Darth Vazela
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
| [member="Ciara Jevnaker"] | [member="Tyro'din"] | [member="Vereor"] | [member="Rush Basai"] | [member="Anja Aj'Rou"] |
The Imperial Citadel had stood for thousands of years. It had housed eras upon eras, from Gilad Pellaeon and the Imperial Remnant that had founded Bastion, to the Fel's and the Empire that had been usurped by Darth Krayt and his One Sith and the bastard sons and daughters of long lost civilizations that lived through the Four-Hundred Year Darkness. It had housed the Mandalorians in the years following until Netherworld had opened it's gates.
Now it paid homage to the Primeval, it's lost army and a wandering exile.
I once watched my world burn. A rebellion unseen in centuries against the tyranny of evil men. It had a noble cause and a legacy to match, for a Dark Jedi had stood against the galaxy and challenged the Jedi and the democracy that they stood for; and I had stood against the Sith and the autocracy that had plagued Almania for so many years. I watch friends and family die to the hands of a virus that had not been seen in years also. How ironic, that we would fall to history as we sought to replicate and achieve greatness greater than that of Kueller and the exiles that had preceded him...
The throne room was in the center of the citadel, as it had been the center of the Imperial Remnant, Fel Empire and the bastards that had lived through a Four-Hundred Year Darkness. It's throne was iron, unlike the obsidian that he had once seen break beneath the will of the Thronebreaker, positioned on a plinth above all the others to signify the power that it represented.
Doors opened under the Dark Master's mind, spreading a gust through it's empty halls. For his eyes had watched Bastion for decades upon decades, as Krayt had; and much like the Dark Lord of the Sith, another had watched and watched another dynasty live upon a jewel in the center of an Empire in the face of his power.
Oh, how he had loathed them.
...and we would achieve a greatness that the first of us had achieved. For the legacy that they had created had been tarnished throughout the eons, it's purpose lost in weakness and stagnant of which they had sought to eradicate in their exile. I became an exile of my own device, for I was not pushed away from my home. My eyes were open to the truth. No, unlike them I returned home, to begin a rebellion. One that would push the Sith to the brink. An Empire that would become my own. A legacy that would be in my hands. Enslave them, in a direction that only an exile could know of and a greatness that could he could achieve...
Boots echoed in the long hall. The rug beneath his foot was new and decorated, replacing that which had been broken and disgraced when the ghosts of the unknown came forth to call Bastion it's home. This was the Primeval's now. It belonged them. For they were conquerors of Bastion. Vilox Pazela came to a stop at the foot, yellow eyes lifting to the summit. Men that would sit in the confines of that seat, or one that would look like it, would sit here again one day and do what he could not. They would stand against the Sith, their Empire and topple it, bringing about peace.
And with their victory, they undone the lies of the Sith Order.
...but we failed and Almania burned. My uprising squashed beneath the foot of dominant Sith Lords before the eyes of the Overlord. I was the Overlord. It is a metaphorical thing, to be cleansed by fire. I have no burns on my skin or scars on the surface to show what I lost. But I watched my home burn, as I watched the Sith Empire crumble beneath the feet of the Belladars. The lies of Vilox Pazela burned away as did the lies of the Sith. I am the Dark Master and I have witnessed the end of worlds, of legacies, families, lies and entire Empires...
The ascent did not take long. As he climbed up the steps to the top of the pedestal, the pull on the dark side created a convergence in the Force. For Vilox Pazela would create a following conceived in a time that was not his own, with an idea thought of in the past, to undo an injustice, tragedy and violence that yet to transpire.
The Dark Master lowered himself into the throne, hands rested on either side of it's arm rests and eyes on the open doors ahead, waiting; and as he watched, his eyes glowed as they had on the same day he had watched Almania die.
He was still on fire.
...everything is a petroleum, igniting the flames that have engulfed me. I have sunk and reached the end times. But my eyes see all. I will destroy the legacy of those certain exiles, to create another; and the exiles of this time shall join me or burn as all those have before them. The Primeval shall find their Gods and their crusade shall undo all of which I have witnessed. Almania need never burn. My people need never die. Here, in a building in a city on world that a family would tell the galaxy one more time that the promises of the Sith were lies, a manufactured peace made to spite us, I will end these Star Wars.
Thus, Vilox Pazela waited for the Host Lord and others to arrive, wiser to the way the galaxy worked. They could not see the fire, but he had been stood in that same place for a long time. Although his physical vessel had left the place in which he had seen his home die, the Dark Master had existed there ever since. Even then, sat on the throne in the center of the Imperial Citadel, waiting for those selected to join his side, his eyes watched and watched and watched and watched and watched...
The Imperial Citadel had stood for thousands of years. It had housed eras upon eras, from Gilad Pellaeon and the Imperial Remnant that had founded Bastion, to the Fel's and the Empire that had been usurped by Darth Krayt and his One Sith and the bastard sons and daughters of long lost civilizations that lived through the Four-Hundred Year Darkness. It had housed the Mandalorians in the years following until Netherworld had opened it's gates.
Now it paid homage to the Primeval, it's lost army and a wandering exile.
I once watched my world burn. A rebellion unseen in centuries against the tyranny of evil men. It had a noble cause and a legacy to match, for a Dark Jedi had stood against the galaxy and challenged the Jedi and the democracy that they stood for; and I had stood against the Sith and the autocracy that had plagued Almania for so many years. I watch friends and family die to the hands of a virus that had not been seen in years also. How ironic, that we would fall to history as we sought to replicate and achieve greatness greater than that of Kueller and the exiles that had preceded him...
The throne room was in the center of the citadel, as it had been the center of the Imperial Remnant, Fel Empire and the bastards that had lived through a Four-Hundred Year Darkness. It's throne was iron, unlike the obsidian that he had once seen break beneath the will of the Thronebreaker, positioned on a plinth above all the others to signify the power that it represented.
Doors opened under the Dark Master's mind, spreading a gust through it's empty halls. For his eyes had watched Bastion for decades upon decades, as Krayt had; and much like the Dark Lord of the Sith, another had watched and watched another dynasty live upon a jewel in the center of an Empire in the face of his power.
Oh, how he had loathed them.
...and we would achieve a greatness that the first of us had achieved. For the legacy that they had created had been tarnished throughout the eons, it's purpose lost in weakness and stagnant of which they had sought to eradicate in their exile. I became an exile of my own device, for I was not pushed away from my home. My eyes were open to the truth. No, unlike them I returned home, to begin a rebellion. One that would push the Sith to the brink. An Empire that would become my own. A legacy that would be in my hands. Enslave them, in a direction that only an exile could know of and a greatness that could he could achieve...
Boots echoed in the long hall. The rug beneath his foot was new and decorated, replacing that which had been broken and disgraced when the ghosts of the unknown came forth to call Bastion it's home. This was the Primeval's now. It belonged them. For they were conquerors of Bastion. Vilox Pazela came to a stop at the foot, yellow eyes lifting to the summit. Men that would sit in the confines of that seat, or one that would look like it, would sit here again one day and do what he could not. They would stand against the Sith, their Empire and topple it, bringing about peace.
And with their victory, they undone the lies of the Sith Order.
...but we failed and Almania burned. My uprising squashed beneath the foot of dominant Sith Lords before the eyes of the Overlord. I was the Overlord. It is a metaphorical thing, to be cleansed by fire. I have no burns on my skin or scars on the surface to show what I lost. But I watched my home burn, as I watched the Sith Empire crumble beneath the feet of the Belladars. The lies of Vilox Pazela burned away as did the lies of the Sith. I am the Dark Master and I have witnessed the end of worlds, of legacies, families, lies and entire Empires...
The ascent did not take long. As he climbed up the steps to the top of the pedestal, the pull on the dark side created a convergence in the Force. For Vilox Pazela would create a following conceived in a time that was not his own, with an idea thought of in the past, to undo an injustice, tragedy and violence that yet to transpire.
The Dark Master lowered himself into the throne, hands rested on either side of it's arm rests and eyes on the open doors ahead, waiting; and as he watched, his eyes glowed as they had on the same day he had watched Almania die.
He was still on fire.
...everything is a petroleum, igniting the flames that have engulfed me. I have sunk and reached the end times. But my eyes see all. I will destroy the legacy of those certain exiles, to create another; and the exiles of this time shall join me or burn as all those have before them. The Primeval shall find their Gods and their crusade shall undo all of which I have witnessed. Almania need never burn. My people need never die. Here, in a building in a city on world that a family would tell the galaxy one more time that the promises of the Sith were lies, a manufactured peace made to spite us, I will end these Star Wars.
Thus, Vilox Pazela waited for the Host Lord and others to arrive, wiser to the way the galaxy worked. They could not see the fire, but he had been stood in that same place for a long time. Although his physical vessel had left the place in which he had seen his home die, the Dark Master had existed there ever since. Even then, sat on the throne in the center of the Imperial Citadel, waiting for those selected to join his side, his eyes watched and watched and watched and watched and watched...
