Private The King's Men || Kyyrk

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

HYPERSPACE
En Route to the Shiraya Expanse

The Southern Systems had fallen.

The effort of literal years - blood spent and tears shed - evaporated in an instant. Such was the nature of fickle politicians that lacked a spine. In the eyes of the Sith, there was an opportunity to rebuild. To lick wounds in defiance of the Unmaker. But the will of the people said otherwise. So it was that the remnant took flight for regions unknown. So it was that Isley was frustrated. Before him stood a pair of droids giving their report. Supplies were abyssmal and they had mouths to feed. Their available funds were a far cry from the region-spanning budget of yesterday. Moreover, their armada was in shambles. What wasn't directly demolished by the Unmaker personally was either lost or damaged by the corsair armada.

What remained was in terrible shape.

But Isley would press on. His vision would endure. And the King needed his horses and men to put Dumptey back together again.

"Dismissed." he seethed, sending the automatons away with a wave of his hand. The droids shambled out of his quarters and the doors swooshed closed behind them. In the quiet, he ran a hand over his scalp - a heavy sigh fell from his lips. Where to begin? There was just so much to be done. Then, at last, a decision. The sable-skinned man strolled behind his makeshift desk and tapped upon his personal datapad. A missive was sent to one of the few individuals Isley considered a friend: Kyyrk .

Once a Miraluka, the warrior of the present was...lost yet found. The details were murky, but his crusade into the Nether had not gone well. The Unmaker had sank his fangs into the Obsidian Knight, rendering him changed. Gone was the man whose might rivaled the Vicelord. In its place, a quieter soul. Brave. Trustworthy. Voph. Yet different. It was this changed soul that Isley beckoned to his "office." With his Exarchs already burdened, Kyyrk was certainly one who would have "eyes" on their current predicaments.

Together, they could start putting the pieces back in place.

Kyyrk​

 

[Kyyrk]

Wearing: Armor of the Exile

Kyyrk had fought to the last man. Now, hours after the attack on Naboo, he felt it. He looked it. He'd kept to himself in the hours since he awoke from the Bacta Tank. The rest of the survivors didn't need to know his business with Alessandra Creed . But it was from within her quarters that he toiled in silence. Never content to rest on his laurels. Particularly not when his blade was damaged. Kyyrk worked in near silence, humming quietly to himself to keep amused while engaging in an otherwise mundane task. It was not his skill with them that had earned him the title Lord of Blades. No, to a man of his experience, fixing the shattered casing and installing a new power pack was nothing but time consuming.

Kyyrk didn't look up from his work as a message came to his communicator. The beep had hardly started before the man was already commanding the device to dismiss the message. He had assumed it to be a message from the medical team wishing to check up on him. But when the device chimed in with "Priority Message from Vicelord Metus archived," Kyyrk paused. He reached out, calling the device the rest of the way towards his outstretched hand. The Vicelord wished to see him. Informing his companion that he would be away for a while, Kyyrk stood, sliding the final casing into place over his naked lightsaber. He felt the Force flow through his arm and into the focus within his hand, manifesting as a pure white blade. He stared at it quietly for a moment, inspecting his work. He let the blade die moments later, and turned to leave.

The black clad man walked in silence through the halls of the ship, his lightsaber stowed safely in its usual holster on his back. For a man who could not remember much, the metal clank of boots on bulkhead brought back many. The pain of having lost a battle. The dread of what came after. The knowledge that he was ill equipped to best his enemy. Zakuul had been a highly formative war for him. And nothing, not even his encounter with the Dread Masters of old could have possibly prepared him for it. Kyyrk stepped inside the lift he'd arrived at, and punched the appropriate floor. His head was dipped, his gaze absent. Zakuul had done more damage to his psyche than anything else in his long and twisted life. And across the past few months, he'd lived it all again.

"But this time was different..." he intoned quietly to himself. The fatal attack on Dromund Kaas had left him alone. No friends, no family, no nation. Nothing to fight for, but the justice of those unable to fight for themselves. The knowledge that without his actions, the galaxy would rot under the dictatorship of Zakuul. This time was different. He still had Alessandra. Isley had survived. And presumably, the Exarchs had as well. Friends, of one description or another. Some closer than others. One, he would even go as far as to call his brother. An honor afforded to only one other individual across his millennia. The doors to Isley's chamber slid open, and Kyyrk stepped within, folding his hands at the small of his back. A smile threatened to encroach upon the man's face, seeing Isley before him. Confirmation that he had indeed survived Naboo. "Vicelord. Glad to see you survived Naboo."​

Darth Metus

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

HYPERSPACE

The Sith did not have to wait long.

In but a few short minutes, the quiet of his quarters was broken. Kyyrk arrived, professional as always, and addressed him by title. Vicelord. At was as ash upon the sable-skinned man's ears. The moniker represented something that had passed. Perished. Rather than rise again and lick their wounds, the worlds decided to go their separate ways. So too would the mantle that represented championing their survival. Nonetheless, Isley was glad to see his friend before him. He seemed tired - as were they all - but otherwise whole.

He strode over and embraced the man.

"Glad to see you survived as well. Though I'm not surprised."

Upon release he patted Kyyrk on the shoulder twice and bid him to take a seat. Isley settled down unceremoniously shortly thereafter.

"You've only survived, what, twelve cataclysms at this point? What's one more notch on the belt, eh?"

It was clear that the Sith was speaking freely. Comfortably. He could be himself around friends.

"That aside...I called you because I need your eyes." he began. "You tend to have an ear to the ground. You can hear what the Knights and others are saying at a foundational level. I need to know where to prioritize the work. What do you think?"

Kyyrk​

 

[Kyyrk]

Kyyrk's arms spread as Isley approached for a hug. He returned the gesture, but unlike Isley, he showed no expression of joy nor mirth. Kyyrk was visibly shaken from the fight. A kolto patch still rested upon his neck, and the joints of his armor seemed stiffer than normal. Odd, that he would use a less effective medicine when he had no formal allergy to Bacta. Kyyrk moved towards the indicated seat slowly, turning his head towards Isley as a question was asked. What was another notch in the belt when he'd survived twelve cataclysmic events? "Nine." Kyyrk lowered himself into the chair gingerly. "Which is a real pity. I left my punch card in my other pants. Could have gotten a free kids meal..." As always, the pinnacle of dry humor.

Isley did not let the conversation linger for long before he was probing Kyyrk for a task. He frowned quietly at the proposition. Was that all he was good for now? keeping tabs on those around him? He supposed it was not out of character for him. What with his history as the leader of two different inquisitions, one at the behest of the very man sitting before him.

"Of course I keep an ear to the ground. The only way to ensure one's continued survival in the Empire. And you would know as well as I that old habits die hard." Kyyrk's brow knit together as he studied the old Vicelord's face. Something about this didn't make sense. Lechner was content for Kyyrk to stay complacent and out of the way. Isley, on the other hand, had once entrusted him with an entire army of people.

"We've just survived the greatest recorded Netherworld Assault on real space. Forgive me for making assumptions, Metus, but I don't think this is about where we need the work." Was there something between him and the Wolf? Was there something that Isley needed eyes on that he didn't trust Gerwald for? And more importantly, what was he looking for? The Confederacy had agents. So why him? "More to the point, the dust has barely settled. I still have bacta leaking from my ears, and we're still fleeing from a damning armada that may or may not catch us and finish the job." Kyyrk's tone was even throughout. He was not angry with the vicelord, nor was he accusing him. He was stating facts, seemingly for his own benefit as much as Isley's. "But, I will humor you and assume that this task is to be enacted once things are back to...whatever we call normal, now. What, specifically, are you looking for?"​

Darth Metus

 

[Darth Metus]

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus​

HYPERSPACE

The damage was evident.

Though Kyyrk did not wince during their embrace, Isley did note the pace of his descent into his seat. He, like all of them, emerged from the fire alive - but far from unscathed. But, unlike their shattered fellows, they had to push forward. They had to chart the course, lest they all be lost.

Kyyrk was kind enough to humor Isley in his dry manner. Nine cataclysms. One shy of a kids meal. The Sith shook his head briefly. "Knowing you, it'd be apple slices and caramel."

The jest, of course, went by the wayside when the topic of survival arose. Kyyrk was plain when he spoke about old habits dying hard, to this Isley couldn't agree more. Even though he had spent years as Vicelord, his heart was still Mandalorian. He still honed his skills. Just as Kyyrk kept an ear to the ground. For a moment, the former Lord Commander's brow knit - and Isley raised an eyebrow. There was something there, but he moved on with his thoughts.

"There's nothing to forgive Kyyrk, I trust you and your insight."

And Kyyrk's insight was a firm summation of the fresh hell they now lived in. "You assume...incorrectly." He motioned towards the man with his dominant hand. "You know, as well as I, that calamity is when the spool unravels even more. Yes, we are reeling. Yes, we have god knows what on our ass. But, cohesion among our people is a priority. If we lose that, well, then there's no we."

He folded his arms. "You led our greatest force for a time. You're one of the few people who's been inside my head and lived to talk about it. So you I'm sure you know where I'm coming from. Put simply, how do we keep our people together?"

Kyyrk​

 

[Kyyrk]

Kyyrk was quiet for a moment. He didn't like to talk about...before. And Isley of all people should know this. The once-Miraluka had an entire lifetime of knowledge at his fingertips. And yet he never spoke of just how he acquired it. He sighed softly, before fixing the vicelord with his violet gaze. "Give them hope." It was a simple instruction. Almost too simple, perhaps. Perhaps sickeningly, this was no speculation on Kyyrk's part. And Isley would surely know this, given their observation of how many crises he'd lived through. "In times like this, people look upwards. And what they will see is the man or woman who leads them. They will set the example for the rest. This, you know. But it is now more important than any single moment in your tenure as Vicelord or Mandalore. If you must crack, if you must break, they can never know."

Kyyrk looked down at his hands for a moment, contemplating the cold metal of his synthetic one. "I do not envy your position. The last time I faced such, our task was simple. Find those responsible, and execute them." Kyyrk sighed, a frustrated look crossing his face as he pushed himself to his feet. "It did not matter that the infinite fleet stood between us and them. We just had to find the one gap in the defense." Kyyrk walked to the edge of the room, staring out the window at the murky beyond. "We didn't have civilians. Just soldiers. All of us willing to fight and die to exact our vengeance on Zakuul. On the Eternal Empire." Kyyrk's hands folded at the small of his back, as he contemplated the choices before him.

"They will need stability. Peace. First, we find a place for them to call home. Then we seek our vengeance. Once they are safe." Kyyrk's head slowly sunk to look at his feet. Almost as if he was consumed by shame. He did not say anything for a moment, seeming to become lost in his shame. "But most importantly, do not let the guilt consume you." Kyyrk turned back to Isley fully, though it was not clear if he was speaking to Isley or himself. "You did all you could. Your effect on the galaxy is greater than you could possibly imagine. Take pride in that. Be Proud that you fought to the bitter end for your people."​

Darth Metus

 

[Darth Metus]

Give them hope.

The answer was simple - but that was certainly for the best no? Were not the best solutions in life the simplest ones? Sure, there would be nuances as to how he went about doing so. But the goal, pure and simple, was hope. The former Vicelord nodded as his cherished friend spoke - and the logical part of his person agreed. But there was a nagging bit that recoiled. Retorted. A place of ire and fire which scoffed at the notion of hope. For how could he give the people something he himself no longer had?

Isley did not know it in this moment, but he had began to sink into a pit. A spiral of black that he had never faced before. For the first time in his life, the way forward was...not so clear. He was fortunate, then, to have souls around him who could see the road ahead.

"Times like these do make me miss the old days of Mandalore." his admission came after a few moments of quiet. "Where it was as simple as kill the enemy, take control, rinse and repeat. One never had to wonder about peace or the wellbeing of people. It was simply the way of the sword."

He sighed, running both hands over his head for a moment.

"I think - no, I know that you're right. The people need hope, and so they will have it. They need to know that I can lead, and so they will have it. Stability...a Home...our scouts have something. A sector due south. I think we can start there."

He said nothing of the guilt, or being proud of what they built. Instead, he motioned towards his friend.

"I will say, you've done all you could as well. You've inspired. Given hope. Brought peace. And above all, you've been a great friend to me and to my Srina. In what comes next..." He paused, taking the time to place both hands on each of the man's shoulders. "...if we learn to stand on our feet as a nation again, I want to empower you to do what you do best. You have always been at your best when you have the freedom to choose the path forward. I know not what our 'nation' or people will look like after we begin anew, but should we succeed? Should we take root?"

"I'd ask of you to be an Exarch. To stand alongside Srina Talon and John Locke as their equal. To know that each word you speak carries my authority. I know that means very little in our current state - and I know that we have no nation to speak of now. But if we succeed...if we survive...what say you?"

Kyyrk​

 

[Kyyrk]

It was moments like this that made Kyyrk respect Metus. He knew what it meant to be a leader. He knew the...simplicity of being a soldier. Even a general was an easier matter than being the head of state. He nodded quietly. He was about to say something, but Isley continued to speak. The man challenged that Kyyrk worked best when given the reign to do what he deemed necessary to be done. Kyyrk considered for a moment, nodding his head in agreement after a few moments. His tenure as Lord Vizier of the old Knights Obsidian order had been one of his most fruitful positions of power. And his ascension to Lord Commander, in the eyes of many, was only natural.

But Kyyrk's eyes landed back on Isley's when he made his proposition. Kyyrk. An Exarch. Kyyrk took a step back in surprise. His eyes flickered across Isley's face as if looking for the tell that this was some joke. But the former Vicelord was serious. Kyyrk's gaze dipped to the floor, his thoughts racing. After all that had happened. After everything he had done. Everything he had failed to do. Isley continued to speak of their lack of a nation, but promised Kyyrk that should they rebuild, the position would be his, if he so chose.

Kyyrk took a deep breath, and released a slow sigh to calm himself. He looked towards the window once more, watching the blue tunnel of Hyperspace crash by. "A generous offer for a man who can hardly remember his own name." Kyyrk intoned quietly. He thought for a moment, then turned his gaze back to Isley. "A nation is more than its worth. More than its might. So long as your people draw breath, your nation endures. I will help you rebuild until my services of such are no longer needed." Kyyrk reached up, and placed a hand on Isley's shoulder, returning the gesture.

"Your offer need not confer power nor glory. I seek neither. I will not bemoan my inadequacies as justification for declining your offer. Even though I should. When you are ready to officially name me an Exarch, I swear to you, I will have made myself worthy of such a title. Besides, once we finish ensuring the immediate safety of our people? We have a god to kill. And I will need all the strength and power I can muster to destroy him."[/JUSTIFY]

Darth Metus

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