Faction This Is America | Sith Academy

[Soldane Talon]

Imperial Academy of Jutrand​

902 ABY​

​

Thousands had come to the initial culling, a series of tests devised to weed out the weakest of their generation. A thousand would go home, a thousand would enter other schools, but a thousand and more would leave disappointments. There were only a few left who had survived the trials put before them, and fewer still who had proven themselves better than them.​

​

From the aptitude tests, to the Labyrinth, to the Duels carefully monitored by far sight seers and electronic surveillance systems - the students had been watched from the very beginning. Some cheated to get past, some played their hand with honor - but it mattered little. It was only who succeeded and who had not. Now, those 256 gathered in the entrance hall in tables long and filled with food as just reward for their hard fought battles.​

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At the front of the great tables stood their assembled Provosts, the Sepulchral, and the Praetorians who had come to guard them. They stood menacing around the room, while the Corpse Priests watched them from the shallow light of the room’s edges. Only the Provost and their ilk sat at a smaller, grander table filled with goblets of wine and whole boar, cooked and prepared for their special taste.​

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All were given the lapse of luxury, but it was the teachers who had received the most. A table before them remains empty, holding only seven seats. It was gilded, black marble and gold sigils, covered in an untouched bounty worthy of the best. None had been sat there when they were guided in. All knew it was for the few in the First Cohort, singled out even in the very moment they would be declared the first inheritors of the greatest ranks amongst them.​

​

It would immediately make them royalty, and targets to be fought after.​

​

It was the Provost, Darth Ognitio, who dabbed away the pork grease he could from his face and moved to the podium to speak. His voice carried in the room with the Force, so without raising it - all could hear him. Graceful and transcendent, the man who cared for his appearance as much as he did his wine looked upon them with golden red eyes of a Sith long proven.​

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“Welcome, my students.”, he said with a great grin.​

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“You who sit before me have proven yourselves unequal in the world of the Sith - the greatest of your generation by far. Only half of you will be good enough to enter the Academy, and this feast will tell you what rank you shall soon be. Which Cohort you will belong to. How much you will be worth.”, he beamed as he said those cruel words.​

​

“Those who are not given a rank are given the reward of this feast. After, you will be made to leave. Your ilk is not welcome here among royalty. No doubt second rate Sith will ask you to join them in their ambitions, but you have failed to become one of the greatest. Let your next few years make up for this.”​

​

“That is all I will say to the failures. You will soon know who you are. The rest of you - you will be taken to your rooms when the feast has concluded. Some will be grouped in communal rooms, those of the 4th and 5th Cohorts will bunk in barracks, sparsely furnished. 3rd, you will be given apartments shared with your fellow 3rds. Seconds and First, you will be given your own apartments to do as you wish.”​

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“Now - feast. Eat to your hearts content. Fill your bellies today, for tomorrow almost none of you will eat like this again for many months. Savor it. We will begin calling names now.”​

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And true to his words, he spoke them.​

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“Barcus Cannus. 15th.”​

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And then more.​

​

Due to the nature of their tests, some sat attached to medical equipment and the best droid chaperone available to ensure their condition remained stable - but this was a mandatory ceremony. The Ranking Ceremony told each of the Acolytes where they would belong in their journey, where it would begin. Who amongst them had faced hardships and overcome, and who had simply failed at their last step?​

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Most imagined it was who won the duel that would determine who entered. Half the faces in the room hung shallow and saddened, knowing they were here as a participation reward, a conciliatory action on behalf of their sponsors. They were wrong, as the first student to have ‘lost’ their duel was called up and given their rank.​

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72.​

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It forced their sullen faces up, renewed anxiety, renewed excitement. Whatever the judgment criteria the Academy had was something beyond just the skill they showed now, but the potential only its Provost and Prefects could see. Each name would be called who had made it, but at the end of the ceremony there would be only the great 128 who had overcome.​

​

So for now, they enjoyed their food - those who could yet stomach it, as they waited for their entire future to collapse in on itself.​

 

[Soldane Talon]

Tag | Open​

​

Soldane had done what he needed, he had fought his duel with Thelnic Vath , and done his best to not overstate his abilities. Many had already caught on, he wasn't to be trifled with, but he had hoped that many more still understood him as simple in the grand scheme. Innocent. Not a threat. He did not want to be singled out, not yet.​

​

He had been seated away from Lunaria Talon - which felt like being removed from his left arm. It was awkward, unlikeable, and disgusting. They likely knew they relied on each other now, and they were putting them in stressful environments without the other. It was another test, even now, even at the very cusp of their entrance into the Academy.​

​

He wasn't sure if that was actually a good sign or not.​

​

So for now, he hung his head and ate his food. Slowly. His golden fork prodded at the buffet before him, fruits, vegetables, and exotic meals of every sort. Some droids even walked through the room, offering even more speciality items, while others took orders for things not yet made. This was by far the fanciest thing he had ever been to, and it felt disgusting.​

​

Was this how he was supposed to live from now on? Fat on the sweetness of power? He had grown up spartan, relatively. In spite of wealth, of power, of skill - he was given only what he was needed to be given. It was something his Haru Darth Carnifex had ensured. Not underfed, but never given more than they needed. Just enough to come into their potential without spoiling.​

​

So he waited and watched as the names were called out. Waiting for his and his sisters.​

 

[Drazen Lutris]

Tag | Open​

​

Drazen sat surrounded by his growing cadre of sycophants. He had become the Lord of Terminus not even a few months ago, and already he had Sith of some caliber flocking to him. Today, he would grow that number by one - because the Academy was a chance to expand his influence, show them that he could pick a winning horse.​

​

And to secure a long term ally from the most profoundly gifted of a generation.​

​

He swirled his wine as the various Sith Lords and Ladies next to him spoke in liquor lined slurs. Some had already sponsored some of those gathered, some waited for a chance themselves, but it was Drazen who would walk away with the best. He had an eye for genetics, for potential. It was his calling, and it would be his calling here too.​

​

A Sith to be molded, a Sith to be given the world. A Sith who would give him everything.​

​

Soon.​

 

[Brooklyn Zambrano]

Equipment | In Bio

Location | Jutrand

Tag | Aspect of Passion

This.. THIS was it. She had done tests, braved Krayiss II and not only got some knowledge from the library, but also her warblade... And here she was. Standing amongst her peers who she both respected yet also saw as competition.

Right now was not the time though, not when there was so much good looking food around!

Greedily she targeted the dishes more akin to her culture, scouting out those that were indeed traditional Epicanthix dishes.

Speaking of, it had been a stroke of good fortune to have a fellow Epicanthix sponsor her, helping the acolyte catch some eyes perhaps?

While one could consider this whole ordeal akin to how farmers rank their best livestock... Brooklyn had no brighter passion than to serve in the army of the Order. The goal to one day be a mighty general, claim planets, learn about the people there...

What would make it more satisfying would be the killing of any Mandalorians she found while doing such, revenge for her Homeworld she never got to see.

For now though she sat, taking a bite of a dumpling while both waiting for her name to be called... And curious if her sponsor was anywhere around..

​

 

[Darth Garoul]

Sarlow observed the acolyte he had sponsored; she looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place her. For now, the Sith Lord known as Darth Garoul would wait to hear her ranking, which would inform his approach to her training. The acolyte was a full Epicanthix, a young woman of little renown.

The Imperial Academy of Jutrand, with its cold, imposing architecture and air thick with the hum of dark energy, was nothing like the academies on Panatha. The academy's shadowy halls seemed to mirror Sarlow's somber mood. He was reminded of the promise he made on the night his homeworld perished: to punish every soul involved. It was a long-term goal, but for now, the Sith Lord stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed and lips set in a grim line, observing the Provost and waiting for his acolyte's ranking to be called.

Brooklyn Zambrano ​

 

[Firrerreo]

It was finally time.

Firrerreo stood in the room with the other students, idly scratching under the chin of the owl on his shoulder. His familiar, and only really trusted ally. There were many who's names he knew now, many who didn't realize the power that gave him over them. That's how he was, how all Firrerreo's were. Eve here the only name he had was Firrerreo. Not even a title, a term.

When he was called, he strode up, head high despite being one of the shortest here. Smiling, even. This was good. He'd get his recognition, and he'd continue to climb these ranks until the day he stood at the top.

"Firrerreo."

He stood and made his way up to the stage to get his rank.

Aspect of Passion

 

[Brooklyn Zambrano]

Equipment | In Bio

Location | Jutrand

Tag | Darth Garoul Aspect of Passion

The Acolyte Darth Garoul had decided to sponsor was too young to have ever seen their homeland, being born around the time of the destruction of Panatha. Jutrand was all she knew, part of her felt a sadness over this... Only being able to hear tales of where her people were from, the black pyramid here on Jutrand and the Malsheem only filled so much of that wound.

While munching down a dumpling, her eyes spot Garoul. She gave him a wave as a chunk of dumpling was still packed within her cheek.

She had managed to get this far, and with her luck in getting a sponsor she was hopeful for at least a half decent ranking..

Her attention then turns to the stand.. ​

 

[Jarek Voss]

Aspect of Passion ​

---

Jarek carefully ate the simple foods he chose among the lavish spread. Protein, fruits, and vegetables. Food he was accustomed to. Growing up on Eshan, the young acolyte was forced a bland diet by his father that filled his harsh training requirements. Unlike his siblings, who were given proper Echani meals. The one time his father allowed him a spread of Echani food, Jarek overate. The entire affair was a ruse, and his father forced him to train through the night without sleep. The elaborate gathering caused Jarek to be cautious at the very least.

The acolyte was content standing with his food, and watching the crowds. A few familiar faces caught his attention.

"Jarek Voss"

The call of his name gave him a quick jolt. He put down his plate, adjusted his uniform, and walked to the podium. His thigh still aching from the blaster bolt he took in the labyrinth. Once in front of the podium, Jarek stood tall and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Jarek Voss here, my Lord."

 

[Aspect of Passion]

Dozens had been called,but most had flled into the lower Cohorts. Names lost to the 5th, and its ever growing number. Others had barely made it into the 4th, and none had made it above the 3rd yet. They were all middling when compared to the best, and it had shown - but even still, ranking at all drew the attention of the sponsors who suddenly lacked a sponsoree - or were looking to the most convenient leg up.​

​

" Firrerreo .", his name was called.​

​

He trudged towards the Podium, all the while the Provost watched him with a coy smile. Subtle, but different than the others he had called. When he stood before the teacher, he glanced back out and declared his number loud.​

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"4th!"​

​

Applause. Most came from the teachers, the sponsors who were polite, the students who knew their manners - but Firrerreo would see hundreds of faces suddenly fall dark in his direction. He had earned his place, but with it he had earned the ire of his classmates. The Sponsors, however, suddenly saw him as a fresh piece of meat, to be siphoned of glory.​

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"Take these vestments, so all will know you for what you are."​

​

An overcoat, trailing to the knees with glorious flair, and overshirt fitted with carefully designed armor plates that wouldn't restrict movement. The shoulder had an empty spot for a sigil - to declare his sponsor, when he so chose to do so. Now he had options, anyone he could want would fight for him. Kill for him. In the span of two sentences, he had become one of the most politically important tools in the Empire - and the weight of it would soon set in.​

​

Then they gave him his sword - a Sith blade of exceptional quality. Custom made, even before his arrival, bonded to his blood without his knowledge. A great Praetorian, almost ten feet tall and round as a tree, kneeled before him and raised the blade up for his taking. It was the honor he was deserved.​

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When the Sith fell back to his place, the Provost would walk forward and offer him the last piece - the Shuriji and a red sash, worn together. A single shoulder cape, carefully vested with the authority of the Academy. These symbols made him to be feared, to call down the very will of the Emperor if he so wished. He was now royalty in all but name.​

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"Move to your new seat. Your apartment will be prepared to your specifications.", he told Firrerreo with a motion to the still empty place before them. It was a seat of seven, soon to be joined by his fellow Acolytes. For now, he would sit alone - and even at fourth, being the first to be called into the First Cohort meant something. All eyes remained on him, even as other names were called...​

​

---​

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Names had passed once more, as the excitement of the First Cohort died down. Slowly, they came around to call another name;​

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"Tess.", he called out. Another came up to the stand.​

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Brooklyn Zambrano . Daughter of the last Empress. Unknown to the Order at large, but the Academy knew who they were. The tests they had prior to their entry always explained the lies, the false parentages, the secrets buried. But it was not their place to get declare such things. Not yet.​

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"44th. Congratulations, Acolyte.", he said with a grin.​

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"I expect to see you rise. Take your uniform.", he said with a motion to the side. A teacher moved forward, offering her the symbol of the Fourth Cohort - the armored overshirt, fanciful in design and carefully tailored to her specifications. It would protect her from much, without inhibiting her natural movements at all. She would hardly feel its weight.​

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"Return to your seat."​

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---​

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" Jarek Voss ."​

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The Echani moved up to speak to the Provost, declaring himself as though it were necessary. The Provost looked down to him and smiled, then back to the crowds at large;​

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"9th!"​

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Another cheer. He had done well for himself, and in the same fashion as Firrerreo before him, he would be given all he was meant. The armored overshirt, the overcoat, and for him a specially made Sith blade bonded to him through blood. The Praetorian who kneeled before him took a step back and return to their place after giving the blade, leaving Jarek to attach his uniform and turn to the crowd.​

​

He would notice it too. His single digit rank made the faces of his peers dower and darken He had made a fool of them, and now he was to be targetted for it - just as the others were. Jarek had made a name for himself. For better, or for worse.​

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"Return to your seat. Your apartment will be made for you soon."​

​

---​

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Other names were called, but as the list got longer, the ceremony got shorter for some. Those in the Fifth Cohort would have their number declared even before they could get to the podium. The first ones to have this happen were confused, them ashamed as they walked back to their seats. They were a dime a dozen, and fell away into the crowd once more.​

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Their victory was muddled by the defeat of the Fifth. To join the academy, only to be declared one of its worst.​

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Other names would be given. Riven Dreadmoor, 65th. Artemis Dreadmoor, 66th.​

​

And the list carried on...​

​

 

[Darth Nefaron]

He despised it.

The ceremony, the adornments, the celebrations

If this was to be the future of the Sith, then the order was doomed.
​

It was well known, Nefaron's hatred of the Academy, the system that was to train the future generation of Sith. There was little purpose in throwing acolytes into academics, having them beg for scraps as they attempted to move up in the rankings, desperately hoping a Lord would take an interest in them. Submission was a key tool in Sith training, but to revive a dead system that had failed the previous Sith Empires and insist that these students learn in groups was absurd. Say what you will about the Banite Sith, they had found the true key to success in avoiding children as apprentices, but instead searching for those who had already been broken by life and were prepared to give themselves to the Dark Side fully. But here all they would learn was cooperation, perhaps even going so far as to bond with other acolytes that they might one day have to kill. This was a weakness, one Nefaron would do without should he have his way.

But he attended the ceremony nonetheless, for he too had chosen a few candidates to support, though they had much to prove if they were to ever be of true use to him. Nefaron had already taken an apprentice, one he had ripped from the Academy so that he might properly mold him. But to extend the web of potential assets was always worthwhile.

Nefaron came with no sycophants, few Lords clung to his side as he entered the chamber, festivities already in full swing as acolytes learned of their new positions. The Corpse Lord's gaze drifted to the table of Drazen Lutris , his smugness radiated off of him nearly as much as his mastery of the Dark Side. They hadn't clashed before, certainly, they had found themselves on opposite sides of an argument but they had made no moves against each other. Better, in Nefarons mind, to gauge a potential rival than to remain hidden in the shadows as the acolytes continued to take the stage.

"You seem rather pleased, would that be the wine or have you already found an acolyte that is to your liking?"

Nefaron practically forced his way into the group that had gathered around the Lord of the Terminus, a rather pathetic display for Sith to cling to the power of their betters but understandable. They sought the favor of their elevated Lord, perhaps hoping he may cast his gaze upon them. But Nefaron knew that hungry look, he sought the perfect servant, one he could mold and use to achieve his vision for the Galaxy.

That he could respect. Even if they had entirely different plans for the future.

The Corpse Lord forced his way into a seat, all but dismissing a lesser Lord so that he might chat with his fellow Lord.

"Do you ever tire of these fools? Begging for but a taste of the power you might grant them?"

Tags: Drazen Lutris ​

 

[Drazen Lutris]

Drazen swirled his wine again as Darth Nefaron found his seat. He seemed to tear his gaze away from the ceremony before them, his eye leaving last before he looked over to the Sith Lord nearest him. A dangerous man, he remembered him well, but it was all about the act.​

​

"Hm?", he said, as though he hadn't heard him.​

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"No.", he grinned, deviously. "I was born to rule. Why send away what I can make useful?"​

​

He sighed as the others seemed to complain to one another about Nefaron's presence, but too self aware to try and test him. Not in this room, not with this many Praetorians and Sith. More than that, they knew not to test a Sith of Nefaron's caliber. So that left Drazen to keep him company.​

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"I have my eyes on someone. Eye.", he clarified.​

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"But I'd be lying if I didn't say I hadn't been drinking more than just this cup.", he laughed.​

​

Darth Nefaron​

 

[Kal-El]

JUTRAND - IMPERIAL ACADEMY OF JUTRAND - FEAST
Brooklyn Zambrano | @ANYONE ELSE IDC

The temptation to slam his head into the table and break it kept scratching itself to the surface of his mind: all to alleviate a growing migraine. Why were these announcements always so . . . boring? This was one of those events better spent as digital mail or even as owl-delivered mail, if they wanted to go all medieval. Good food was good food, but it should never be a substitute for poor company or poor entertainment. Mandatory ceremony or not, this was simply not it for him. Kal-El rested his head against the table as he groaned aloud.

"Ughhh . . . "

Maybe he should have let his opponent injure him further or fallen down a set of stairs. Either would have gotten the job done if it meant a droid could pay attention to the ceremony on his behalf. No injury could be more painful than waiting and listening to this ceremony. An infirmary would be a welcome change of pace.

Even with all the good manners drilled into his head over the years, Kal-El could not muster the patience of what was essentially someone reading through a list. A list with 128 different applicants. Each with adornments or celebrations or whatever the Sith chose to do with their pomp and circumstance. There were only two cures.

Space out until they called his name and pray this all ended soon. Maybe he can distract himself by downing enough food to put him in a coma for the rest of the day. Or perhaps find himself distracting himself with better company than the applause and faux-adulation on display here.

Slowly turning his head in pain, Kal gazed at the person sitting next to him. Were those dumplings? That . . . actually sounded really good right about now. His head perked up a little as his nose began to take in the scent of pasta and meat and vegetables. The migraine began to subside a little as those smells began to take hold of his concentration.

"I am going to space out and figure how many dumplings it takes to enter a food coma," Kal-El began to speak, not bothering with an ounce of subtlety, "You mind telling me when they call my name? I'd appreciate it."

He smiled for a moment before turning his attention to the food. His tongue licked across his lips as his eyes almost turned predatory.

I'm about to make a name for myself here.

He wondered how many Sith have seen one of their acolytes devour an entire feast. A first for everyone, he would be sure to give them.

 

[Firrerreo]

"4th!"

He could already feel the eyes. His familiar was taking stock, looking around for him on all the smiles, the interest. The glares. Firrerreo wasn't at the top, not yet. But just as Viers Connory was named one of the top before the maze, he was threat now. To the three above him, and those now below him. A threat and a target. He took the vestments as they were offered, idly shrugging off his coat to slip on the better one. The one of status, symbol.

A brow did raise at the gifted blade. He could feel it attuned to him, much more so than the dagger he wielded. It was light, fitting for his frame, how he knew to fight. They were far more aware of his upbringing and just what he'd learned than he thought, just by the balance and comfort it had.

It was alarming.

He didn't let such alarm show on his face though. No, he took his seat with a proud, almost mocking smile. He needed to know who was going to gun for him right away. There was no better way than to flash some arrogance. Asides, he deserved it. Fourth seat, but First Cohort. This was going to be quite the school experience.

 

[Alaqai Temuha]

Interacting with: Aspect of Passion​

As Alaqai sat among the other acolytes, her eyes darted around the grand hall, taking in the grand sight of the feast laid before them. The aroma of roasted meats and exotic spices filled the air, but her stomach twisted with nerves rather than hunger. The Ranking Ceremony was upon them, and with each name Darth Ognitio called, her heart pounded louder in her chest. What sort of rank would be bestowed upon her?

Although this given rank would be subject to change over the course of her entire duration in the academy, the first rank would be the most important. She would be getting a place among the upper cohorts, it was just a matter of which cohort it would be. The thought of her not qualifying did not even cross her mind. Her hands rested gently on her lap, her fingers crossed with one another tensely.

She watched as one by one, her peers were called and assigned their ranks. Some rose from their seats with pride, while others stumbled forward, barely able to mask their disappointment. The ranking was not just any random number; it was a representation of each individual’s future within the Sith Order.

For some, it meant glory and prestige, and for others, it was a reminder of their shortcomings that would continue to stain their name. Alaqai wondered if her face would betray her emotions when her own name was called.

Would it be the look of a victor, or the hollow stare of someone who had fallen short?

The Provost’s gaze swept over the room, and for a moment, it seemed to linger on her. She straightened her back and lifted her chin immediately, refusing to show any sign of weakness to Darth Ognitio. She could feel as though his golden-red eyes bore through her soul. “Alaqai Temuha.” he announced just then, his voice echoing through the hall. Alaqai stood up and made her way to the stage for her rank to be revealed to all.

 

[Brooklyn Zambrano]

Equipment | In Bio

Location | Jutrand

Tag | Kal-El

She would gladly take the uniform, giving the man a slight bow of her head before returning to her table.

What wasn't very expected was for there to be Kal, just hammering down food like no tomorrow.

"Hm?"

She questions while taking a seat again.

"You better not make yourself sick at a time like this.. Even if the reactions would be amusing."

Brooke had then realized, since all the attention was on the announcer and the higher cohorts.... Kal's efforts to be a class clown were sadly in vain.

"Actually, I think they are all too busy to even notice you pigging out on- Wait those aren't my dumplings are they?"

With a squint and half reluctance she divides her food, scooting over a fresh bowl of her half over to him.

"I am all for brother in arms bonds, but I only got one dumpling in before being called up."

She then gestures over to where the source of the dumplings were.

"Now, if you really wanna get attention... There is always just eating right out of the food bar."

The girl laughs a little.. He- No he would indeed take that as a challenge wouldn't he..​

 

[Irina Jesart]

Irina's food lay almost untouched, she'd even given up the show of pushing it around her plate to at least pretend. Anxiety had sucked her appetite from her. every single day of training, and each beat of the trails led to this moment. She didn't care if she was top or bottom of the hundred and twenty eighth. So long as she was in, that was all that mattered to her.

With a foot in the door she could claw her way to the top through the ranks. Once she was in she could build not only her strength and knowledge but also her houses name. The Jesart family had long been out of favour and as the last of its line, all responsibility of restoring them to glory rested with her. Her eyes wondered the room, scanning those on the table next to her, finding herself seated next to a white haired echani who seemed equally uninterested in his food.

As names began to ring out, Irina's gaze fixed on the podium watching acolytes be called, one by one, a snort escaping her nose as Firrerreo ascended to 4th, the first to be seated at the table so perfectly laid out for the First Cohort. "I'd hate to be anyone in front of that one," she commented to Soldane Talon , "He's as likely to stab you in the front as he is to poison you."

She offered a small smile, before offering a hand. "Irina."

Her eyes snapped back to the podium as Jarek and shortly after Brooklyn were called up.

"Do you have a preference for a Cohort?" she asked, desperate to fill the waiting with something other than pretending to eat.

 

[Lina Ovmar]

Lina's nails drummed lightly on the goblet of wine, emerald eyes skimming over the hundreds of students before her. even those who would fail to ascend into the academy today had done well to get this far, worthy stock for a lesser cause. She had been deliberate in her refusal to sponsor anyone until this point, She was only interested in the best, and the best didn't necessarily mean the most powerful. One could be powerful without displaying brute strength, she was looking for more than power in the force, she was looking for cunning, for intelligence that sat them head and shoulders above the rest.

She also had another reason for being here. She had promised Revna that she would look out for her brother Veradun Sharr , and see to it that he had all he needed to survive should he make it through. And if he didn't? She would see him safe regardless. Her ears pricked at the conversation between Nefaron and Drazen nearby, and she shifted her attention to them after Firrerreo 's ceremony, uninterested in the rest as yet. Let her see the rest of the stock the First Cohort would offer, then she would make her choice.

"I wonder," she began, tearing her eyes from the student and settling her attention upon the two Sith Lords, "Do either of you intend to teach? Or simply pluck those you think are worthy of your attention based on a short series of tests?"

Darth Nefaron Drazen Lutris

 

[Adean Castor]

Tags: Open

Brassius Zambrano was not worried about their rankings. They had station in their name alone and a force of will to thrive well beyond the academy's walls. Their face was cool and collected as they contemplated the drink in front of them, taking note of each face that went with their ranking. An easy smile spread across their countenance when names they recognized were called for ranking, starting with Firrerreo . There was no need for animosity and Brassius would say just as much if they were asked. One way or another, they'd find their way to the top, starting there would only put needless pressure on their shoulders.

Below the surface, Adean was a few steps shy of a nervous wreck. The very thought of food made her stomach tighten, something she doubted would be relieved once her name was called. The charlatan had taken great pains to ensure her real identity remained unknown, that Brassius Zambrano was the only name associated with her image. Further than that, she'd done her best to ensure there was no image to be associated with. The fewer records of her charade, the better, that was a mentality she'd kept long before even borrowing the name of Zambrano.

Her mask of composure did well to hold, the role of Brassius growing easier to slip into as each day went on. The anxiety of playing perhaps the biggest game of 'catch up' known she'd ever seen and the forced disassociation used to better cope with what horrors she'd already witnessed were easily mistaken for the aloofness of one high-born. Moments of companionship came and went mercifully quick as everyone focussed on establishing themselves, something Adean had absolutely taken advantage of.

And now, it could all be coming to a head. Or it could not. She could slip in with a middle ranking, or easily towards the bottom of the pack, and continue living as Brassius. Or, perhaps even more ideally, she could simply fail. Then she could leave this place behind, not have to worry how long she could keep up the charade and, at least for the night, not think about what would come next. She could partake in the feast and simply ignore how the deal with her cover centered around success in the academy or what doing so could do to the borrowed name, should news ever reach the real Brassius. And then she could live whatever days were left of her life in fear, expecting to be hunted down and-

No, it wouldn't do to think about that now.

Brassius gave a quick shudder as a chill ran down their spine, picking up the goblet before them and taking a good sip. The pleasant expression on their face didn't falter as the names continued.

 

[Kal-El]

JUTRAND - IMPERIAL ACADEMY OF JUTRAND - FEAST
Brooklyn Zambrano | Irina Jesart | Soldane Talon | Firrerreo | @Anyone Else IDC

Kal-El perked up a little more. Brothers-in-arms? His eyes glanced down as the fellow acolyte shared half of her dumplings. Even if she had no real reason. This . . . this was a first. Most of the students here had been solely looking out for themselves. A small part of him wondered if it had been a trick. After all his attempts to make allies or friends, was this a cruel joke of fate?

If it was, then he'd laugh right along. What else was he to do in a place like this?

Grabbing a dumpling for himself, Kal-El took a bite. Nodding with a smile, there was only one response appropriate for such generosity from Brooklyn Zambrano .

"Thank you."

His attention directed to the food bar, briefly flitting his attention to a few other students, before letting his gaze fall back upon the food bar. A small smirk began to grow on his face. Raising a finger up for the secret Zambrano to give him a few moments of time, Kal-El rose from his seat and began heading immediately to the food bar. Stacking two plates worth of dumplings, Kal-El began walking his way back towards his original seat. On the way over, Kal-El walked behind a few different acolytes ( Irina Jesart and Soldane Talon ). The perfect cover.

Behind the acolytes, Kal-El slipped a thumb under a dumpling before flicking the lone digit. With his strength and speed, all that was left was the dexterity and aim to send the little foodstuff across and over the way.

Towards one lone Firrerreo .

It was a toss-up as to whether the dumpling would hit the firrerreo's head or shoulder, but the dumpling would strike--assuming it was unimpeded by anything else. And with Kal-El continuing his merry way towards his new friend and sitting down. Immediately, he slid one plate of dumplings towards her.

Recompense for sharing her half of dumplings, even though he had only eaten one.

"Figured I should pay you back," Kal-El spoke between taking a bite out of his pile of dumplings, "And I am going to be very honest. I was not paying attention for most the ceremony."

He had absolutely no guilt for his lack of an attention span. Instead, he ate another dumpling.

"What's your name? I'm Kal-El. Kal for short, if you want."

 

[Karok]

“Those who are not given a rank are given the reward of this feast. After, you will be made to leave. Your ilk is not welcome here among royalty. No doubt second rate Sith will ask you to join them in their ambitions, but you have failed to become one of the greatest. Let your next few years make up for this. That is all I will say to the failures. You will soon know who you are." --- Dozens had been called, but most had filled into the lower Cohorts. Names lost to the 5th, and its ever growing number. Others had barely made it into the 4th, and none had made it above the 3rd yet. They were all middling when compared to the best, and it had shown - but even still, ranking at all drew the attention of the sponsors who suddenly lacked a sponsoree - or were looking to the most convenient leg up.

Surrounded by food, idiots and sith lords that thought themselves untouchable. Karok did not exactly enjoy his time being in this ceremony. It was a karking waste of time. That was his thoughts on the subject. Years fighting in Hutt gladiator arena's had taught him one thing. Any kindness given was never free and as his alien eyes scanned the room he was reminded of it everywhere. The food was not for the acolytes, it was for future performances and trials. The ranking system was a trap. It was all a trap.

Little seemed to understand that. All distractions from the true prize. The darkside. Even in the room he could feel a collective of negative emotions ripe with untapped use. And though he did not know what to call it or if it even had a name, the Gen'dai saw it as much as a reward than anything else.

Over hearing a conversation adjacent to him, no more than one or two seats down from him, Karok leaned over the table and cocked his head.

"Do you have a preference for a Cohort?"

" Cohorts. Weak is..strong." He pointed to those already called and sorted in the 5th cohort. They all seemed anxious, looked defeated or held shame on their shoulders and yet the Gen'dai saw them as strong. Then he pointed to one such as Jarek Voss . "Strong is weak." he stated and then which'd from a broken basic to Huttese. "Bu duapa bu garahka bu cua dan bo caiot doth. Heee dah nahka hatkocanh flunka." He commented and grinned wide revealing sharp fangs and teeth at Irina Jesart and Soldane Talon . The lower the cohort the better one can be. Those on top will fail.

Other names were called, but as the list got longer, the ceremony got shorter for some. Those in the Fifth Cohort would have their number declared even before they could get to the podium. The first ones to have this happen were confused, them ashamed as they walked back to their seats. They were a dime a dozen, and fell away into the crowd once more. Their victory was muddled by the defeat of the Fifth. To join the academy, only to be declared one of its worst.

Then the Gen'dai heard his name but did not stand or make a motion to get up.

Karok, 5th Cohort and ranked 98th.

He saw the pattern, the temperament and attitude the Sith Academy had on those who were deemed "weak". There was no reason for Karok to stand or do anything in response. Instead his hate filled gaze transitioned over to Kal-El and Firrerreo .