Humble Beginnings...

[Atlas Blackwood]

Atlas stood in absolute silence. The last few days had been blurs, just last week he had arrived on this planet. Atlas had to admit it wasn't as beautiful as Anobis, but rarely anything was. The planet was a flourishing place, healthy greenery dotted the landscape while towers of truly massive proportion were beginning to be built. The thought haunted him. He closed his eyes, the blaster fire that killed his parents ricochet behind his eyelids. He could hardly stand the thought of that horrid place, that horrid day, that horrid memory.

He opened his eyes, and pulled out his data pad. He tapped the screen a couple times and a red holographic map of the area he was in burst to life. He checked where he was located.

I'm at the right place, he thought to himself.

He looked around the area once more. He stood in what seemed to be a training room. It held weapons, tools, and workout materials all around its walls. The ground was made out of an interesting material that was soft and molded to the shape of your foot so you could train without the stiff reminder of the steel floors otherwise standard throughout the whole structure. He sighed and booted off his data-pad, inserting it in its own holster on his belt.

His master was nowhere to be seen which left Atlas in thought. Atlas knew he was a busy person, and we was nothing but amazed of the man. He had pulled him off that now war-torn hell-hole he once called his home. He gave Atlas all of the standard gear and to his surprise offered to train him in the way of the…force. Atlas knew the force was powerful, and with proper training could make him nearly unstoppable. That’s why he stood so patiently in this very room. His new master was about to train him his first lessons. Atlas was both nervous and excited, but these childish emotions were eclipsed by the desire to want knowledge and power.

Atlas had heard stories of what the force was, he didn't know he was force sensitive, nor what its full extent actually reached, he knew of Jedi, the powerful force users from bed time stories. He knew they had mystic powers and could wield lightsabers. He knew there had been some on his planet, but they were quickly shipped off to train on far-away planets, there hadn't been a recording of one for the last several years. He thought of himself wielding a lightsaber and using the force, although it was just a vision Atlas felt a drive inside him, a motivation like nothing before. He thought of the first time he used the force, it made his fingertips numb, the sensation filled his veins. At the moment Atlas couldn't give an accurate depiction of what the force really was, however he knew a few things. He knew it was powerful...he knew it was...right. He knew it was a part of him now.

Over anything, standing in this room, Atlas felt grateful. His new master had not only saved him from his home, but was going to train him. Atlas counted the minutes that went by as he waited for him.

[member="Tirdarius"]​

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

Anobis. A pleasant world by all accounts, the type that many would have been thankful to live on: temperature, fertile, abundant in resources and rich by that account. It should have been a place where all lived productive lives, calm abounded, and all was well: another peaceful world in a prosperous galaxy. But such scenic idealism spoke little of the true realities: conflict spreading across the surface, catching ordinary people in it's grasp and crafting chaos where order should have existed. It was a picture seen across hundreds of worlds, a horror no different to so many others. One can almost feel apathetic to it, after a while.

Tirdarius had purpose there, though he'd not cared to reveal it to anyone else. Ostensibly seeking out resources for the Imperial war machine, he'd considered such a lesser reason. That was the work of the Imperial Reclamation Service, or of Imperial Intelligence - for a Sith to oversee such operations oftentimes suggested that more was going on, but he didn't care for what anyone thought of his doings. Ultimately his search had proven futile for the most part, much as he had expected, but it is often said that when the Force closes a door, it opens a window. It was through this that he found something entirely unexpected.

Entering the training room apportioned to his private rooms, his grey eyes fixed upon the boy that stood within. Cleaner than he had been when they had first met, neat and tidy, dressed in fresh black robes, as the Sith Lord had provided him. The two of them were roughly the same height, though the younger man was thinner, his face slightly more drawn, though not from any true physical deprivation.

This one has the first touch of true emotional trauma that adds depth now, the Sith Lord thought reflectively. He could sense it, a contrast of considerable proportion: pleasure at being in a place where he might find a new beginning, but still the raw sensations of pain and anger that gnawed away quietly at the edges of him. Grief, freshly experienced, freshly buried. As with many that came to the Sith, the desire for revenge against those that had wronged him was a potent force indeed - although, in the boy's case, it was perhaps more abstract, given that he had taken his true vengeance in a moment of uncontrollable force. Were I any other Sith, that fiery rage would already be the energy source into which he would be required to tap.

"You seem remarkably settled for one so recently uprooted from their home," the Sith remarked calmly, his long black outer robe floating around him as he took several steps beyond the threshold of the room, the doors closing swiftly behind him. His expression was passive, a step or two removed from apathy, but offering nothing more than the cold calm which was his default. "The sooner you adapt, the quicker you will learn, so this is all to the good."

The room itself was arrayed with a goodly number of things that they might use, if he so chose. A rack of wooden weapons stood against the far wall: staves, shorter sword-like weapons, even smaller blades crafted from scentwood that resembled daggers. Beyond that, small ceramic discs of unknown purpose, a set of three spherical training remotes, and miscellaneous other objects that might yet have their role explained in course. Such were the paraphenalia employed by the Sith in training their students in the physical aspects of their lessons, but this one wasn't ready for that just yet. He has only but briefly touched upon the Force, and recognised himself as being something more than he has been told.

"How do you feel, being here?", Tirdarius asked, an enquiring raise of an eyebrow all the expression he cared to offer, the lilting tone of his voice modulated to offer more warmth, but imbued more with a sense of reflective curiousity than any true interest. "To be taken from your home, to see your family taken from you, your world pulled out from under your feet...does this anger you? Did it make you feel helpless? What remnant of a sentient being stands before me?"

[member="Atlas Blackwood"]

 

[Atlas Blackwood]

Not much time had passed before his master showed. Atlas’s head twitched towards the entrance where the man entered. Elegance was the only word that came to mind. The way he walked, his robes moved behind him similar to the calm movement of water on a small coast in the calmness of a summer night. There was something in the air around him. Atlas couldn’t explain it, it almost felt like a pressure, and it radiated a sense of strength.

Who was this man?

Atlas’s cold eyes examined him, learned from his walk, his posture, the way his eyes met his own. Atlas’s knew immediately this man wasted nothing. Each step had a meaning, each word had its place, and each smile had a definitive reason. Atlas could seemingly sense it. It was fascinating.

“You seem remarkably settled for one so recently uprooted from their home," his master said calmly. Atlas lifted his chin slightly, as if he were to say something, but he did not know what to say. He simply left the comment there. His master was more than correct, Atlas had to glaze over most of the details since his relocation. The room he was offered was more than adequate, the nights were quiet and the few hours of sleep he could receive were pleasant, but it was odd, and hard to answer to, it was almost better to ignore it. He was here for one reason, and that was to become better, that was what mattered most.

Uprooted? Atlas thought. Like a flower. Atlas toyed with the word. He imagined a child running through a field to only stop and stare at a bright blue lily of sorts. Staring, the child finally took it by its stem and pulled, the feint snap of the flowers neck was only audible to Atlas. Atlas clenched his teeth. Yes. Like a flower.

"The sooner you adapt, the quicker you will learn, so this is all to the good." His master continued. Atlas simply gave a small nod. Atlas liked the sound of learning quickly.

"How do you feel, being here?" His master added. Atlas opened his mouth for a brief second before his master continued, and rephrased the question. "To be taken from your home, to see your family taken from you, your world pulled out from under your feet...does this anger you? Did it make you feel helpless? What remnant of a sentient being stands before me?"

Atlas stood silent for a moment. He resembled an old picture, being lit from the middle, the edges burn to a crisp, leaving only the shapeless, weak center. What was left, like the picture, was only half of the true story.

“I…” Atlas said before stopping and looking down at the floor and clenching his teeth. The thoughts in his head lost their fluidity, coagulating like spoiled milk, or panicked blood.

“Not much is left of me…master. I couldn’t tell you what stood before you. Someone hardly alive.” Atlas swallowed. A pit was being dug in his stomach, the clanking of the grave-diggers’ shovels rang through his ears.

“I promise to one day fully answer you with the utmost sincerity” Atlas said, his cold, lifeless eyes gazing at the floor. He felt helpless, like he couldn’t form what he was feeling into words. He felt like he was already letting his master down. He searched through his head for what the correct answer might be. He swallowed hard and lifted his pained eyes too look at his master, more so through him, or anything that stood in his gaze, for the power of his eyes shot with destructive force. Atlas clenched his fists.

“Imagine me a piece of soft clay. Beaten down, smashed by fist after fist, formed and reformed, left in a weak, terrified, ugly mound of colorless worth, pathetic, angry and sad, yes… but ready to take form into something greater than I could have ever been.” He said, ice forming around the edges of his words as they hung in the distance between he and his master.

“Right now”, Atlas whispered just loud enough after a short pause,” I want nothing more than to learn.” Finishing his thought Atlas’s head began to clear, his emotions began to calm themselves. Atlas composed his stiff body and relaxed his fists. He took a deep breath and looked to his master’s response.

​

[member="Tirdarius"]​

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

Hardly alive. That reaction didn't surprise Tirdarius even a little - he'd heard the same words repeated by others, beings who stood there healthy, filled with vitality even though their inner psychological spark did not shine the way perhaps it had done once before. It had always intrigued him how, even on their deathbeds, people could speak of being alive and fulfilled if they felt good emotionally, regardless of their physical state. But suffer a blow to the mind, and the world collapsed around them. Thus, the strength and weakness of the sentient stems always from the mind.

The truth of this was tedious, really: in experiencing the pain of loss, the boy felt that he had lost himself along with his family. That moment where he had reacted with anger and violence upon those responsible...that had been his first moment of true awareness, but the agony he had suffered had subsumed that understanding. The Force, it seemed, had barely touched him before, but with agony all that his consciousness could summon, so too had the Force taken heed, and responded to his call. It showed potential, yes, but primal, untapped potential that could do much good, but also much evil. All depends on what lesson he learns from his loss.

"You can only assume that you are in this shape, beaten down and malleable, to be reformed according to what you are taught," the Sith responded calmly, watching the boy with a cold, measuring expression, much as he often did. "But what has harmed you will fade, and so too will the anger and the sense of numb rage you feel. When that time comes, you will find yourself powerless all too quickly, returning to what you once were."

It wasn't true, of course: no Force user relinquished their connection to their powers in the absence of extraordinary circumstances, but this was a boy who had only ever experienced it through the sharp sting of emotional torment. The key to his power lies within his ability to see himself as the victim. Even now, that was what Tirdarius could sense about him: the loss he felt was keen, true, but his words only affirmed the sense that it was he who was the injured party. The dead who had fallen were either contributing to those feelings, or victims of it themselves, smashed into lifelessness by his hands. An awakening, but clumsily done.

"You have experienced what it is to kill, and done so with rage in your heart," he observed, his voice still carrying that dispassionate, serene tone with which he had continued the entire conversation. Only one well schooled in recognising emotional nuance would have heard the faint touch of disdain. "This is not true expression of power, boy. Understand: your first touch of the Force is as a baby throwing a tantrum, unable to cope with the circumstances thrust upon it, and acting out as a consequence. You lost control," he said sharply, his contempt for such a thing more apparent now.

He waved a hand dismissively, a flicking motion designed only to convey a sense of negation. Tirdarius knew many Sith who would no doubt embrace the emotions they had perceived in this boy on their first meeting: the vacuous loss, guilt at surviving, anger both at his family's killers and at himself for allowing it, that moment of standing on a precipice when all you really wanted was to tumble into it and let the darkness take you. Which, in truth, he did, the Sith thought reflectively. Not with quite the same finality as perhaps he had hoped at that moment. There were moments when Tirdarius thought he might have done the boy a favour if he'd ushered him into a quick, merciful death, following his family and perhaps finding peace as his life faded from him.

"Rage and hatred are tools, there to empower you. The others would teach you this, if I allowed it," he noted calmly, folding his hands in front of him. "But these are foolish toys: something that destroys all it touches, both user and victim. What you seek to learn will require passion, yes, emotional energies of great depth, but do not let your first brush with the Force leave you to assume that it is all you may feel in drawing upon it." The Human shook his head slightly, as if exasperated by the thought. "To let yourself be a creature of your rage and grief will to leave you a monster, a continuing victim who has yet to fall."

The Sith Lord moved to the centre of the room then, standing calmly on the soft ground, his expression impassive as always, the calm of the mountain impossible to move. He gestured to the room around him: the various items there, the few pieces of furniture designed to offer a moment's rest, or to hold those tools and devices that might be employed to the benefit of those within. He was familiar with them all, of course, and had trained with them for years beyond his inclination to count. And now to let go.

"So, your first lesson: let go of what pains you," he remarked, his eyebrows raising slightly. "You see a well-ordered room around you, containing many wonderful and mysterious things. These are of no use to you: they are images flickering in front of a blind man. So now you must tap into your feelings, the numbing rage that holds you together. Release it here. Let it out. Destroy what you wish."

[member="Atlas Blackwood"]

 

[Atlas Blackwood]

Atlas was quiet as his master spoke. He remained completely still, as if an effort to hold on to each of the words he said. His master made a point that shook Atlas to his very bones. He understood everything his master said. The Force wasn’t a battery, it wasn’t a muscle that was going to simply aid in whatever Atlas was wanting to accomplish. Atlas’s first brush of the Force wasn’t power, it was a cry. A scream in a void. Who was Atlas now that he was here? He wasn’t a child anymore. The home he had was gone. The reason he stood here was for the few steps he was able to muster using rage, and revenge. Atlas lifted his hand, his eyes brushing over it, as if to wonder what it was, who it belonged to. His master was right, he was nothing but rage, and revenge. Atlas felt an odd feeling, it began to mutate, and infect his whole body, it felt like his heart was slowly being pulled out of his body. It was if the curtains were being pulled back to begin a show, so anticipated, the audience watched as nothing but an empty stage was behind the large decorated pieces of fabric. Atlas began to realize he was nothing, he wasn’t human, wasn’t alive, he was emptiness wrapped in a shell of hatred. Atlas clenched the fist he was seemingly staring at. The numbness started inside it, and it slowly creeped up his arm, and began traveling his veins like subways, pumping a sense of reality.

Let go what pains you. Images of Anobis and his parents flooded Atlas’s mind. The desire to go back and be with them, on the large tower of their home, looking down at the sunset. The orange color of the sky reflected off of their faces so beautifully. Gone. Gone. Gone. Atlas looked deep inside him for something to cling to. The pain began to replace reality, and numbness. He looked vigorously, trying to find something that was his. Anything. A vision. A feeling. An image. Atlas had nothing.

NOTHING! Atlas didn’t know if he said it in his head or out loud. A tear landed on his clenched fist, another landed on the floor. Then another, and another…and another. The pain began to intensify, it felt like the burning tips of nails were being hammered into him. Atlas felt as if he was about to pass out. Everything was black inside him, nothing existed, as if it left his body and mind. It was clear. Atlas continued to search, like a computer, over and over again. It was if he was scanning his mind like a machine. The cruel reality was, Atlas had never grieved his parents. All the pain he was racing…beat him. His family and home were essential to his existence. What was he without those? Atlas scanned his whole existence for something….anything…

SOMETHING, ANYTHING!

Atlas stopped. He felt something respond. His legs gave out and he clutched his stomach before his master’s feet as he saw something he had never seen before. In the center of his being there it stood. An essence, it was fragile, small, and it glowed a magnificent red, it reminded Atlas of a small flame. His body froze as he concentrated on it. Atlas’s mind cradled his hands out to the thing. As it touched his fingertips it grew brighter. Atlas immediately felt strength replace his pain. Atlas gave a loud sigh as the pain faded, leaving him thousands of pounds lighter. It was as if the red sphere was healing him. The anger, however remained. Atlas’s soft grasp held the object closer, and it continued to burn brighter, its size became too much for Atlas’s hands and he held it up with both as it grew, and grew. Atlas’s physical arms raised themselves with a strange strength he had never felt before, and then pressed to the floor, faster than he thought he could have ever moved. The weapons and furniture of the room rattled and fell. His body and mind were trying to defeat the anger inside of him. But what was...it? What was happening?

The force. Atlas knew now. The glowing red, globe, as if to praise him for his correct answer, changed form into an almost tornado like figure. It twisted around Atlas’s fingers.

Something.

The red essence than shot through his hand, then his arms, becoming a part of his body. Soothing the remnants of pain, and finishing off the rivaling fire of anger. There was nothing but the force. This was true to Atlas; he understood now. He opened his eyes to find himself still on the floor. His muscles felt sore, as if he had been in one of the most excruciating exercises of his life. He had a feint headache, but overall he felt a sense of truth to everything, a sense of calmness…a sense of realization. It felt like burning shackles had just been unlocked. Atlas slowly got back to his shaky feet, with the help of the force, he knew. He looked at his fist once more, and saw something else. He saw himself, whatever that may be, one will have to wait and see. More importantly he saw…the force. It was just as much of him as his past was. Atlas looked upon the events of the fateful day his parents were killed, and for once wasn’t consumed by hate or sadness. Instead. He felt something very different…it was similar to…victory. Like he had somehow conquered the memory.

He took a deep breathe before looking around him and seeing the weapons, and furniture strewn about the quarters. He then slowly found his masters eyes looking back at his. The strange pressure Atlas was feeling around his master earlier was gone now, replaced by a sense of truth. Atlas's eyes looked filled with a new sense of self-confidence, and determination. Something he had never felt before. Atlas was no longer a pile of putty, more so a blank canvas. Young and lost, maybe, however he knew who he was, he had an identity, and that was enough for him. He awaited the art that would, over the course of his life, define who he was.

[SIZE=11pt]“I…”, uttered Atlas, “have let go, master.”[/SIZE]

[member="Tirdarius"]​

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

It was a strange thing, to truly observe grief. Part of you ultimately felt as though you were watching a sacred thing not meant to be witnessed, another felt a tug of empathy, and the colder, more detached part of the mind looked upon it with disdain, thinking it the act of a weak mind. Watching his new apprentice, Tirdarius felt all these things in abundance, recalling times in which he had felt the same feelings, or else been warned against them. It offered a sense of nostalgia that he had not entirely expected.

The Jedi taught me to let go of grief, seeing it as unproductive, a selfish byproduct of one's attachments, a means of indulging our inner desire to possess things that ultimately pass out of our lives. He remembered the lessons well: as a young boy, dressed in their brown-and-tan robes, sitting and listening to the Masters speak of the dangers of holding onto things too tightly. And he remembered Verlei, taking it all from him as she took him and dumped him among the Sith, to be broken down and built back up at the whims of his new teacher. Silencia, as he recalled, had little time for such feelings, either: she had more cause to grieve her circumstances than most, and yet had always sought to keep his focus in the moment. And so here I am: detached, objective, observant. I cannot participate in his grief because I do not truly understand it myself.

It wasn't that grief and rage were foreign to him: training among the Sith forced you to confront your emotions, either to best them or to be bested by them. Negligence and deprivation left their marks, as did the rages that followed such injustice, the frustration that stemmed from being pushed again and again and struggling to resist those barriers. There were the moments of deep anxiety at the sense of failure, knowing that death was often the price for such folly, only very rarely punctuated by satisfaction at success. In truth, I wonder why she allowed me to go as far as she did, when training me. He'd often wondered at that, but he knew that his Master would always remain something of a mystery to him, no matter how long either of them lived.

That was irrelevant for the moment, though: he needed to focus now upon the boy before him, the energy surging through him and making a considerable mess of the place. Tirdarius stood there, calmly, the serene centre of a storm swirling around him, channelled through the person of this boy, this Force Sensitive with more emotion than understanding of it. Opening himself to his emotions has allowed him to recognise that he has power. Only time will tell if it can be sustained.

"The Sith touch the Force through use of their emotions, Apprentice," he informed the younger man, refusing as always to stir from the spot in which he now stood. "The energy of the Force is malleable: it can be directed, manipulated and moved. When passive, it flows as it will, acting only when it wishes to. A strong, disciplined mind, sensitive to it's flow and motions, can alter that, change that direction to suit their own purposes: to move objects, to sense beings around them, to kill if they desire it."

The Sith Lord gestured to the room around him, and waved a hand in a broad, sweeping motion, exerting himself mildly within the Force as he did so. Energy gathered within him, drawn into his body from outside of himself, rushing through his veins like an adrenaline surge, but much more subtle and far more energising. His thoughts gave rise to intent, and that energy flowed outward again, changed through thought and action to something new, kinetic, directed and controlled. It wove like a tendril around weapons spilled onto the floor, grasping at them and pulling them upright, returning them invisibly to their racks. A table was righted, a few spilled items scooped up and deposited back onto the smooth surface of it. As these motions finished, Tirdarius lowered his hand and returned his gaze to his seemingly exhausted student.

"Your rage and your grief allow you to achieve this, but the energy lacks control in the same way that your feelings do. Water stirred up by violent motion certainly moves, but without the focus and force that might result from a more direction motion," he continued softly, his tone almost slightly absent, as if he were speaking to himself, or just to the room in general, caring little if anyone heard. "You must learn to look past the emotion and see the energy itself, manipulate it through choice and control, rather than the whims of your emotional psyche."

Tirdarius didn't imagine that Atlas would understand this yet - how could he, when he had only just recently started to feel the touch of the Force on any level? It would take time, and much self-reflection. The Sith way is to teach through suffering, of course: expose a student to the limits of their psychological endurance, and see if they possess the resilience to survive. No doubt he would do the same with this one, but in time: for the moment, the boy only possessed raw power, but his will was undisciplined, and his life thus far had lacked the challenges that were often true of Acolytes among the Sith. His eyes have been opened by a single tragedy, but he lacks the accumulated awareness of such. He is not yet a survivor, merely a victim. That would need to change, of course.

"Have you ever been taught to meditate, I wonder? Can you last more than a heartbeat in focus, or are you the type who must always be on the move, acting instead of being?", he asked, raising an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the young man. "Is that another bad habit you must first be broken of?"

[member="Atlas Blackwood"]

 

[Atlas Blackwood]

The new strength entering Atlas’s body was all consuming, and it felt amazing. It was if his muscles were made of marble. He felt his heart beat, and how it thundered with adrenalin. He felt like he could move star destroyers, sky scrapers, and giant beasts. He could feel the mental wounds he had received being tended to, similar to the way a med-bot would check over burns. What was this feeling? What was all of this power? Atlas’s could sense it was endless, like an abyss, the shadow of unknown replaced with the thick, dense, red fog of pure power. He felt like he could jump and let himself fall as the power wrapped around him like silk blankets. He stopped fantasizing and quickly checked himself. Atlas quickly composed his thoughts. If it was anything he had learned from his master in this intense first training session was he was weak. He was a child. He needed control, and experience. Atlas respected that, and knew it was only to make Atlas more powerful. He threw away his thoughts, and focused on his masters words.

His master described the force perfectly to Atlas as he moved each thing that he had misplaced as if he had an army of hands doing his bidding. This was all the more humbling to Atlas. Sure he was able to move some things, but as his master had explained multiple times, it was simply a cry, and not the true words of the force. Atlas was destructive sending something similar to a wave around him, simply pushing out wards. His master’s grip of each individual army was precise, and controlled. Atlas looked around him. What power. He thought. How long will it take me to achieve such a thing? He quickly dismissed the thought. He had learned through his first touch, and acceptance of the force that the force was not a toy, it wasn’t something to fight for, or fantasize about like a credit raise. It was the essence of life, the definition of power and knowledge, the line between peace and chaos. Atlas wasn’t silly enough to think for a second the force was a shiny, new weapon he would simply attain.

Like his master said, the force was like water. Rage could move it, but why rely on something so inconsistent, and draining? There was more to the force than this.

"Have you ever been taught to meditate, I wonder? Can you last more than a heartbeat in focus, or are you the type who must always be on the move, acting instead of being?” Atlas’s master asked, raising an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the young man. "Is that another bad habit you must first be broken of?"

Atlas quickly thought of the word “meditate”, it was one he has rarely used in his entire life. He had never heard applied to the force or its learners. He had seen it mostly in the religious aesthetics who lived on Anobis. They smelled funny and Atlas was to make sure he didn’t speak with one for very long.
“No, I have never mediated before.” He replied, hoping his master could give a better explanation, one that was more connected to the force and Atlas’s learning. “And no master, I don’t believe it should be a problem, I can sit still, and focus…well. I’m sure.” Atlas said ironically unsure. The task seemed simple enough, but the teachings of the force so far have been rather surprising, and intense, perhaps meditating would be different, perhaps more difficult now that it was linked to the force. Atlas was unsure, but he wanted his master to know he was up for anything, that if he couldn’t do it he would most certainly try, and try, and try again until he could...or die trying. This was certain.

“I’m sorry, master, I’m simply unsure. Forgive my ignorance.” Atlas added respectfully.

[member="Tirdarius"]​

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Atlas Blackwood"]

That came as little surprise to Tirdarius - this one was no scholar, no former Jedi, no Acolyte of years of experience. Meditation was a practice that he knew to have been adopted by many cultures, some even using it purely as a form of mental relaxation, but the anger and rage he had witnessed from this one upon their first meeting had negated any sense that Atlas might be the type of person to use it. He does have a contemplative bent, it is true, but he is not yet sufficiently rounded out to practice as we do. That would change in due course, naturally.

Though the Sith often encapsulated their emotions internally, expressing them both through their purpose and as a means of touching upon the Force, drawing upon it's power through strength of will, there was an aspect to their nature less explored when discussing their nature: that tendency to spend time in silence and contemplation. It is often said that emotion becomes truly powerful when left to seethe, when we spend time to cultivate it in the way that a gardener cultivates their plants, carefully nurturing them. So, too, would the boy need to work on refining his edge: now it was blunt, lacking careful whittling, though capable of causing harm if used forcefully enough. But a true Sith uses their feelings like the sharpest of blades: at the right moment, to make the perfect cut.

"The Force is a pervasive energy present in all things around us, both within ourselves and that exist in our environment," he informed the young man, his tone reflective, soft, the kind someone might use when almost talking to themselves. "Over the course of civilised history, it has been understood that there are those capable of perceiving the flow of this energy, and when suitably trained, able to manipulate that flow into physical form," Tirdarius continued, motioning towards his new apprentice. "You and I are two such, as are many of the beings you will find among our ranks."

He moved away from the boy, approaching a small area over to one side where the floor was augmented by the presence of several soft black cushions resting low, designed for people to sit on while observing exercises within the room, or to allow for some little comfort while talking. He intended to use them for that latter purpose, particularly given that much of this was no doubt new to someone who had probably only heard about the idea of the Force through common parlance. Very few outside the ranks of our own societies ever understand that the Force is tangible. This needed to be corrected before Atlas could join the ranks of the Acolytes within the Sith Academy - he'd have little chance among them if he remained thusly ignorant.

"Among all our socities, it is well understood that the Force responds to mental suggestion," he noted, including not only the Sith, but also the Jedi and many other Force-using groups in that particular umbrella. It is a common theme shared among us all, but not sufficient alone to reconcile our differences. "The Jedi teach that a calm, disciplined mind devoid of ego is the most appropriate way to achieve this, while Sith will often teach you that emotion is the path to touching upon the Force - something you have experienced yourself," Tirdarius observed with a slight nod of acknowledgement. He himself had used both methods: first, as a student among the Jedi, all those long years ago, and as a Sith, the second was something more likely to be expected. As, as always, the truth is somewhere between the two.

"First, however, you must learn to sense the Force independent of being able to use it," he remarked, gesturing that his apprentice should take a seat nearby so that they might talk further. "To that end, at least in the initial stages of your training, we use meditations to achieve this. These are essentially techniques designed to focus the mind and enable you to see beyond the walls that encapsulate your mind: we can all sense the Force intuitively, but truly perceiving it and being capable of using that knowledge to manipulate it is quite another."

He made a short gesture to one of the nearby tables, extending an invisible tendril of telekinetic energy to grasp at a spherical metallic object, causing it to levitate from the stand it had rested upon and gently cross the gap between them, hovering slowly over his hand. A simple enough technique for someone experienced in use of the Force, but something that his apprentice would not be able to attempt for some time yet: it was fairly rare for Acolytes to display an understanding of sustained Telekinesis for a fair while, usually first attempting burst techniques, since these required less control and more energy. The point of levitating the object here wasn't to show-off, nor to show Atlas what would be required of him: rather, to give him a focusing point.

"You see this sphere here: can you see what moves it?", he asked, watching the floating ball hovering around his hand, orbiting his fingers in slow, lazy circles, as though he was sufficiently bored to distract himself with such trivial things. "The energy around it is responding to my thoughts, shaped in a manner that grasps the sphere and holds it firmly, moving as I require," Tirdarius said reflectively. "I cannot see the energy with my eyes: few of us can perceive energy flow in a visual sense, but you can learn to 'see' it if you relax your mind, focus your thoughts upon your environment. It is like hearing a whisper in a noisy room: only when you tune out the shouts can you perceive it. Try this now: watch the sphere, and see."