| [member="Velok the Younger"] | [member="Arkaitz Zambrano"] | [member="Reverance"] | [member="Kevros Kovani"] | [member="Mala Arar"] | [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] | [member="Darth Ignus"] | [member="Anaya Fen"] | [member="Darth Voracitos"] |
Watching Anaya take matters into her own hands brought a slight smile to Tirdarius' lips as he observed the proceedings with his natural dispassionate expression, a closed mask that revealed little beyond the amusement he felt at her actions. The Twi'lek had ever been impulsive, her appetite for destruction a beautiful thing to watch when she unleashed it to teach a lesson much needed, but to defy the collective will of the Sith and murder Maladon without mutual consent from those gathered was just a beautiful touch of impulsiveness that he had not expected of her.
But she has always been a pragmatist, inclined to do what needs to be done when no other will.
That enormous presence that had announced itself with a familiar sense of exquisite timing, the grotesque form of Voracitos drifting into view. It took the Sith Lord aback for a moment: he had long understood that the gluttonous Lord was long dead, disposed of on some backwards world with none of the glorious theatrics that he so enjoyed.
And yet here he...slouches. The presence the bloated being projected through the Force was unlike anything Tirdarius had felt before or since: it was a massive gathering of dark energy which carried a strong sense of greed.
The Dark is hungry, and Voracitos was ever one to feed it.
That rumbling voice, the slow intonation, the cold dismissal of all that he surveyed: yes, that was Voracitos.
There's no mistaking the gluttonous one, Tirdarius reflected. He knew the vast Sith Lord was often a subject of derision and contempt among the others: they saw only the outer shell, gross and swollen by excess. But beneath the folds of flat and beyond the beady eyes that stared out through them lay a keen mind that ever sought to see the Sith ascendent, if perhaps only to feed his own dark appetites.
Another dangerous being to add to the pile.
Hearing his words to the Twi'lek, Tirdarius took a stride forward and placed a restraining hand on the smooth warm red skin of the woman's arm. He knew well enough that few things would provoke Anaya as much as being dismissed in such a cold way as Voracitos now uttered: casting her aside in scorn as though she were some haughty slave overstepping her bounds, rather than a woman of considerable lethality.
She would murder everyone here to avenge such an insult, given provocation.
"Stand down, Anaya," he murmured softly, lowering his voice so that she alone would hear him. There was certainly a time and a place for bloodshed, and her callous murder of one who had once been their peer proved that she was capable. But to war with Voracitos now would only draw them all in, and there would be few survivors from such a massacre.
And only our enemies would benefit.
"Now is not the time to fight this battle."
He could feel her anger, the way her muscles tensed beneath his hand, the violent impulse that ever lay barely-restrained at the surface of her mind, eclipsing the brief pleasure she had felt at ushering in the death of one that had betrayed them all. She had enjoyed that murder, he knew, had felt that enjoyment through the Force, had felt it mirrored in his own thoughts, but the destructive intent he sensed lingering beneath the surface now would see them all dead, if she felt inclined to open the proceedings with another death or two.
"Anaya is no slave, Voracitos," he observed harshly, directing his words with more volume towards Voracitos.
"Her chains are broken, and she is no man's servant, but her own Master." Murdering Maladon before us is evidence enough of that, or so Tirdarius felt: how many would dare to take the decision out of the hands of a collective of Sith Lords, to act unilaterally even faced with opposition?
"You but court danger, as you ever did." He offered a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement of the pudgy Sith Lord.
Now that Maladon was dealt with, the gathered Sith cheated of the opportunity to inflict a slow and tortuous death upon the traitor, would they now disband? The last remnant of the One Sith was gone now, his life burning out in a very literal fashion, skin, blood and bones seared into nothingness, vapourised by the heat of the magma.
Can we recognise this as a moment of transition, where we move forward beyond past failures?
"Do we now part ways, brothers and sisters, to see to our own affairs and leave the shattered remnants of what we were our sole testament?" His deep grey eyes flickered from Sith to Sith: the Acolytes, standing attendant to their Masters and superiors; the Knights watching restlessly, eager to see the Lords fight amongst themselves for power, perhaps seeking their own ascendency through attrition; the Sith Lords themselves perhaps contemplating a power play even now.
"Perhaps now is where we shed what little civility we have and begin the murder of our brethren? A mockery that only brings this farce to conclusion. Or shall we see some accord that lays the foundations for a return to the power we once knew?"
As ever, the question remained as to whether self-interest might overshadow the good of the Sith as a whole: would this now be a bloodbath with one victor and few survivors, or might they find something more amicable that would help the Sith move forward?
Either way, we cannot help but stand on the precipice, ready for the plunge.
