ʜᴄ sᴠɴᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏɴᴇs
"Bear a single torch for Nahut, the Hated Son. Gray, formless and cold, he is denied by all but the Mother of Sorrows. Do not follow him into the dark. Light the way to lead him home." - The Lamentation of Nahut, Zakuulan Devotional Text
--
NameCzernon Zambrano
Title(s)
Prince of Panatha (40th in Line of Succession); Servant of the Dark Magi; Acolyte of the Sith
Alignment
Lawful Evil (Neutral Tendencies)
Species
Epicanthix / Bpfasshi (Near-Human)
Gender
Male
Age
19
Marital Status
Single
Force Sensitive
Yes | Apprentice
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Along the fringes of the Pacanth court, or in the shadowed halls of the Sith Academy, one might catch a glimpse of a youth with short, dark hair and haunted eyes. He leans on a cane, stepping gingerly with a pronounced limp. Burned into his forearm is the symbol of a Servant of the Dark Magus, and his eyes sear with corruption - perhaps not the corruption of what he's done, but simply who he is. What he's seen. This is Prince Czernon, runt of the litter, rough among the diamonds. The thin-blood. The weakling. Born illegitimate to an ambitious Courtesan who kept him in defiance of her master's edicts, the damaged genes of an imperfect clone bred an imperfect, damaged child. He was sickly and quiet by nature, though there was a twist of Zambrano cruelty buried deep in his nature.
The first time they came to take him from his mother, he whispered something in the ears of the soldiers that wasn't true. They believed him, and turned away. The second time they came, they applied force. He whispered something in the ears of the soldiers that was true. They believed him. They didn't have a choice but to believe. They dislike sleeping now, for the nightmares that never leave.
By the third time, his mother pushed him away, convinced of his destiny at court. She had been loving enough, good enough. He nodded sadly as he left. He knew that this would come, from the first moment. He had seen it. He had seen it all - some fates were like that. They drifted easy along the currents of the Force, in linear paths. Others were tangled. The court was like a knot of destiny, and his uncle, his spiritual father cut a blinding thread of death through it.
He learned hard lessons at the feet of strange tutors. He struggled to hold a sword. He was beaten, often, viciously, in sparring practice. But for the value of his gift of prophecy, he would have been disposed of. No, he was a thing of value.
Cloistered in the Academy, pouring over libraries, kneeling at the feet of the spiritual order that serves the Dark Lord, some might think that he is destined for servitude. For ignominy. Czernon has seen the shape of his future, looming in the dark. When people voice these doubts, these derisions, all he offers is a quiet smile. His eyes have seen the truth.
