Private Saber the Moment

[Sevrin]

Darth Dacian
Sevrin ventured to find the strange swordsman he'd met in the slave pits on Sleheyron. The journey had begun with a gnawing sense of incompletion, a question that demanded answers. Who was that man, and why did he leave such an impression? His travels and relentless hunting led him back to the damned planet where their paths first crossed. Sleheyron was a hellscape of smoke and flames, its air thick with the stench of greed and blood, but it was here Sevrin's first clue emerged—a fractured trail that whispered the swordsman's name and deeds like echoes of a fading song.

Sevrin was no longer the gladiator of those pits; he was something sharper, harder, shaped by the crucible of his escape and the brutal freedom it granted. Yet, he felt incomplete, as though the missing pieces of his purpose lay with that swordsman.

The trail was elusive, fragmented by time and distance. Sevrin relied on scraps of information gathered from dubious informants, cryptic holorecords, and the occasional spacer willing to trade tales for credits. Each fragment was a tantalizing clue, pulling him deeper into a web of mystery that seemed to transcend any one man.

It led him to Korriban.

The ancient world greeted him with a landscape of ochre dunes and jagged cliffs, the air alive with an oppressive energy that seemed to crawl under his skin. Korriban was a monument to the Dark Side's enduring power. The wind howled like a dirge as Sevrin descended into the Valley of the Dark Lords, his every step kicking up clouds of crimson dust that clung to his boots.

The trail ended at the mouth of a forgotten tomb, its entrance obscured by centuries of neglect. Massive stone doors, etched with the runes of a bygone Sith era, loomed before him. The carvings seemed to pulse faintly with a malevolent heartbeat echoing through the Force.

Sevrin pushed the doors open, the weight of the stone groaning against his strength. Inside, the air was thick with decay and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Broken statues and shattered sarcophagi lined the walls, their jagged remains casting eerie shadows in the flickering torchlight.

This was it. He was supposed to be here.. wasn't he?

 

[Darth Dacian]

Indeed, Sevrin would find Dacian at the entrance of the tomb's interior, but the man was not alone. Across from him stood a group of Sith acolytes, their crimson sabers ignited and casting flickering shadows against the ancient stone walls. The air crackled with tension, but Dacian appeared indifferent to it all.

Clad in his dark robes, Dacian leaned casually against a half-destroyed pillar. In his hand, he held a ceramic bowl filled with steaming broth. He slurped the contents of the bowl noisly, a pair of chopsticks used to pluck at the remaining noodles. He was nonchalant, the demeanor of an evening meal at the end of the day. With these novices in front of him, it may as well be.

The acolytes were less composed.

"You dare?" the lead acolyte snarled, his young voice a trembling arrogance tempered with fear. "We found this place first! We won't let you steal what's rightfully ours!"

Dacian paused mid-slurp, crimson eye shifting lazily to the speaker. He took another deliberate bite, chewing slowly, the words having no relevance to him. His silence only seemed to inflame the acolytes further.

Finishing the last of his broth, Dacian let out a contented sigh and placed the chopsticks gently atop the crumbling pillar beside him. His movements were lazy, unhurried, the scene before him nothing more than an after meal show. Then, holding up the empty bowl for the acolytes to see, he spoke with calm authority.

"You're free to try and stop me," he started, showcasing the bowl with a lazy wave. "But I'll warn you now—if you force my hand, I'll kill you with this."

Sevrin

 

[Sevrin]

Darth Dacian
Sevrin paused in the shadows of the entry, his pale gaze fixed on the unfolding confrontation. He made no motion to intervene, his arms crossed loosely across his chest as he leaned a shoulder against the jagged stone of the tomb's entrance. For now, he chose to remain a spectator, content to observe the unfolding scene. The simmering cauldron of arrogance and fear that the acolytes could barely contain was almost intoxicating hard to look away from.

He had no words of advice for them, no warnings to give. Their anger was likely misplaced, their bravado a mask for their inexperience. Sevrin's own purpose lay beyond this petty clash, and he had no intention of becoming entangled in it. Still, his eyes lingered on the man before them—the same swordsman who had once carved a place into Sevrin's memory. He wasn't foolish enough to stand against him now, not after witnessing his skill firsthand.

This scene was familiar in a way to him. It played out like a grim echo of the gladiatorial pits, where challenges such as this were practically a daily ritual, a proving ground for strength and survival. In Sevrin's experience, such bouts often resolved in one of three ways:

Sometimes, the challenger won—a fleeting, hollow victory that offered no real freedom, only a temporary place at the top of the heap. More often, they lost, beaten down by a stronger opponent and left as a warning to others. And then there were the times when the keepers stepped in, deciding the fight had gone too far or simply growing bored.

Their intervention the harshest of all—not because they stopped the violence, but because of the punishment that followed. Fights that damaged the "goods" without permission were not tolerated. Gladiators weren't warriors—they were property. Breaking that illusion was the quickest way to feel the lash of a shock whip or worse.

But here, in this desolate tomb, there were no keepers. No masters watching from the shadows, ready to assert their control. If these acolytes served anyone, it was a master unseen, one whose leash was forged not of durasteel but of fear and ambition. Sevrin studied them for a moment, the way their anger simmered just beneath the surface, their crimson blades humming with restless energy. They seemed oblivious to the true stakes of what they were walking into. There were no whips to stop them if they pushed too far—only the blade of a man who didn't need one.

This wasn't the pits, but the similarities gnawed at him. Sevrin gaze flicked between the acolytes and the man they foolishly thought to challenge. This fight would end as it was meant to, without interference. And this time, the consequences wouldn't be a keeper's punishment—they'd be carved into flesh, a debt paid with blood.

Sevrin suspected these acolytes would fall into the first category. The lead one, brimming with misplaced confidence, already seemed poised to make a reckless move. He shifted his weight slightly, his fingers brushing the hilt of his broken blade as a precaution, though he doubted he'd need it. The outcome was all but certain, a foregone conclusion written in the casual indifference of the swordsman's demeanor.

The man standing before the acolytes was the one that commanded his attention. Sevrin's lips curved into a faint smirk. Whatever was about to happen, it promised to be entertaining at the very least.

 

[Darth Dacian]

With a battle cry, the lead acolyte charged, saber raised for a downward strike. Dacian made no move to unleash his vibrosword. Instead, he lifted the bowl with a lazy flick. As the red blade fell, the bowl intercepted it with a sharp clang. The Force coursed through the ceramic, imbuing it with power to catch the blade without damage.

The acolyte's strike was deflected with an effortless twist of Dacian's wrist. Before the young Sith could recover, Dacian stepped forward, driving the base of the bowl into the acolyte's chest with a strong shove. The impact sent a resounding crack, the ribs, and then a squelch, piercing what laid beyond it.

The acolyte froze, his eyes wide with shock as his saber slipped from his grasp. He staggered backward, dropped to his knees, and collapsed lifelessly to the cold stone floor.

"They say the quickest way to a someone's heart is through the stomach. But I'd argue the chest is just as fast, if not faster." Dacian tilted his head slightly, inspecting the now-bloodied bowl in his hand before tossing it casually to the side before grabbing the pair of chopsticks he laid previously. "Next?"

The surviving acolytes stared at their fallen comrade, their confidence evaporating like steam. Without a word, they turned and fled, their footsteps echoing towards Sevrin and out of the tomb, paying him no mind as they scrambled for the mouth to use as an exit.

Dacian adjusted his robes and glanced at Sevrin, giving him a casual wave. "Oh it's you. Are you hear to disturb my peace as well? The middle of their tomb-raiding interrupted the start of my meal."

Sevrin

 

[Sevrin]

Darth Dacian
Sevrin barely spared a glance at the fleeing acolytes at they rushed by. His focus, however, remained fixed on the chopsticks in Dacian's hand, their mundane simplicity now imbued with a surreal lethality. There was something both absurd and terrifying about how easily this man had turned an object of delicacy into a weapon of finality.

"Perhaps... disturb you I might though that is not my intention. " Sevrin said as his gaze lingered on the bloodied bowl discarded nearby. "I wouldn't dare interrupt your relaxation or your meal... I can wait to garner your attention if you are not yet satiated." There was a faint curve to his lips—neither a smile nor a smirk, but something caught between the two.

He pushed off the wall with a slow languid ease but did not approach, instead keeping his distance right where he was at the threshold. In his hand, he turned the now broken scrap worn lightsaber hilt over, the motion casual but deliberate, like a gambler weighing the heft of dice before a throw. The hilt was scarred, its emitter damaged beyond repair and scorch marks across the front.

"It seems," he continued, holding the broken weapon out in a loose grip, "that I've broken the toy you've let me borrow." His tone carried an edge of curiosity, perhaps a test to see how Dacian might react to such news—or to him.

Sevrin made no move to approach further, keeping the distance between them as though it were a boundary he wasn't yet ready to cross. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes told a different story, sharp and watchful, probing for any hint of reaction. Would Dacian dismiss the matter with his trademark nonchalance? Sevrin couldn't say for certain. There was a pause as he let the weight of his words settle. Then, with a faint shrug, he added, "I can wait, if you'd rather finish your meal. I am in no rush—I've already had my fill of entertainment."

 

[Darth Dacian]

Dacian nodded, acknowledging Sevrin's consideration for his meal. Finally, someone with manners. His crimson eye glinted with faint amusement as he tilted his head at the up-and-coming acolyte. "Broken, you say?" he mused. "I'm impressed it lasted that long. It was a good blade in its time, but… it wasn't all that fun after a while." He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully, the conversation stirring an unwelcome reminder of his own weapon. He really needed to get around to fixing it.

With a shrug, Dacian pushed the thought aside and gestured to the blood-lidded bowl. "I'm pretty much finished here. Though I forgot my sake, unfortunately. Always something missing." He leaned forward slightly, a hint of curiosity flickering in his eye. "So, what is it you need from me, exactly? If it's a blade, I'm sure you could stick a fork in one of the academy acolytes and get yourself a new one. Or better yet—"

Without ceremony, he kicked the saber of the now-deceased acolyte toward Sevrin, the hilt clattering to a halt at his feet. "Some parts to patch up that old thing of yours. Or take it for yourself if you're not picky."

Dacian leaned back, crossing his arms as his gaze stayed locked on Sevrin, curious. "But I get the feeling this isn't just about pointers on fixing up a scrapyard saber..."

Sevrin

 

[Sevrin]

Darth Dacian
Sevrin extended a hand with a calm, deliberate motion, and the saber hilt flew to his grasp, summoned by a skill that had grown since their last encounter. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he examined the weapon, turning it over with a mix of idle curiosity and hidden intent. "Two gifts in one day," he mused, his voice laced with a sly undertone. "Sir, you're spoiling me. I'll have to repay the favor somehow…"

His fingers brushed along the weapon's weathered surface, feeling the faint imperfections etched into its casing. "I'd love to know what makes these things tick," he murmured, "The way they channel energy, the connection to the Force—it's... elegant, don't you think? Brutal, yet beautiful." He glanced up, meeting Dacian's gaze, "And maybe, if you're feeling particularly generous, you'll let me figure out what makes you tick, too. Though," he added with a faint shrug, "I suspect that might be asking too much."

Sevrin twirled the saber hilt once before letting it rest in his palm, his attention shifting back to Dacian. "Still, you've sparked my curiosity, old friend. There must be a story behind a man who gives away a blade without a second thought. What's yours?"

 

[Darth Dacian]

"One man's treasure, as they say." Dacian gave a casual shrug. His crimson eye narrowed slightly as he regarded Sevrin's questions, his expression morphing into one of exaggerated confusion, as if Sevrin had just asked why a lightsaber burns to the touch.

"That old saber of mine, and bowl-chest's saber," he began, gesturing lazily to the fallen weapon nearby, "they're… inadequate." He spoke the words as if they were a universal truth, as obvious as the sun rising. "How can I express my passion fully with only a single blade? A single type of saber? It's like painting a masterpiece with just one color."

He leaned back further, relaxing against the cool stone as he continued. "What makes me 'tick,' as you put it, is simple. Too simple, in fact, for most to understand."

Dacian tilted his head up, gazing at the ancient ceiling above with a faint smile. "At a young age, I discovered that nothing—not food, not women, not even the finest luxuries—compares to the thrill of a fight. There's nothing that reaches the same high as crossing blades with the strong. When death lurks behind every strike, every feint, every moment, it's… exhilarating. So, if you're looking for something more profound, you won't find it here."

Sevrin

 

[Sevrin]

"How can I express my passion fully with only a single blade? A single type of saber? It's like painting a masterpiece with just one color."

Darth Dacian

"I believe the term you're looking for is... monochromatic," he quipped, his lips curling into a wry little smile. "Not women, then? Hmm, so what you're saying is that your thrills typically lie with brutish men. Interesting. Though, I must admit, crossing blades with a worthy 'opponent' can be... exhilarating."

His tone dipped, carrying a teasing edge. "Profound or not, there's a certain allure to the raw, unfettered carnal desires of man, wouldn't you agree? It does make sense, though—why settle for one blade when a man like you clearly needs more than one to keep up with the appetite?"

 

[Darth Dacian]

"Not at all," Dacian replied, twirling one of his chopsticks idly between his fingers, his gaze distant yet focused. "A good fight comes in many forms. As long as they push me—beyond my current capabilities, to the edge of death—that's where I find my satisfaction. One need only dip one's fingers into history to find that the greatest duelists have come in many shapes and sizes."

The mention of blades drew only a nod from him, the tease seemingly lost in the straightforward nature of his thoughts. "I do have one such blade," he admitted, his tone casual in its contemplation. "But I've neglected its repair. Haven't found the right occasion to bother with it... not yet, anyway."

Dacian's eye shifted back on the young sith-to-be. "Did I answer your curiosities or was there something else? I'm sure you didn't come all this way to find me to ask me about my life's purpose."

Sevrin

 

[Sevrin]

Darth Dacian
Sevrin stepped forward, and dipped his head low, almost a bow.

"Master," he began, the title rolling from his tongue like a gamble. "I've traveled through hell and worse to find you. I've seen your skill—unmatched, unrelenting, unyielding. I have no pride to offer, no bravado to boast, only a simple request."

Sevrin dropped to one knee, resting his fist against the ground, his eyes settling onto Dacian's. "Teach me. Show me the way you wield power, how you carve through obstacles with nothing but the edge of will and blade. I would be your student, not for servitude, but to grow beyond my limits—to reach the strength you carry so effortlessly."

The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of the ask. Sevrin's head lowered slightly, his dark hair spilling like a curtain over his sharp features. "If you would take me under your wing, I will pay for the lessons however you see fit. My life, my strength, my blade—they are yours to command."

He paused, his lips quirking into a faint, self-aware smirk. "I might not have the discipline of a monk or the grace of a noble, but I promise you this—whatever test you set before me, I will not break. Not until I've earned the right to stand at your side."

 

[Darth Dacian]

"Hell and worse?" Dacian raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Having made multiple trips there and back, I can assure you—you haven't."

He took a step closer, his tone sharpening. "True hell is where the vilest, most wicked monsters are born and bred. I've faced them, slain them, and walked away to tell the tale."

Standing over the kneeling Sevrin, Dacian crossed his arms, his gaze appraising. "An apprentice? I've no use for one. Unlike my meddling peers, I seek only one goal."

He paused, his voice lowering. "However... I've recently found myself tangled in politics—a game where I am far from adept. The alliances I've forged are fragile, their roots shallow. I need a blade—someone to act under my command, to further not just my goals, but those of my allies."

His eyes narrowed, his presence looming over Sevrin. "I can teach you what I know. But my lessons will be hard—harsher than what my master used to forge me. If I push you harder, perhaps you'll prove yourself. And when the time comes..." Dacian's smirk returned, faint but cutting. "You might even be worthy enough to face me."

Sevrin

 

[Sevrin]

Darth Dacian

Sevrin tilted his head slightly, his gaze lifting as he considered the man's words. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "It seems you've convinced me," he said, his tone measured yet edged with amusement. "A fair exchange of services, all things considered." His words carried an air of finality, yet beneath them lurked the quiet calculation of a man who never entered a deal without weighing every angle.