Narrow Alternatives

[Kyrinov]

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[SIZE=10.5pt]Iridonia[/SIZE]​

[SIZE=10.5pt]Unidentified Canyon[/SIZE]​

[SIZE=10.5pt]5 PM Planetary Time[/SIZE]​

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[SIZE=9pt]Iridonia. His homeworld.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]She asked where he wanted to go. He could have picked any location, any planet, any environment in the galaxy. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]And this desert of a world was his absolute answer. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Why he'd chosen Iridonia was simple. Constant heat drains any being's energy with enough exposure. Without water, there would be dehydration which leads to multiple afflictions that may expose weakness or cause unintentional error. With prolonged exposure to the world's harsh elements, and without proper care of countermeasures, could prove either lethal or cause heat strokes and hallucinations. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]He often wondered what that felt like. The overheating and nerves standing on end. The headache or dizziness that followed shortly after dehydration. The spinning that one's mind imposed on them, disorienting them and their path in a whirlpool of revolving sand all around. The spots that manifested at random in order to further confuse its victim. Personally, he didn't know. He'd learned to adapt to the sweltering heat at a young age. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]The location he'd given [member="Joycelyn Zambrano"] the coordinates to lead to a wide canyon mouth which gave a clear view two adobe-like villages built into the canyon itself, paths carved to make impromptu streets. The homes built on a slight slope which followed those paths to allow for effortless erosion, if need be. The curved rock walls seemed to stretch as high as the few clouds that could be seen drifting overhead. They were layered, sheets of clay, sand, and small particles packed together to form this massive gate. The passage which led farther into the canyon grew steadily narrower as it continued. At a glance, it was a gradual reduction in space. But, from experience, Tevro knew that it would become quite tight in elbow room in the heat of battle fairly quickly. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]As one continued the rock overhead would begin to slowly move downward, seeking to nearly crush the being who ventured far enough. In reality, the lowest point was roughly ten feet which was manageable for most sentient beings in the galaxy. The smallest point, in terms of width, was approximately fifteen feet. Still, not much room and no room for jumping or other acrobatic feats. Limiting but useful. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]The walk to this particular canyon was only three miles from his family's home. Of course, with nothing but desert and the occasional rock structure or plant, it was rather dull. But, there was a hidden beauty in the barren landscape. It was likely that he wouldn't disclose that his parents lived a meager three miles from their location. Hopefully, she wouldn't be able to tell through some unknown error that he may or may not make in a rushed moment.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]If she did come by shuttle, she'd land about ten feet from where he stood in the middle of the canyon's mouth, in compliance with the coordinates he'd given. For this occasion, he didn't wear his usual midnight black cloak around his shoulders. His eyes were closed to envelop the world around him in an abyss of shadows that held no forseeable end from what he could tell. And so, he knelt and decided to meditate until she appeared. As he had always done, he leaned his weight forward, pressing his knees into the ground beneath him. How Tevro knew if it would be her by presence alone, he couldn't say. He simply [/SIZE][SIZE=9pt]knew[/SIZE][SIZE=9pt]. It was the same as feeling the shepherd that walked by with a flock of animals that bayed at him as they went past, heading deeper into the village behind his figure. It was an acute feeling that something, someone, was close by. Perhaps, hers would be a darker presence within the Force that he could sense. Perhaps it would just come to him by means of intuition.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]He'd know when she arrived. He would either hear the shuttle land or he'd hear footsteps.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=9pt]Perhaps he would hear neither. Maybe he'd simply feel her there.[/SIZE]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

This all took some getting used to, but Joycelyn was taking to command and power with some semblance of grace. Incense scented the air as Joycelyn shed the heavy, black cloak and knelt in front of the shrine of Vahl and the mural on board her shuttle. She flexed her hands and brought them over the central flame of the shrine, fingers splayed. She sensed the pain of the heat stinging her palms, and let it flow through it.

"Mother Vahl. Yours is the Fire-" The fire grew, licking between her fingres. "Give me your wrath." "Show me the fury." she turned her hands so the palms faced up. The fire welled into her hands, skin unharmed stil. "Mother Vahl, witness me" Her hands clenched, the fire shrinking away and extinguishing, returning to the light in the shrine.

She stood up, throwing the breezy cotton cloak around her shoulders. She was familiar with heated climates and, through the Legion, knew some of the tricks to dressing for it; thin layers that caught pockets of cool air close to her skin while barring the hot air out. When the ship landed, her Miraluka handmaiden exited the ship first. The red-clad figure carried the incense and spread ashes on the landing pad where the vahlacanthix would exit, then stepped off to the side and gave a slight bow. After her came the giant form of Joycelyn Zambrano. Her form was draped in an outer layer of charcoal cotton, but inside it were layers upon layers of loose, white, breathing cotton. The wind caught the end of the sash that trailed from her waist, making it flap in the wind.

As Joycelyn stepped out, her gaze was immediately drawn to the kneeling form of the Iridonian a ways away. She stepped off the end of the ramp and started at a brisk pace. The Handmaiden followed just behind, struggling to keep up with the long strides of Joycelyn, but doing so with unmatched composure. Joycelyn kept a hand resting on the hilt of her sithsword, Zaudraka, kept at her hip in a leather sheath. it soaked up the heat well. Black and white layers of cloth trailed behind her, maintaining the cool air inside her robes as she encroached upon the space of the Zabrak.

Her shadow fell over [member="Tevro"] as she stopped, and she stood as a silent monolith, looking down at him. Just as she towered over the zabrak, so did the canyon tower over her in turn. The canyons and crevices of Iridonia were impressive in their brutalist grandeur and deadly drought. It had bred a people well suited for the dark side of the Force - For the Sith.

"Look at me."

She finally broke the silence, her yellow eyes in an angular face staring down at him.

 

[Kyrinov]

Her arrival came in four stages.

The first was the most obvious. The whining of the shuttle as it ripped through the sky above. The release of landing gear and air from exterior vents as the craft neared the ground. The dying breath as it touched the planet's dusty surface and the hostile hiss as it opened its durasteel mouth, exposing its metallic tongue that the ground. The ramp kicked up loose sand. He could feel how far away the ship was. Exactly on top of the coordinates he provided. Lovely.

The second sign was the presence of the woman herself within the Force. Hers was a more prominent flame, growing in magnitude as the shuttle which carried the Knight. It was a dark, volatile mark. It testified of her determination and to her fighting spirit it seems. A new experience to be sure. This feeling exposed him to signatures other than those of the other Acolytes back on Bastion which seemed to be hundreds of thousands of miles away in that moment. She was briefly accompanied by another person who seemed to stop at the maw of the shuttle, slightly off to the side. A servant perhaps? A pilot biding her farewell for now? Who could tell?

The third indication would be the sliding of sand as it was stepped on and shifted aside by her shoes as she strode towards him. The grains seemed to part and be blown to a new location by the gentle, humid breeze as she grew closer and closer to him. Once she was close enough, he felt a small shiver run down his spine. A slight tremor that would've warned his brain of imminent danger had other signals not preceded the sand and the shudder.

The final mark was her voice. The youthful, gruff tone resounded even as it echoed into the canyon and villages behind him. Her voice was smooth yet it carried an authority that seemed to belong to one far older than she likely was. His sight remained closed even as he felt her shadow envelop him, blocking the warmth of the sun.

"Look at me.", were the only words she said to him. Likewise, he responded by inclining his head and opening his eyelids to stare back at her with light crimson orbs. He allowed himself to see now, opening himself to the Force and focus on using Force Sight. His eyes darted around, examining and studying her face as she peered down at him. Even as he analyzed her facial features, he noted her height. She was quite tall. He was sure that if he were to stand to his full six foot height, he would likely be dwarfed by her size. Another thing to keep in mind about her. As he waited for her to speak again or to even make a gesture, he wondered what they would be doing today. Were they working on simple technique or, perhaps, would she throw him in the deep end and initiate a duel off the bat? He'd just have to wait for a mark to designate their direction.

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Joycelyn stared down into the Zabrak's blind eyes, her own narrowed. They had told her he was blind, but the clouded red still gave her a modicum of surprise. He was not the first blind force-user she had seen, of course. Her own handmaiden, still standing by the ship, was born with no eyes and an innate ability to see with the Force. She could not sense if he too had the ability to see as she saw, but his ability to get as far as he had made her inclined to think he did. If not, well, Pythia's knowedge was at Joycelyn's disposal. If she said teach, the Miraluka would teach.

"Stand."

Her voice was used to command. Not the command of anyone's master necessarily, but it carried a military authority from her service in the Legion. It was that service, the crucible of war, that had made her strong. Her masters had only given her the tools with which to fight. Now, she sought to give her tools, and any tool they would require, to fight in their own crucible.

"Tell me, Acolyte, what makes you strong?"

She inspected him, the structure of his body, the tattoos on his skin. She inspected how he held his head, where he kept his hands, his arms, how he put his weight on his feet. Was he too far forward? Did he lean back? To the left, to the right? She circled him as part of her inspection, making calm and deliberate strides. Did he shy away or turn with her? It all told her something, one thing or another about his personality.

"What makes you stand out in front of the others?"

Darth Drethi had asked her the same thing once, on Coruscant. She never thought then that she would be the one seeking purchase in a man's soul so she could fracture it, and then forge it into something greater. All Acolytes thought such things, she supposed. Did Tevro? Did he question her? Or did he willingly submit? As she came back around to the front, she reached for his chin and angled his head so she could look at the spikes atop his cranium. She knew this was something most people disliked, but it tested his temper.

[member="Tevro"]

 

[Kyrinov]

He could feel her eyes scan over his face, quite similar to the way he examined her. Even if he wasn't able to see her eyes dart backwards, forwards, up, down, and side to side, he could sense the intensity of her gaze. It was an appraising look, one that searched for both weakness and strength, for individual character and generalized observations. It made him wonder, briefly, what exactly she was searching for. The Zabrak held back a small smile as he noticed her eyes widen the slightest bit in what could be classified as surprise. Likely a result of his clouded eyes by the stare she appeared to be giving them.

He stood up when she told him to, the action itself was neither slow nor fast. Neither rushed or ginger in motion. Each movement he made was calculated, precise. It all carried an air of purpose to it. Perhaps she would perceive this as arrogance or maybe, just maybe, she would see that it was as simple as that. Everything he did did serve some purpose, whether that motive be his own or an instruction like the one he received only moments ago. Her eyes swept over him once, twice as she continued to speak. This time it was a brief question instead of an order.

What made him strong. A simple yet elaborate question that was likely meant to seem easy or insignificant, in some being's eyes. He took a moment to think on the inquiry. What, indeed, made him as strong as he currently is? What gave him the quiet, respectful confidence that seemed to be his identifying factor? Was it his training over the years, near this very spot? Was it the discipline and teachings of his father and his older brother? All of them and yet none of them quite fit the question. It would seem that he came up with an impasse, becoming more like a paradox the more he thought of it. All things became such if broken down to size. Finally, he came up with an answer he found suitable. Hopefully, she would as well. "I believe that my strength is a combination of training, mental and physical, as well as the personality I've developed because of the lifestyle I have lived until this point. I also believe it is due to the nature of this world, the beings which inhabit it, and the sense of unwavering strife and competition which is inherent in most, if not all, Iridonians. The major factor, however, would be my isolation, forced and consensual, on Bastion." It was no glory tale of his personal gains. All the same, it did not speak of his people as if they were aliens to him. It tethered on the line of complete and wanting. It gave enough information to form a guess at what he may be like as a person and as a combatant. The answer did not disclose much personal information other than the mention of his personality and even that was not clarified upon. How would she respond was the primary question.

A follow-up question as she probed him closer now, walking around him, watching the smallest movement he made. This time, the question was closely related to the previous one. A link, however small or significant. A question which he often asked himself in the Academy on Bastion and even as a boy, sparring with other Zabraks. What distinguished him from the rest of them, whoever "they" may be? Another loaded question. "That is something I have debated myself for such a time when I would need to answer the question," he admitted. "I think my cool, collected demeanor in battle. The strikes are usually calculated and precise. My view on the Sith Code is also different, shall we say. I like to think that I act differently than most other Acolytes, but that isn't for me to determine."

His tone was neutral, only deepening with small inflections here and there. Though, his brazen straightforward nature may have been received as disregard or perhaps even a little disrespectful. Both times he spoke, he kept his head and eyes forward. He had no need to follow her with his eyes because he could hear and feel her move. His jaw was set, clenched slightly. His arms hung at his sides, elbows tucked and arms bent minutely as if to be prepared to draw a weapon or strike out at a second's notice. His weight was balanced between his two feet, centered for a tense yet carefree stance. He looked up into her eyes as she tilted his head and studied his horns. It was nothing new to him, something Vuxae did when they were kids to see how his horns would grow in, how he developed. Tevro stood straight up, waiting, expectant as always.

All of it depended solely on how she reacted.

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

No short answers, that was something to note. He clearly reflected greatly upon his own competence and the reasons why, and he had a way with words. Or at least it would seem like he tried. His answers were satisfactory, though it brought up concerns. Would his prior training conflict with what she wanted to instil in him? Was he accustomed to taking command, or did he resist and question every act? She could deal with either, but they required vastly different approaches.

She had grown up around spacers and Sith, many of whom were Zabrak of different kinds, from Dathomiri nightbrothers to Iridonian bloodragers. She had become privy to many aspects of many cultures as result of her travels.

"Training. Origin. Isolation."

He sounded almost like a Jedi, but she could tell he was not. It was different. She let go of his chin and took a step back, her hands falling behind her back in the military fashion she had become so accustomed to.

"How different?"

This was a critical moment; the point between innovation and heresy. Oh Joycelyn herself had elements in her life that some would deem less than typical of the Sith, like her devout worship of Vahl, the goddess of fire and destruction. Some would also question if her military, imperialistic ways disrupted her work as a Sith, but in the end she knew the path she had chosen was to be Darth Vornskr. Now, what was the path this acolyte had chosen to lay out before him?

There was a demanding, inquisitive vibration to her presence. Not answering would be tantamount to answering the worst possible thing.

[member="Tevro"]

 

[Kyrinov]

He fell silent, his answers thought over with a sense of care and delivered with the appropriate weighting to them. But, his concern was her thoughts on his response. Were they decent? Satisfactory? Unamused? Perhaps impressed? There were far too many possibilities for what was likely running around in her mind, waiting for processing. Nothing could be discerned from her enigmatic expression. Nothing to even hint at a loss for words. All he saw were her eyes that continued to gather whatever information she appeared to be looking for within and or about him. He heard her speak, though she only said three words. "Training. Origin. Isolation." Yes, that was his answer simplified.

Her eyes sweep over him one last time and lingered for an extra moment. Her fingers let go of his chin and he stares past her body, looking into the distance. Then, she asked a very short question.

"How different?" That was the question she posed to the Zabrak. Again, he took a few moments to think about his reply.

"Different in that most other Acolytes are headstrong, often disrespectful, have an air of disregard about them. They don't take much into consideration except for how they won't get caught sneaking about the Academy, they take no time to think about their actions and what could happen because of them. Most do not have a sense of self restraint when it comes to combat training or what little Force training we receive at the Academy. Personally, I'd much rather master myself and my current power first before seeking more. If I can't control my own actions, how can I expect to command the Force in the future with any sort of success?"

His weight shifted and he tensed up minutely before slacking once more. Was it apprehension that he felt? If so, why was he so nervous? It wasn't like him to be so uptight around other. There was just something about her that kept him on constant alert.

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Yes, that did sound like a few acolytes Joycelyn knew. It also sounded a little like how she herself had fared in her days of an acolyte; everything she had taken head on, with ferocity and no little help from the Force. She had snuck out many times, disregarded orders, made rash and sweeping decisions that created ripples she did not know, nor care where went. Oh, in hindsight she saw there were many things she could have done much more wisely. She was cock-sure and rash then, and it had landed her with a master that was prone to showing her the errors of her ways.

Had Lassiter tempered Joycelyn? No, not at all.

"A ship can traverse the void or it can get lost in it." - An old spacer's saying, more about chance taking than the force, but it fit.

There was a drawn out moment of silence as Joycelyn considered the answers she had heard. Were they good enough? Was he good enough? Was she? Answers came in the most frustrating way: Ambiguous, two-fold and self-contradicting. There was one way to get answers she could always trust.

"Then I will inspect how far your training has come."

She stepped forward with her right foot as the thumb and index finger of her left hand hooked the cross-hilt of her sword and drew it out of the scabbard. As she drew it, the pointed pommel was thrust straight at the zabrak's nose, threatening to break it if he remained in place. Her right hand chased the hilt, gripping it at the end of the thrust in preparation for a slash or parry.

The speed and suddenness of her attack was strange, considering her size one would think she would be easier to predict. Her movements showed that she had experience with her weapon.

[member="Tevro"]