Metastasis

[Darth Eversor]

Day - Unimportant.
Year - 851 ABY.
Mission - Relinquish thine soul unto the abyss.
Location - Syngia

To wish to be dashed among the stars - was it just guilt? Was it the things said? Or perhaps the lack of a life not quite fulfilled. Instead there was a hollow sort of thing, a deathless corpse running amok under the pretense of having a divine purpose.

A lie.​

A sham so sweetly spoken by the forked tongue of a serpent well-versed in the manipulations of the weak. With wars waged and the behemoth of death only growing larger, the whispers and screams of the past only intensified. This life of monotony, was it worth anything?

Was the blood and loneliness truly a testament of greatness? It was pathetic.

And it was time for it all to end.​

Eyes closed, armor stripped, Darth Eversor knelt before darkness in ceremonial Sith robes. He awaited someone unseen, but felt the tinge of the dark tugging at his very spirit.

Here there was no judgement from the peers on high, the council of those that will continue long after the death of hundreds - no, thousands of men and women that swear upon the moniker of 'Sith'.

In the mind of the sullied, there was nothing more to see. There was nothing else to gain.

The Force had plans in store for all, and yet not everything was for naught.

"I'm ready." Darth Eversor spoke aloud.

[member="Darth Vesper"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

What are the fault lines along which a Sith Lord breaks? In his own solitude, draped in soft, shadowsilk robes, Vesper had briefly meditated on this. He had strayed dangerously close to the threshold which his guest had plunged across, teetered on the brink and stepped away.

I was certain I could change my life. He decided. He has exhausted even hope. That would be enough - sentient minds were frail things, and the burdens that most could bear were light before shattering under their own weight. He could only imagine the toll that could be placed on an individual by the power of the Dark Lord himself, the man who raised up armies and had slaughtered countless foes of formidable power. This was an enviable being, conqueror of death, speaker of the language of pain, in other words a member of the peerage he so desired, lusted after with all his craven heart, and he had deigned to break this man.

Then what you began, Dark Lord, let me finish. I will provide a coda to this sad story you have authored... no, not only you. One can betray everything one stands for only so many times before the rot begins to set in.

As he was called for, the fibrous tendrils that formed the wall parted with a silent, fluid quality, and the Sith stepped out from the shadows, jewelry rustling with a shimmer of metal on metal. He was less dramatic - more severely clad - his garb evocative of the traditional cult of the Sith Lords more than his usual mish-mash of modern fashion and whatever else he desired at the time. Even a callous monster with absent soul and conscience could understand the solemnity of this occasion.

He placed a hand on Eversor's shoulder. "Hand me your lightsaber, then," his voice twinged with severity, perhaps even sadness, except jackals don't mourn the dead or dying, "and follow me. If you have any questions before the ritual begins, ask them now."
From the end of the newly-opened passageway, a red light glimmered faintly.

| [member="Darth Eversor"] |​

 

[Darth Eversor]

Eversor fixated his gaze upon the figure that presented itself - familiar flesh, the face of someone beyond the labels of enemy or friend. This was the presence Eversor grew to appreciate in one sense or another. Not as someone to be genuinely cared for, but in the leagues of darkness and the nature of the creed they both uphold, a respected tool that also did its job well.

That is what they both were in the end, pieces. Smaller parts of a grandiose war machine that would continue on without them, leaving all in dust and ash. A callous and unflinching might that razed innocence and the frail alike. They in their endless endeavors would never amount to the brutality and glory of gods - at least not Eversor. His time was now.

The time for true self-actualization was now. The end goal was at hand.

Darth Eversor stoically retrieved his lightsaber from his side as it lay atop an old, torn piece of Sith memorabilia. A worn flag hat had seen a time of bloodshed, not unlike the other blur of memories of the before times. The glory days.

"There is nothing left for me here, Antherion. This existence is nothing but true insanity - the Force has called to me, and it is time for me to depart from this depravity and monotony. I have tasted the decadence of mortality over and over again. I've had my fill of what hubris is spewed upon the masses, and those deemed worthy. Take my life and think no more of me."

The Darth stared at his Sith kin for a moment before diverting his eyes towards the hue of crimson just ahead of himself.

"Let us depart."

[member="Darth Vesper"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Taking hold of the weapon, Vesper regarded it with a measure of curiosity, rolling it over in his hands - and yet also reaching out with his other senses, immersing it in his perception, examining it languidly, meditatively, and thoroughly. He had been a warrior's warrior, a thorough executioner, and this was his sword - a splinter of his life. How fragile it was.

Take my life and think no more of me. As if escape would be that easy. No, the Sith thought, if your life is mine to take then it is also mine to possess, and mine to use. However, for all his cruelty, Vesper was not struck with the mood to be gratuitous. In a way, this was a recompense for the man who had, in Chiloon, saved his life from the ignominy of perishing in space's uncaring vacuum. He would repay Eversor in full with the peace he sought. No one could better give to him, in this life or the next, the oblivion that would be a balm to his pain.

The pathway they trod was narrow in some places and wide in others, yet dark in all of them, and slowly it closed up behind them, while twisting ahead, so that one could be walking without so much as a turn or glance in another direction and still feel as though they were winding down serpentine passages. No matter how far they walked, that dull, persistent glow seemed to keep a constant distance - until, in just a few steps, they arrived.

The chamber that the hall opened up into was broad, like a colonnade, except the columns were roots, gigantic knots of fleshy fiber, veins of twisted wood and metal, shot through with luminous, bloody fluid coming up from the pools - yes, the Genesis Pool, the foundation of the Dreadroot. They had, at the last, arrived. Vermilion mist steamed off the surface of the liquid, and the Dark Side was thick in the air.

His expression touched by wistful melancholy, and the solemn obligation of duty, an appropriate and comfortable mask for the occasion, the Darth took his place by the edge of the water. He gestured with his open hand and a depression formed in the malleable surface of the artificial shore, a small pool filling with shallow, opaque, reflective fluid. In it teemed the energy of life, the thrum of the Seed of Rage that was the core of the nexus, and the Force itself seemed to gather there.

"Lie down within here, Eversor. Listen, and let go. Your spirit must be cleansed of the wounds it bears, or it will linger as a phantom, or pass into Chaos, and you will have no escape. Let your memories, your old self, all the battles you have fought and suffered be drowned out by the ichor of rage. Let the Dark Side scour you clean."

And vigilantly, standing by, executioner's blade at the ready, he watched. The most delicate part of the ritual now would begin.

| [member="Darth Eversor"] |​

 

[Darth Eversor]

Silence itself wrapped around Eversor's lips, he thought to speak but was hesitant and, for the first time, felt a sudden anxiety. This was an end to be all ends, his eternal damnation or a peaceful parting. He stared down at the liquid, a chain of memories flashing before the Sith's eyes as his heart grew increasingly unsettled and throbbed with near panic. But he remained composed, unshaken and stoic was his face as he stepped closer towards his final moments.

Strange things were occurring here, a sort of otherworldly air passing through flesh and cutting through bone - a chill that would cause even the soul to tremble. The soon to be dead Darth had never once encountered a phenomenon so profoundly ominous. His skin tensed as he slowly submerged himself, breathing in sharply as his eyes stared blankly ahead.

He had no more words for this life, no reason for his fleshy tongue to writhe in protest or sentiment.

Darth Eversor closed his eyes, his breathing soft and steady.

An end, at last.

[member="Darth Vesper"]