Illusions of the Mind (Tirdarius)

[Tindōmiselde Tokani]

Allyn growled in frustration at her failed attempt to paint using the Force. Shoving the canvas aside, she stormed out of her room and to the Sith Academy's library, where books on the Force and lightsaber techniques could be found as well as Sith Alchemy and history. She strode in and quickly began to search for books on Force Illusions and manipulation to get her mind off of the failed project. Allyn had been interested in learning about Force Illusions and wanted to learn how to make them, but had failed the first times she had tried.

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

Knowledge is Power. A simple enough rule, a comprehensive understanding that even the merest Acolyte was forced to learn here. Some valued pure brute strength: to conquer an enemy, they said, was the purest expression of Sith Philosophy, for the strong would always rule over the weak. A fool's interpretation. Those were the beings that he had often thought of as mere pawns: pieces to be positioned for maximum effect in the right moment, but of little true use in the grand scheme of things. After all, do we not sacrifice our pawns to remove potentially dangerous obstacles from the board? That was their purpose, little more.

Few of such beings would bother to come here, among the datastacks, flimsiplast documents, or even the rare paper-bound books that were the prize of the Academy's collection. Knowledge is Power, but Power is not necessarily Strength. So those fools would spend their time training in the Temple, sparring with lightsabers flashing, moving heavy objects and learning to dominate their enemies and make the average being fear them. But why force a being to fear you when you might make them love you instead? Surely having a loyal servant that would sacrifice themselves merely to please you is better than creating a minion who would end you if they ever found the spine, or the opportunity?

Dark robed, the soft fabric of his clothing whispering around his slender frame as he glided through the Library, grey eyes observing all within, it was hard not to reflect on that fascinating dichotomy: the Sith, torn between those who sought to dominate, and those who sought to manipulate with guile and cunning. And yet members of both groups always fall short of the true reality: that their purpose in learning these ancient disciplines is far less understood than they believe. Merely to have power was the least among the reasons for it, and yet the one so often applied. Fools. I am surrounded by children. It was a persistent thought, one that failed to give him any respite.

This place was intended as one of the few calm centres one might have within a Sith Enclave: rage, anger, ambition, frustration, anxiety...these were the tools of the Sith, but those best applied in full training. Here, where one indulged in study and research, such feelings would only serve to excerbate those frustrations, since a Sith who approached their learning in such a state of mind would ultimately only fail. Many within shielded their feelings or simply fell into those rote patterns of detaching from their feelings, better to focus on the tedious task of reading, hoping to find a glimmer of learning among tomes and holojournals that oftentimes served only as to preserve the egotistical hope for immortality of some ancient Sith Lord.

Walking between the large foreboding cases, he could feel frustration far closer: emanating from a being within, clearly not flummoxed so much by their search as by something more...illusive. Curious that one would dare to walk in here in such a state. Every Force User for a mile would be able to detect that turbulent storm of emotional energy, unrestrained and lacking direction. That the Archivists have not punished this one speaks of their negligence. Rarely would a Sith be permitted to enter these hallowed halls in such a frame of mind, for fear of disturbing the delicate peace that existed within. An ironic proposition.

He quickly honed in on the source: a girl of smaller height than his own, dark hair only slightly lighter than the clothing she wore, little illuminated by the dim light that served to highlight ancient volumes of text that she was searching through. Her frustration wasn't plain on her face, but showed in her movements, less fluid than they might otherwise have been, tension evident in her muscles, betrayed by her stance. Yet to learn true control, it would seem, the Sith Lord noted silently to himself, observing her, knowing that she would not see him until he wished her to do so. Shadows within shadows are never seen until they choose to be. It was a lesson he remembered well.

"You offer food for those that would find nourishment from your frustration," he observed in a calm, detached voice, perhaps slightly cold, a very slight touch of disdain carried by his tone. His voice was a mere whisper, but he knew she would hear it, projected as it was directly to her. "And you but provide a weapon for your enemies to use against you." He shook his head, lowering his illusory cloak and revealing himself in full stature, the shadows that had concealed him falling away with ethereal speed.

Taller than the girl, the Sith Lord appeared to be middle-aged, grey eyes stern and unflinching, his mouth drawn in a thin line of disapproval, though his expression offered little other insight into his thoughts as he watched her. Pale slender hands folded in front of him, the rest of his body concealed by the soft black fabric of his long outer robe, pinned at the neck by a simple metal claps of intricate design.

"What prompts your angst, girl?", he asked demandingly, voice soft and not entirely lacking in sympathy. "Are you planning to sacrifice yourselves to one of the power-hungry fools around here that might take prestige from your death?"

[member="Allyn Funt"]

 

[Tindōmiselde Tokani]

Allyn's frustration was suppressed and her usual air of artiste as she heard the voice of a man, clearly much wiser than her, talking in her direction. Turning, her black long Sith robes flowing gracefully with her movement, Allyn looked for the man who had spoken, but found no one. The wisdom in the man's voice was solid and she took a deep breath, looking down at the floor and taking a moment to hide her anger and think of her irrationality at acting in such a way.

A shadow formed on the ground in front of Allyn's turquoise eyes, and she looked back up to see the man who had spoken to her and immediately bowed her respects to the Sith Lord.

"I am sorry, Master, I will do better in the future." She straightened, posture perfect, and met the Sith Lord's unflinching gaze with her own. She did not smile for fear the Lord would take it like she thought this was a joke. She fixed the dark red beret that rested on top of her deep brown hair, and spoke in her usual silver tongue voice.

"I am merely an artist seeking to perfect my craft and to learn new ways, if I die I will not be missed. I was angry because I failed at a project I have been devising for the past two weeks." The young artist wondered who this Sith Lord was and had a few questions she wanted to ask.

"May I be so bold as to ask your name, my lord?"

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Allyn Funt"]

He found himself almost laughing at that. None of us will be missed should we pass earlier than our due time, girl, he thought inwardly, amused in spite of himself. Never missed, only...replaced. That was the Sith way after all, was it not? You'd spend your life in service to a cause greater than yourself, to find yourself nothing at the end, your last breath spent cursing whoever had decided to take it in an ambitious climb to the top. Such a foolish notion, yet one so many thousands have died for over the millenia. Why would it be any different in their case?

"Scarcely worth asking my permission to be bold when you have already taken that step for yourself, girl," he admonished her, noting that she had chosen to hold his gaze in a way that was rare enough among those of her level of training. Most only do so if wishing to issue a challenge. That wasn't what was happening her: he sensed that she was simply appraising him, curious despite the frustrations that were threatening whatever inner tranquility she might have established. Perhaps she's the type that works best when frustrated. She'd hardly be the first. "Bold to stare, bold to ask the name of someone who might take offense for such daring. Surely you know how fatal that can be here?", he asked, perhaps rhetorically.

She was a puzzle, that was for certain: calling herself an artist. The Sith had little time for such: art was a pursuit of leisure, a distraction from greater concerns, those which they often took upon themselves because they felt it was their role - perhaps even destiny. To be otherwise...it was an anomaly, something unusual. An Artist craves only creation, and yet we are so often bound towards the more destructive arts. Yes, she was an anomaly. Amazing, then, that she still lives.

"We are all artists in our own way, girl," he continued, folding his arms over his chest, watching her with a constant, unblinking stare. "Some here will claim themselves artists with a lightsaber, while others still see their place as one of governorship, of rule, their every command and influence an act of craft." He shrugged slightly, a momentary motion of his shoulders beneath his soft dark robes. "But you mean it quite literally, don't you?", he asked, arching an eyebrow. Your choice of attire alone suggests as much, he noted, lip curling as he noted the beret resting on her head. Ever the giveaway.

"Do you not find it odd that one with your gifts, the blessing of the Force, might choose to use it for what some might consider mundane purpose?", he questioned, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing. So it was among the Sith: the ability to perceive and manipulate the Force being a gift and a calling, one each must step up to. To use it to control, to guide, to destroy...these were acceptable uses. For art? First time for everything, I suppose. "What pulls you to such a calling, I'm led to wonder?", he continued, stepping a little closer into the alcove.

"As for my name...I am called Tirdarius," he added, his expression momentarily amused. How rare a thing it is to speak your own name aloud, the Sith Lord mused. "I trust in sharing mine, you will offer me yours?"

 

[Tindōmiselde Tokani]

Allyn quickly broke eye contact and stared at the floor. It was in her nature to be crafty, but only around those she thought lesser than herself. Those that weren't were not to be underestimated under any circumstance, and Tirdarius's words proved it to be so. She nodded as he asked if what she meant by an artist was literal.

"Yes, sir." As he continued, she fiddled with the paintbrush that was in her hands. Tirdarius wouldn't have noticed it before for it was hidden in a secret pocket within her robes. The little brush had her initials A.F. carved into it and she traced the letters absentmindedly. Mundane purposes? This man has never heard of my well known 'pranks' has he? Allyn smirked at the floor. Most of her said 'pranks' ended up with one of those she thought lesser, the ones without the Force, in the infirminary and once had even caused a death.

"I am privileged to know your name, Lord Tirdarius. As for mine I am Allyn Funt, and I feel my purpose is to praise the Sith with works of art made in their honor, but I have failed so far, which is the source of my frustration."

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Allyn Funt"]

A privilege? Is it indeed? Tirdarius found himself amused that she might say so - certainly an odd thing to remark upon, but he suspected it to be the sort of pleasantry that so many of the Sith felt it best to indulge in when dealing with one that might potentially be a threat, or a source of power. Appealing to the ego of another Sith is never an unwise move. Entirely useless in his case, but she was not to know that. And the courteous way is often the safe way, among our kind.

"The Sith are worthy of no praise, lass. Many among us are murderers, thieves, thugs of the most base kind," he remarked calmly, as though they were simply speaking of the weather. As if there is ever any weather to speak of on this cursed planet. Perhaps his words were shock her - he couldn't be certain. I have spoken nothing but the truth, but so many cover their depravity with noble speech, or the insistence that the Force itself demands it of them... "You do no honour to our ways by immortalising fools too blind to see that their petty jealousies and power plays often exist only to serve themselves."

A reality he had learned early in his training among the Sith: most were blind to the vision that the Sith existed to craft into a reality. They are made to suffer, to sacrifice, and in so doing gain the power that so many lack. In so doing, they delude themselves into imagine that they deserve what they now have, and hold onto it with a grasp that is only loosened by death. More than once had he found himself forced to take the life of one who acted in such a fashion, if only to prevent their madness spreading.

Allyn did not appear to suffer from that particular taint: she perhaps was afflicted with the opposite problem. Far from perceiving her own power, she simply seeks to glorify that of others. Strange ambition in a Sith, and one they weren't deserving of. Much though he could appreciate her humility in this, it felt like a waste. We Sith are servants, but not of ourselves. That was her deficiency.

"Failure is no bad thing, girl. If more of us spent a little more time enjoying the opportunity that failure brings, perhaps the Sith would be a magnificent thing worthy of your art," he observed, though in truth, he doubted it. Art is an indulgence, and there's far too much of that behaviour among us. "What was it that you were attempting with your efforts?", the Sith Lord asked, a dark eyebrow raising in apparent inquiry.

 

[Tindōmiselde Tokani]

Tirdarius spoke truth, Allyn could sense that much, but his speaking so lightly of her craft angered her slightly. This man knows nothing of my art. Does he know how to capture fear such as I have? She shoved the thoughts deep inside and locked them up, for it would only serve to anger her more.

"Well, I was attempting to recreate a scene from one of my, shall I say, live performances, but my current training is more than lacking the skills required to remake it." The paintbrush she held was hidden once again, and Allyn turned slightly to begin searching for the book she had come to get again.

"The mind is a delicate thing to unlock, but through fear you can see into one's soul and know who they truly are."

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Allyn Funt"]

Ah, so you're one of those Sith, Tirdarius noted, slightly amused by it, only the soft ghost of a smile serving to express this. So many believe that only when we tap into our most primal emotions do we ever encounter our true selves. It was a lie, and one he'd heard too many times: strip away the outer layers and the being inside would be revealed. But, inside, we are all weak, all vulnerable, all mere shadows of what we project outside of ourselves. Is that our true selves, or the foundation upon which we build? He wondered how the girl would answer that, were he to ask her.

At least she was correct in one regard: the mind was truly a difficult thing to unlock. It's not a book to be read, but a complex maze, full of twists and turns that even the owner likely doesn't understand. What causes a man to fall in love? A person to draw away from someone that cares for them simply because of that? For one to see an enemy in an ally, or a friend in another that only seeks their downfall? Why did people believe in a bedrock of trust even when all evidence pointed the other way? And what prompted faith in moments where darkness was all around you? Such complex questions have no simple answers. You think to capture even a small fragment of that in your art?

"Fear is the least of all emotions, save anger," the Sith Lord remarked, watching the girl with a contemplative expression, closed but also calm, relaxed in a way that few Sith ever were. "Anger's a weak one, always forcing you to act in a way that any reasonable being would avoid, given a moment of consideration. Fear...that's a reflex. A way of saying 'I'm scared because I don't know what's around the corner'," he continued, offering the slightest of shrugs. "If we were all defined by our fears...we'd be much smaller beings."

He raised a hand, gesturing towards her, his eyes half-closing, lidded in a fashion that suggested that he was drawing his awareness inward, even though he was doing quite the opposite - reaching instead for her. He knew he could show her fear, of course, even broadcast them openly for all to see, if he so desired it, or pry deep into her memory and make her relive those moments most traumatic to her, if it was necessary. That wasn't his purpose here, though - instead to show her something a little different.

To touch one's mind was a complex thing, as both of them were aware, but a true illusion didn't require it: it was the difference between shining a light and making someone think you had switched one on. Thus, an illusion is an external manifestation of a thought, something with tangible form that might only be visible to a single target, or to a whole city block full of them. You didn't concentrate on an individual: rather, you focused upon the illusion itself. An artist doesn't concern themselves with the person that will view the work: they weave a tapestry of their own design and force others into the experience.

Within his own mind, he viewed the scene he was weaving around them now: the library shimmered and vanished, replaced now by a simple vision: two children, perhaps no more than fourteen or fifteen galactic standard years, both dressed in Jedi robes and with lightsabers in their hands. One had theirs lit, a shimmering bar of green-white energy, the other did not. Both had that same expression on their faces: fixed, unnaturally still, eyes wide and pupils dilated. The look of beings who are very afraid but scared to truly express it. He could smell smoke on the wind, hear the sounds of blasterfire ringing in his ears, directed at some unknown being that could not be seen in the immediate vicinity. He could hear the rapid, shallow breathing of the two children as they retreated away from some unknown threat, the crunch of the dusty ground beneath their boots.

"Look at them: terrified," Tirdarius spoke softly, as though not wanting to interfere with the scene he was showing her. "Fear soaks into every pore, is inhaled with every breath. They see death coming, and they want not to be scared, but they cannot help themselves." He shook his head, remembering well the moment when the image was more reality than illusion. "Are they exposing their true selves in this moment, or are they letting go, relinquishing the people they are as fear creeps in and unmakes them?"

 

[Tindōmiselde Tokani]

"Those are just my core beliefs, master. There is more to it than just fear that must be considered, like anger." Allyn's smile suddenly disappeared and walls blocked her memory as the scenery around them changed slowly and the library was replaced with a temple of some sort. The wonderful smell of the library was replaced by the smell of smoke and gunfire could be heard in the distance. An illusion crafted so well.. Allyn stood awestruck as the scene played out and the two children, riddled with fear, appeared.

"So.. brilliant.." She whispered the words more so to herself, but was brought back by Tirdarius's soft words. She composed herself once more, though it would be obvious that her guard had slipped at the scene.

"Is it not that the fear that unmakes us is the instinct that shows our will to survive? A primal instinct that shows us as the primitive beasts we once were? There is beauty in man's fear as there is in happiness and familiarity, and I wish to capture it."

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Allyn Funt"]

Ah, the distinction between primal fear and emotive fear. Naturally she'd seek to capture one rather than the other - it was often the goal of artists to expose those underlying feelings, the ones you couldn't get at with simple provocation, or through an act of will. Like the musician who makes you weep, or the comedien who summons forth a laugh so infectious that even the most stubborn will be caught by it... He had some sense as to her motivation now, though in truth, he felt that she did the Sith an injustice with the path she was taking. To glorify evil is almost as bad as engaging in it.

"The will to survive has several faces," he remarked, continuing to weave the illusion around the two of them. One of the robed children had stumbled, as he remembered it, lightsaber tumbling from their hand, with little time to retrieve it. A shadow stalked them, approaching with a burning menace that thrust rationality to one side - the question of what would happen when it reached them, an unspoken threat of dark proportion. "Theirs is instinctual, born of the knowledge that they might soon die, and their every being fighting against it. Is this worthy of art, or a reflection of a darkness in ourselves that we must strive to push aside?"

He moved his hands in a complex pattern, energy fluctuating around them as he did so, shaping itself to his intent. The scene shimmered again, vanishing, replaced with a different view: the child Jedi and that which pursued them gone, a darker image springing up around the two Sith. A room of cold stone, barely lit by a small handful of softly-burning braziers that provided just a touch of light. Candles arrayed in a circle, a ritual pattern drawn on the floor, around a raised dais of stone upon which a being lay, clothed in dark robes, pinned down by metallic restraints that clinked and rustled with movement. Standing over them, another being in robes darker still, hood pulled up over their head to obscure their face, a ceremonial knife in their hands. The sound of chanting in the air, the smell of incense burning with a tang that was both pleasant in one aspect and yet offensive in another.

"Is this a moment worthy of your art?", he asked the girl softly, his own expression impassively taking in the remembered scene. Such horror invested in ritual, sacrifice intended to release those vast energies which might yet be turned to the ends of one who had little true investment in life. "A life to be taken in sacrifice for nothing more than the glory and vanity of one who was only too happy to kill for their own purposes?" He shook his head, knowing well that she might elicit many different emotions from the scene he showed her: fear, horror, yes, but also elation, anticipation, that heightened moment of the calm before the finale.

"Which emotions, I wonder, would you invoke with this? If you were to craft this scene, as I have, immortalise it for longer than a moment, what would you intend by it?" He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he stared at her, momentarily ignoring the scene that his illusion was projecting. Ignoring the bloody knife that had descended and ripped the life away from the being beneath it. "Is it art to show the spectrum of suffering?"