Chains Unbroken
A no named wasteland on the edge of the Sith Empire, barely inhabited and equally barren of riches. Yet even still, in what remained of the city, was a hundred Sith of every rank - from the domineering Lord with a full procession, to the lowly acolyte - nothing but his lightsaber on his belt. Many looted, many others argued, but the smart ones sat in their cliques - carefully speaking of strategy, of factions, and of the future.
What brought them all here, however, was simple. The Worm Emperor - standing nearly ten feet tall with five masks of solid electrum. He was an unnerving sight, his black cloak gliding behind him as though he needn’t even move his legs to traverse those broken streets. Behind him, his Hand marched - eyeless and equally as large, he carried in his hand a Mandalorian by his beskar’gam’s collar.
Finding a ‘stage’ of rubble, the two stood above those gathered and the Emperor spoke - his voice harsh on the ears; though it was more accurate to say ‘voices’ as each mask seemed to chime in with an equal measure of pain and anger in their tone, even as they were undertoned with a calmness that matched the unwavering nature of the masks.
“Give us your eyes, children.”, the most masculine of his voices boomed.
“Eyes!”
“Now!”, a female and male tone chimed in from different masks.
The Hand tossed the Mandalorian onto a pseudo headsmen’s block, resting a massive clawed foot on his back to hold him steady - though the Mandalorian seemed barely alive, let alone able to fight back against his predicament. His lack of fight gave the Emperor no pause, and his voices continued;
“This Al’Ori’Ramikade fought hard.”
“Fought Hard!”, another voice intervened, “Still died!”, the lowest of the masks offered in a child-like tone.
“He showed strength today, in spite of overwhelming odds. For this, he deserves a clean death.”, the Worm offered the crowd. His other voices chimed in, both in agreement and disagreement - contradicting himself even as the Hand lifted his massive blade with a grinding spark across the duracrete.
“Rejoice, for today is the first of many victories.”, the Emperor’s voice boomed.
“More! More!”
The Hand’s blade, more iron than sword, swung with a deafening clang against the stone - leaving the Mandalorian’s beskar split, and what of the mandalorian remained to slip off the block in a growing mess of crimson. The Hand offered no words, only a grunt, and walked back towards a building where other prisoners still sat.
“Today, the Sith find their strength.”
“Strength!”
“Passion!”
“Break the chains!”, the other voices echo’ed.
“Tomorrow, we show the rest of the galaxy what we have done here today.”
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