that would have necessitated this meeting. So that left him with a singular option, or perhaps the only one he would consider at the moment. It was not rational, it was not safe, but the emotions swirling within him, the deluge of the dark side empowering him, he could not quite bring himself to care. It was euphoric, he could not bring himself to end it. He would have to defeat her, to gain the answer.

He resisted the fear, as his knees left the ground, replaced with his feet, pressed firmly on the planet's surface. He took his left hand off his chest, as he readied it, feeling the Force run through him as electricity would run through a circuit. While with the right he wandered down to his belt, gripping firmly his lightsaber, and then without flourish, it activated, the rhythm of plasma interacting with air was the only sound between them, as he pointed it away, in invitation.

​

"My worth cannot be judged by simple words uttered in thought," His eyes blazed as he itched to make his move, but whatever rationality remained, kept him still, "What makes me worthy, is that I shall stand now, and defeat you." Let the seas boil, let the stars fall, let it take every drop of his holy blood, for Malum stood, maddened, ready to fight to his end.

Darth Ophidia

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

Emotions rolled off him like smoke, and as the Dark Lady observed him, she read the conflict in his mind in the coils of his emotions and hear the echoing voices that argued over his fate. Their faces carved themselves into his emotional landscape and turned against him like a nest of serpents. They coiled, reared, showed their venom-dripping fangs.

Would they turn against him, or could he master them?

The young apprentice seemed to crumble under the weight of her questions. He, like so many young hopefuls, had always assumed they were worthy on their mere connection to the Force. But to be Sith meant to achieve perfection, and there could not be room for doubt.

But then he stood.

Malum’s sabre cut the blacks and dark greys of Fiviune with red as it snapped unceremoniously to life. Its hum choked the quiet sound of the wind and dust. Darth Ophidia’s mouth curled at the left corner.

And the Dark Lady smiled.

«Then strike me down and prove your worth-»

Her hands parted and turned up to the sky as if she offered it a gift. Her arms swept out to the sides, showing no weapon on her belt nor in her hands. She was defenceless, and left herself completely open.

«-Heir of Marr.»

Did she not think he would?

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

Emotions rolled off him like smoke, and as the Dark Lady observed him, she read the conflict in his mind in the coils of his emotions and hear the echoing voices that argued over his fate. Their faces carved themselves into his emotional landscape and turned against him like a nest of serpents. They coiled, reared, showed their venom-dripping fangs.

Would they turn against him, or could he master them?

The young apprentice seemed to crumble under the weight of her questions. He, like so many young hopefuls, had always assumed they were worthy on their mere connection to the Force. But to be Sith meant to achieve perfection, and there could not be room for doubt.

But then he stood.

Malum’s sabre cut the blacks and dark greys of Fiviune with red as it snapped unceremoniously to life. Its hum choked the quiet sound of the wind and dust. Darth Ophidia’s mouth curled at the left corner.

And the Dark Lady smiled.

«Then strike me down and prove your worth-»

Her hands parted and turned up to the sky as if she offered it a gift. Her arms swept out to the sides, showing no weapon on her belt nor in her hands. She was defenceless, and left herself completely open.

«-Heir of Marr.»

Did she not think he would?

Heir of Marr.

Never had the statement been so mocking. It was everything he had wanted, in a sense, for his lineage to be recognised, to be recognised by one so powerful and able as one of the Triumvirate. It tasted of ash now.

He was more than the heir of the great Marr, such only gave him a legacy to aspire to, a position to overcome. So why now, why after all this time, had he become bound by it? Why now did he look ahead, to the see mask of his great ancestor, and see no path to surpass him? Why now, did he look away from in shame, Malum to be left always in his shadow?

Was he not to become great in his own right? Was he to be nothing more than a vessel to continue the reverant Marr's will, without the ability to ever become greater than him? Would not his descendants look back upon him... and perhaps consider him to be equal to Marr in legacy and strength?

They would not. When had he ever looked back to consider the accomplishments of his other ancestors? When had he looked at in reverence those that had come before him? It was simple. There was only the grand Darth Marr.

"I will surpass him." He whispered into the wind, loud enough for Ophidia to hear.

That is how he was worthy, for his ancestor did not bind him, for his ancestor was only a stepping stone. His goal would not just be becoming the Heir to Marr, or simply becoming Marr himself. It would only be the first step in his legacy, one that he would leave to his descendants so that they would never have to face what he had. But for himself? He would go further, climb new heights, transcend beyond the limitations placed upon him, become perfect, and become master of the uncontrollable.

That journey would begin now after he had defeated one of the strongest Sith alive.

He brought his left hand in front of him, his fingers pointed directly at the foe in front.

Silence pervaded the field, and then in an instant. lightning was born from Malum's fingers, and then in another instant, they had flown in the direction of Ophidia. Rageful and angered so he might be, but he would not walk into a trap.

Darth Ophidia

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

She had guessed that things would go one out of two ways: Either she would provoke him to attack, or he would prove his self-control until such a point where she would turn him against himself. Provoking him to attack had been easier than she had thought, and by her estimate, he should have flown into a rage by reminding him of his so-called inheritance. But something shifted in the young man, much to her curiosity.

He spoke:

I will surpass him.​

An intriguing statement.​

Such ambition ought not go wanting, nor could it go unchecked.

The acolyte's shock of lightning struck the Dark Lady's form, and she allowed her upper body to buckle. The slight smile on her lips split into a full grin as her arms wrapped around her shoulders.

"If you make such bold claims-"

Darth Ophidia's fingers curled like talons as they raked over the silken robe. The scant light of the overcast sky grew duller, paler, seemingly choked by an encroaching darkness.

"Then be ready to bet your life."

Her hands then whipped out in Malum's direction. The lightning that danced from her fingers was not the typical blue or purple, nor the rare crimson of Soeht's touched; it was colourless white, as though it cut the colour from the air and left it dying. It was a flash, followed by thunder, as lightning fanned out from her fingers and ripped the ashen soil between them like a nexu tearing flesh from bone.

But she restrained herself. She stopped before it were to be fatal, kept it from chasing him. It was a display of a fraction of the power she could wield if she simply let go the fetters of concealment she had placed on herself.

"Or lay down and die a pretender."

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

He had brought his lightsaber in front of him at the moment of her counterattack, concentrating and preparing to block it... yet it was naught, as the lightning danced in front of him for a flash before dissipating into the air from which it appeared it originated. He breathed out, his muscles did not relax, but some relief was paid to his mind. It would not have been the first time he was struck by lightning, it would not be his last either. To be a Sith was to use pain, one could not do that if they succumbed to it. He had long since been used to the sensation of sizzling flesh, of muscle aches, of bone pain... yet that did not mean he looked forward to it.

His emotions were settling more and more, tamed perhaps by such a display, the smell of smoky earth would probably give anyone some pause.

His mind went to strategy, "lay down and die a pretender", well she had highlighted his options well. Fight or die, that would be the only outcome. However, yet, there were other choices in the minutia of those outcomes, the first, and the one he went to immediately. Victory, strike her down today, either to kill her or at the very least disarm her. It was the best outcome for him, he would have proven himself worthy, proven himself to be on the road to certainty, to have defeated a master as a mere acolyte? It was unheard of.

Yet, the pure impressiveness of such a feat would be why it was unlikely to pass. He was proficient, he was strong, he was powerful, all those he was certain of. He had brought others to their knees with his lightning, screams giving way to begging, giving way to nothing but whimpers. Was it crass? Yes, but would he do it again for the pure elation it brought him? Of course.

She had only buckled. Didn't even make a sound. He had grown disconcerted when her smile had moved to a full grin.

She was a master, he had not expected her to fall to such an attack, his opening attack at that, but to only react like that? To not even move to block or dodge it? It was either arrogance or it was confidence, and by her reaction, Malum felt he could confidently decide which it was.

So escape, that was the natural position left for him. His ship was only a few scant metres away, it would be a fighting retreat to be sure, one in which speed and caution would have to be exercised in equal measure. It would not be a victory, not in the conventional sense, but this match-up was already far from conventional, who would expect the acolyte that dueled a master to actually survive the encounter? She would hold the field, but he would hold his life.

Yet to retreat in his moment of triumph?

A Marr could not simply retreat without blood having been drawn.

His red eyes glanced down towards his other lightsaber, sheathed at his side. He was always better with two rather than one, it had been a long time since he drew it, his ace in the hull as it were.

The temptation to bring it forth was evident. He was already on the back foot, already at the disadvantage, any sane man would have already fled, or at the very least attempted to equalise the contest, yet he still hesitated. Once a secret was revealed, it could not be hidden again.

He brought his eyes back to focus on the individual in front of him.

A realisation bloomed within.

If she wished to have killed him, that first strike should have hit.

The fact that it did not, would give him an advantage, at least for the very moment.

Every moment she spent not attempting to kill him, was every moment he could spend killing her. If he could eke out a victory right now, while this advantage stood, bring all that he had to bare, and hurl it at her, it could give him all that he needed. She would attempt to counter, that much was true and evident, but at that moment, if he would bring up his hidden advantage... would that be all that it took?

No.

He was lying to himself if he believed it was, yet with it, he could give a good show of it, and then his escape path to the Lochris would be more clear, her surprise could buy him a few more seconds rather than his simple fight.

He brought up his left hand again, but this time, his fingers were not pointed toward her, instead, they were pointed toward the sky above. He felt the Force flow through him, again like he was a riverbed, guiding the waterine currents to their destination.

At the last moment, his eyes closed.

As a brilliant light emerged out of his fingers, cascading across the darkened world with more luminosity than it had ever seen. It would have doubtless blinded him if he had looked. It would hopefully have blinded her.

Without a second passing, without sound, he charged forth, red plasma wrring through the air. Slashing forth in a wide arc, his eyes blazing brilliantly at the target before him. He would end this now, he had to.

Fight or Die!

Darth Ophidia

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

Success or death.

That had been her mantra since her introduction to the Sith. If one were not willing to put one’s life on the line, then one should stay out of the games of the dark lords. But if one were to play the game well, there were rewards uncountable. Success did not require victory at every turn, but success and progress was the only option.

One time, she had not succeeded. She had died, and her empire fell. She had to claw her way out of the darkest abyss of hell, and now she was once again rising to the peak of power. She did not consider herself the Sith’ari, not yet anyhow. But the Sith’ari would be reborn from the work she seeded, that she knew.

Success or death, even if it came to fruition in a thousand years: The Sith would be successful.

His fingers lit up with a brilliant light, and Ophidia was forced to close her eyes to prevent herself from being blinded. It was a good strategy, if inelegant. Her hands covered her face to shield her from the harshest light. Her mouth contorted in a grimace of discomfort as her teeth gnashed together.

Crimson flashed.

For a moment it would seem as though it were to cleave her in twain; for a moment it looked almost as if he had struck home. For one glorious moment, it looked as though he had won against a triumvir. One glorious moment of victory, ripped away as Darth Ophidia slipped through his reach and to his outside shoulder, seemingly going for his back.

He may have succeded in taking away her eyes for the time being, but a true Sith did not need eyes to see.

In lieau of brandishing a weapon, her hand flashed out like a blade. There was a danger to her movement, a threat: She did not need a blade to sever his arm if she so desired. Her mere hand gave the sensation of a brandished lightsabre as it sought to lightly slap the side of his head.

Insult to injury.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

He had forlornly hoped that victory was at his grasp so soon, wouldn't it be truly impressive to have defeated a Triumvir? Defeated a triumvir, so quickly as well. But feeling the tap on his head, it was evident that all he currently had was humiliation. His fight or flight withered away, devolving into anger, as his eyes blazed before he quickly breathed it in. He could not lose control in battle, that was all the enemy would need.

The only takeaways that he could make from the initial attack were that one, she could see without her eyes, to be expected, he would have been surprised if it had not been the case, had been surprised, when it seemed she could not in fact, and rather visibly shied away from the brightness as most would. But indeed, his surprise had been wiped away as quickly as it had come, for the second takeaway, she was fast, incredibly fast, she had weaved past his attack to be behind him. He could only imagine the mocking smirk, the expression of mirth. He could feel himself shaking.

"Becalm, you cannot win like this." His mind sharply rebuked, and as he breathed out deeply, he felt himself steady, he knew he could not win this conventionally, so why fret?

Bring his secondary weapon out now? No, he may have been on the back foot, but he could still mount a capable defense without it, as for if he could mount an able offensive without it... well...

Breathing in again, he felt it, the telltale presence of another, Darth Ophidia, he saw in his mind's eye, dark tendrils move out of him to entrap his opponent, this was Consume Essence, and this is how he would gain victory. He could feel the pride, he could feel dread, he could even feel fear, yet... he was confident that fear was not caused by him, what exactly was the Triumvir currently thinking?

He idly wished Trayze was here. Malum had long described Trayze as his shield, while Malum was the sword, they paired well together, of course, he would not be of use in a duel of this circumstance, and they had already long spoken about the interruption of that prior honour duel. Yet, his desire for wishing Trayze here at this moment was due to a secret shame of his, Trayze had become far more proficient when it came to the Sith Mind arts... perhaps he could know what the Triumvir was thinking.

Yet still, he expelled those thoughts away, it was not the time for idle curiosity. It would take time for more essence to be drawn, so he must seize back the momentum.

Thus, he drew upon the force, motioning it through to his hands, he had one chance with this, her so close. He felt the heat in his hands, the sparks and crackle of the fire on wood, perfect.

He turned quickly, and a loud whoosh erupted as brilliant flames brought forth out of his hands, Convection was an interesting ability, one not many sought after, but after Lightning was supremely useful. His blade followed after, the sound of plasma whipping through the air, aiming to where the insulting hand lay to cut off the insulting appendage that dare touch him.

He breathed out again, he could feel himself growing stronger, he could feel the emotions whirl and whir, pride, dread, and fear, they were an interesting combination, and he could not explain why she was feeling any of them, apart from likely the first. But they would empower him, empower him to defeat her, and really, was not that all that mattered?

Darth Ophidia

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

It would seem he was pulling out all the stops. He was wise to do so, for even if he were to not defeat her, he gave her a clear view of his extensive capabilities. She found thus far that he knew many techniques, but lacked the experience, power and conviction to make the most of them.

He was soft. This was something she could rectify.

She could have resisted his attempt at consuming some of her essence, but instead she let him nibble at her surface and taste the power her was testing. Power flooded from her, tainted with the stench of death. There was a soul-shattering scream, not from Ophidia or Malum, but from a rift in the air as Soul-shriven spirits clawed at Malum’s psyche when he attempted to consume Ophidia’s essence.

It was not a pleasant experience.

But in the consumption, he could hear snippets of her thoughts:

His feet moving «Good» The image of a door.

«Slow» «Faster»​

The image of a blade slicing flesh, so vivid he could feel it.​

But she was not going to stop, and neither was he. Having fire bursting from his hands would turn many away and make them stumble to their back foot, but Ophidia had seen most things before. She had plotted the assassination of fire-users before and knew that fear was what gave fire its greatest edge.

As burning hands and a live lightsabre lashed out, she did not quite step away. His blade lashed out at where her hand had been, but found nothing.

The Dark Lady stepped out to his side as he brought his sabre down against her and pivoted to remain behind his shoulder, but stayed within touching range. Rather than attack his sabre hand as one might think. His hands were protected by the immolation and she was foolish enough to touch them.

Instead, her foot tried to kick his foot out from under him to destabilise. Then, immediately after, she thrust her hand forward and let the force well out in the form of a push. She was trying to unbalance him and then throw him forward into the dirt.

«You fight like one who has never had to fight for anything in his life.»

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

He bit his lip, and an eye closed in struggle, he felt an ache in his mind as he was assaulted by visions, he had never been counterattacked when absorbing one's essence, most did not even notice the slow drain of their power and its use in empowering him. The struggle... the power underneath... it felt invigorating, a ravenous craving filled him. He felt the focus of the flames drop, yet maintained them, it was a dangerous course, but at this moment when even his mind had betrayed him, the flames had to keep the Triumvir away from him. Thus, the controlled flame that erupted from his left hand increased in strength, as his consumption festered further, now not content with a morsel but with the entire feast. Biting down deeper to take more of her essence without fear of detection.

Malum opened his mouth and screamed a hellish scream as it even seemed that flames had begun dancing out of his mouth and onto the stream, the pain of the visions grew further, but losing control more and more, he kept consuming, the power underneath promised to be so great, so good, so delicious, if only he could beat the agony. Out of his hands came an outright inferno, a wildfire, coating the field within, the cyclic nature of the Sith took hold, pain, if controlled, could be used for power, power for victory.

He saw someone's feet moving, he saw a door, he saw a lightsaber slash, and grunted and groaned in further pain, as his knees buckled and begged for him to fold, but he could not. True tactics and strategy had withdrawn, the only objective now was to eat, to eat his fill and eat again. An idle thought that maybe he could defeat her by sapping all her strength came to him and disappeared as quickly as it came, there was no order to this, there was just hunger.

It all stopped suddenly as he felt his knees finally fail him. That was not entirely fair, for it was in fact his feet that were kicked out underneath him in the chaos of flames. For a moment he felt flight, as he fell backward, and it too, gave him a moment of clarity. A moment.

Before he felt himself fall into the dirt and face upwards to the starless sky. The ache was in his mind, he couldn't think properly.

He coughed, and felt copper on his tongue, what was happening? Was this to be the last his eyes saw?

"This is not where you fall, young Acolyte." His mind spoke, but... it was not his.

He could feel his arms and legs shake as he maintained still the consumption, it was too much, she was more powerful than him, and he would break.

"Stand, and fight, death was never an option." The voice spoke again, entirely alien, without familiarity, yet somehow comforting.

His limbs stilled, the connection breaking between them as one knee stood, supported by an arm on top, followed by the other knee, and the other arm allowed him to stand again. Staring down the master in front of him, his foe who could kill him, but who he would not allow to kill him.

He could feel it, in his eyes, broken blood vessels, did the sclera look as bloody as the pupil? Only Ophidia could say.

His lightsaber, never leaving his grasp stood ready, a second wind overtook him. He allowed the consumption to fall away, if he would win, it would be by his own strength. That meant... he would need to stop fighting with one arm tied behind his back, and stop waiting for the perfect opportunity for a crescendo of victory. He would need to throw all that he had, right now, into one last attack, and kill a Triumvir. His left hand went down to his belt, and out from the sheath, ignited a twin red plasma blade.

"You fight like one who has already died." He growled in response, yet found the voice in his mind speaking too. An echo beneath his pronunciation, a ghost below the words, a whisp in the wind. A vision came before him, one which he could not speak the meaning of, but one which smelled of death. Had Ophidia fallen before?

An unearthly scream left his lips, as he took all the pain that poured out from the consumption. Hatred, pure hatred made real left him in waves and waves, Exar Kuun had slain a Wyrm through hatred, could he slay a master with it? He found his footing as his legs took hold of the grounds, there would be no other opportunity, no other chance, his twin blades made to swing as he sprinted forward, this would be the end, for one of them.

"Not you." The voice whispered.

Who was he?

Darth Ophidia

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

He ate vorciously at her presence, but to Ophidia it felt like little more than a bug-bite. Behind the layered walls of her trickery, she had concealed levels upon levels of her power, only to be drawn upon when needed or when the moment truly called for an overwhelming force. But through his feasting on her power, he siphoned echoes and memories that she did not even notice within the cacophony of her own existence.

When Malum stood again, three memories in particular stood out to the both of them:

A chill wind ripped through, turning quickly to the searing heat of fire as words turned to images of a young woman at a turning point in her life.

In a flash, he would see the Dark Lady standing over Carnifex in the days of the Sith Empire. Her loyalty in question as she turns her sabre against her Emperor and considers the chance. History shows that she stayed her hand, but «why» remained always a question.

Death. A serpent clad in a thousand knives among a sea of corpses, evaporating from the inside while swearing vengeance upon all that had failed her. It was the point a once loyal advisor to the Sith Emperor turned into a rival.

Each memory was like a torrent of lightning, and one that did not end for as long as he chose to witness it. Yet, it was also a rare view into the life of someone so secretive.

Malum stood, confronted her, and the Tsis’kaar had to admit she was impressed with his tenacity. She knew now that he would make a fine apprentice, but his will to resist her would have to be culled for the time being. She needed to prove to him once and for all who held the power. Two there shall be: One to embody the power and one to crave it.

His twin sabres lit up the desolate space between them like a mirror of Ophidia’s past, and the triumvir closed her eyes fully. Her hands gathered in front of her abdomen and her weight shifted down into her legs. The Force formed around her like a wedge that cut his waves of hatred with her own desire to subdue and control.

She stepped toward him and pivoted, as if she wanted to back into his centre. However, as she did, her form seemingly melted into wind and shadow as she slipped under his attack and then extended her iron will like a vice that lashed out against him. She sought to push him off the ledge on which she had stood when they met, then stop and hold him over the abyss, just at the edge.

«Success or death, apprentice.»

Death

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

He felt the tide of the force crash down onto him a riptide across the sea, his charge broken, as his feet impaled themselves onto the floor, in the emotional fervour he had been placed upon over and over, his own positioning had suffered gravely. His back was pressed up against a heaving drop, while in front of him laid the path to the Lochris, blocked by one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy.

Instinct managed his reply more than any plan could have, through his lightsabers, he forced through the Force, an idea he had long considered but had never thought to work. His idea was simple, as his fingers, as his hands, as any part of his body could conduct the force into action, why not objects connected to his body as well? Especially objects that were already so attuned to the Force.

As his waves of hate were broken, he diverted them through him. They had bought him some time before the greatest of her tides had struck him, but that would only be delaying the inevitable. Indeed, this might also be delaying the inevitable, indeed, her power through the Force was already clearly superior to his, be that through more experience or just natural aptitude, still, he had to try, and indeed, it may surprise her.

"Success or death, apprentice."

Surprise indeed.

It had almost taken the winds out of his sails, but distrust proved too powerful. Never speak with your foe during combat, he had long been lectured, unless it was to goad the opposition into a mistake, of course. It seemed it was the latter, even if... even if... it was what he wanted. Still, he let the idea pass, even if truthful, it became all the more evident what the Triumvir's plan was, a Force Push towards a cliff, it would be comedic if it was not so grim... and if it was not concerning him of course.

He felt the plasma of his blades spasm and whir, it was working, his red eyes closed to the world as he focused it further. He could make out the intricate machinery that went into the blade, as focusing it through the plasma, he felt the force move through his hands to his fingers, and then, he felt his lightsabers as he had never felt them before. He had always been told in vague terms about how once a lightsaber was not just a weapon, but too, an extension of oneself, well, he finally knew what that meant, what it truly meant. For as his arm was an appendage seamlessly attached to his body, so were his blades seamlessly attached to his fingers.

All the hatred, all the emotions both ill and whole, gathered in, as through his feet planted upon the soil, withstanding the Push made against them, he countered with his own, keeping his blades guarded, the power met somewhere in the middle, no longer a fight between warriors, it was now a fight between wills. A fight, he was losing.

Little by little, he felt his feet move, slowly pushed to the edge, inevitability, then.

Not yet.

Brought to the end, brought to the edge, there was no point holding onto reserves. Thus, leaving him with one recourse. He concentrated through his blades again, it was one thing to simply push, one of the most simple Force powers after all, but it would be quite another to use what he had in mind.

His blades moved out of their defensive posture, pointed now directed towards the Triumvir. One last hurrah.

Lightning burst forth through the lightsabers.

It had worked!

It had truly worked!

He saw them move at their lightous speed.

But such power could not be harnessed so simply, he should have known that more than any other.

---

Malum fell forth, defeated.

His hands burned as his lightsabers fell beside him.

He felt the aches of muscle, the burns of flesh, and the pain of bone. His eyes were still open, as he looked onward at his opponent.

Success or death, was it not? Would he now die? He felt surprisingly at peace at that. Before that peace was crushed away. This could not be his fate. This was not what he was promised, not what he was afforded.

Malum grunted as the pain of his hands, of burned gloves, were used to attempt to stand him up. But he was too weak for that.

Malum fell again onto the soil floor. He could barely move his head, but out in his peripheral vision, he saw the Triumvir looking on.

"Am I to die, Saiah?" The name meant nothing to him, he did not even fully know how he knew the name. But, for some reason, a reason he did not know, it felt correct. Who was Saiah?

Darth Ophidia

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Malum of House Marr​

Oh how he struggled.

Perhaps if she had put her full focus to his ruin, if she was not so focused on restraint, then his feeble attempts would crumble beneath her. Still, he had made an impressive effort. He gathered his power against her. Still, little by little, she pushed him further and further back while he scrambled for a retort.

And then he released.

A shock of lightning ripped through the air between them, momentarily disrupting her concentration. His lightning stung and caused her to retract a hand with a hiss. And as soon as she brought her attention back to him, he was crumbling.

She crossed the distance in a casual stroll, maintaining somehow perfect poise.

But the words he spoke, the name he groaned, it made her eyes darken with anger. It was a name lost to all but those who served in the highest ranks of the One Sith, and it was one step closer to her true name than any mere acolyte should be.

«Keep that name out of your mouth.»

As she reached him, she lashed out with a swift kick aimed at his ribs.

«As the Sith’are destroyed and remade the Sith Order-»

Her fingers curled like talons in Malum’s direction as she sneered down at him.

«-So shall you be remade, as my apprentice.»

A blinding flash of white light shredded the darkness between them as lightning crackled from her fingers with the deafening sound of a thundercrack.