Never Seen a Friendly Sith [Asemir]

[Lord Ghoul]

Mikhail wore armor. Not because he liked the feel of it - dreadfully claustrophobic as he was - but because he decided he would rather not be peppered to death from afar by a blaster. His Makashi form lent him skill at dueling, but paltry conditioning for deflecting plasma bolts. Or any other projectiles for that matter. So, Mikhail wore armor.

He also wore a blade on his hip. A dangerous one. Even now, its dark whispers snuck into his mind, a plant-like growth, digging its roots deeper and deeper. Gaining control the more Mikhail relied on it. The day Mikhail first heard it speak, he had been shocked and terrified. He had even considered throwing the blade away completely, but a sense of greed crawled over him. It was his. He alone would keep it. Now, its voice was a familiar ringing in his head. Derriphan was sentient.

"What are you doing, Mikhail?"

"Walking," Shorn said aloud.

Derriphan seemed puzzled. "Why?"

"Because I can."

"Where are you going?"

Armored pauldrons rose and fell in a shrug. "Somewhere on Korriban. Away. I don't know."

"You should kill something, Mikhail. You want to. I want to too. Let me fight, Mikhail. Activate my blade. I wish to taste flesh."

Shorn struggled to push the thoughts away, shaking his helm vigorously. But Derriphan infected him with vile emotions. A constant sense of irritation plagued Mikhail. He exploded at the slightest provocation. Sometimes, it was not so bad. But most times, Mikhail could just as easily say hi as try to impale someone on the violet lightsaber.

The Sith Knight trudged through a sandstorm toward shelter, ignoring Derriphan's continued comments. He felt a presence ahead. Faint. Mikhail continued on until he reached the mouth of a cave. The wind abetted. His armor had been sandblasted clean of whatever paint had remained through its numerous usage. It was now just an ugly slab of gun-metal gray, with numerous blackened charring from blaster pockmarks and long scores from lightsabers. Seeking refuge in the cavern, Shorn went further in. The presence was still there.

Mikhail's footsteps echoed in the hollows of the cave. Outside, the sandstorm howled. It grew fainter and fainter until but a whisper behind Mikhail, all the while the presence before him grew stronger. At last, Mikhail came right upon the signature in the Force. It was a person. Vaguely familiar. Where had Mikhail felt it before? He activated his holographic vision and the blackness of the cavern melted away, revealing a figure before him.

"Who are you?"

@[member="Asemir Lor'kora"]

 

[Asemir]

The isolation of the cavern was quite calming, allowing him focus and hiding him from distraction. Noises from the above world were lost in the twisting passages, and even the scents carried by the air were stale and old. It was great for rumination and reflection.

Asemir Lor'kora breathed deep, relishing the calm and peace. Times like these were rare in his line of work. He was often off running around, infiltrating and assassinating and commando-ing. There was rarely any time for peace and quiet, for reflection.

The Forgotten smirked in the pitch blackness, noting that in the past he'd often avoided any environment that might allow him such rumination. He had lived a painful past full of hurtful memories that tormented his mind when he had any chance for rest. Sera had been the main cause of his suffering, but Shyd's efforts had exorcised the Force ghost from her mental hideaway. His journey to destroy the Cult of Shadow and adventures with Ashin had shown him ways to conquer his past and to deal with the hurt Nycha's death had caused him. Shyd had helped a lot too.

Ironically, Shyd's departure had been the last painful experience of his past life. He had looked forward to a life spent with his life-long squadmate, in a relationship more than just commander to subordinate. For a brief few months, he had harbored the hope that after the War of Darkness, they'd be allowed to push their relationship to the next level. Her sense of duty, though, had not allowed it. His sense of betrayal had not allowed it.

But now, he was in the Sith Empire, a new home given to him by Ashin Varanin. A great woman, she. He'd never seriously considered her as more than an ally and friend. He respected her too much, and knew that she was already committed to someone else. That that person was another female only made Asemir raise an eyebrow in question, but that was it. She had fought beside him and bled with him, and that was enough. He wasn't going to question her personal tastes.

His rumination came to an abrupt end, welcome or not. There was another in these caverns. The Force told him that.

Asemir Lor'kora stood, uncoiling from his cross-legged position. He didn't need the thermal imaging or light amplification of his Specter armor to see. His sar'kera painted the scene before him as if he were illuminated under the noonday sun. He was clad in battered armor, and an aura of bloodlust emanated from him. The sword was quite evident.

"Who are you?" the intruder asked.

"Who are you?" the Forgotten retorted. After a pause, he broke the awkward silence. "I am Asemir Lor'kora."

@[member="Mikhail Shorn"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

"Lor'kora... I remember that name, but where?" The muffled voice mused. "No, no I don't have any reason to kill him. Shut up Derriphan. You have no control over me." The helm looked down to stare at the unlit saber clutched in one hand. Dragon eyes glittered. Mikhail held the blade off to one said, his hand clutching it tightly, yet away from his body. As if he feared it.

Shorn cold blue eyes narrowed at Asemir. The name was so familiar. He should know it. Where? Not from any of the Sith planetary conquests. Farther back... but... things before Derriphan came into his grasp seemed so hazy. They possessed nothing like the clarity with which he now saw. A room of dark marble. An obsidian throne. Dromund Kaas. Ah yes, that fateful night.

The expressionless helm swung toward the Forgotten. "I remember you now. The Empress's groupie. You-"

"Kiiilll him."

Shorn gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the voice which rang again and again with increasing volume and insistency. The Soulsaber clouded his mind with darkness and rage. A headache began to form, growing until it seemed to split his skull. Shorn's gritting of teeth turned to a low growl. The pounding in his head was incredible, the sense of anger, hate, and irritation such that even Asemir's very presence set Shorn off. The Soulsaber wanted blood.

The headache eased even as he gave into his rage, activating the blade with a snap-hiss. A bar of purple sprang to life from an emitter fashioned like the jaws of a dragon. It hummed eagerly. Mikhail's voice became quite cold. Devoid of emotion save for a ringing finality.

"I'm Mikhail Shorn....and I have to kill you."

@[member="Asemir Lor'kora"]

 

[Asemir]

Emotions dripped from the man standing before him, like sweat from a runner. Asemir saw the aura through the Force, tasted the power through the Force, and thought he sensed a surge of energy. He recognized that surge, a wave that pulsed every time Sera had thought to say something. It made him wonder why there were so many Force spirits throughout the galaxy haunting people.

The lightsaber flashed to life with a familiar hum and bathed the caverns in dull purple. Asemir was now on his guard, his own blade unsheathed and held in a casual but ready position.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Asemir said, his senses flaring, reaching out, probing his opponent in an effort to predict any attack, any telegraph. “Now why is it that you have to kill me?”

@[member="Mikhail Shorn"]