Acolyte: [member="Serenity Loveheart"]
The girl's frustration was music to the ears, a sweet symphony of emotional energy that might be both her saviour and her doom, if was allowed to fester. It could become a canker in her heart, that which might feed upon her, poked and prodded until it transmuted into anxiety and even fear, until it consumed her. Such might render her useless, if she could not maintain control over herself. Discipline was ever an important quality in a Sith, and to find herself vulnerable and alone did not mean she had to remain that way.
The dark of the room in which she had first been deposited gave way slowly to a light source, a concealed glow of little illumination, but sufficient to allow her to be guided forward, beyond the confines of that claustrophobic environment. Beyond lay a stone corridor, leading directly to the first of the challenges that would be presented to her. The twists and turns would come later, the indecision of going left or right not something she would be presented with
yet.
Should she step forward along that cold corridor, she would be greeted by warm light and laughter: merry souls seated at a table, enjoying a banquet, food and drink of many sorts piled high. Luscious fruits, fresh cuts of meat sizzling on hot plates, slices carved and ready to be consumed. Fluted glasses of cold water, foaming flagons of cold Corellian Ale, expensive wines still bottled. It was, in short, the sort of feast that [member="Darth Voracitos"] might consume for a mid-afternoon snack, were he so inclined, and all there for the taking.
Thirst might be slaked, hunger might be sated, the need for companionship satisfied, if another should choose to join those at the table and partake. That was for her to choose.
Acolyte: [member="Vitor Avendahl"]
Awaiting Vitor was a vast hall, stretching a good twenty of so metres into the distance. The marble floors were polished to a black shine, the room softly illuminated by bright white glowglobes that dotted the pillars that served to support this part of the maze. Embedded into the walls on either side were doors, made of many different materials: some made of metals, others of wood: some painted, others roughly hewn. Several were made of stone, seemingly immovable, each of a very different hue. Upon the surface of each was a symbol engraved in gold, each a Sith Rune as would be found in the sorcerous texts in the Sith Library on Korriban, or in the private archives of the Sith Lords.
The first door on the right was engraved with Arabat, a mind rune representing 'Healing', a rough door make of a darkly-stained wood not native to Korriban. The second, with Dinara, one of the death runes meaning 'Hurt', engraved into a stone door of bright white marble. The third door on the right had the Felana rune, meaning 'Destroy' or 'Kill'. The fourth, a soft metal with a shiny-silver texture, engraved with the Juul'dur rune, meaning 'Extract' or 'Take'.
The left side of the room had similar etchings: the first door to his left would present another metal door, red oxidation coating it, such that it might come off and stain the hand if touched. The rune engraved within was Massass, the rune of Sight. Beyond that, the second door was cold stone, seeming to leech all heat away from its proximity, with the Quel'idath rune engraved upon it in gold. The third was wooden, marked with the Telamath rune, the rune of Life and creation. The final door, beyond that, was plain metal, but dripping with a red fluid that puddled on the floor beneath, perhaps blood, the rune stamped on the door being the Velinar rune, the symbol for 'Fire'.
As Vitor would enter the room, the corridor behind him would slam shut, a stone seal crashing down from above to block all possible retreat back to where he had come from. The only way to go would be to choose a door.
Acolyte: [member="Jacob Crawford"]
Were he to creep forward and enter the corridor beyond the room in which his unconscious body had been deposited, Jacob would find six bowls sitting on pedastals before him, each containing something different, arranged in an unusual order. Beyond them, to the back of the room, there rested a single door cut into the stone, sealed shut, something that would not open even if he had a lightsaber to cut through it. Standing between the pedastals and the door, though well below floor level, a small pool of fiery lava glistened, tendrils of steam rising gently into the air, blocking his means of access to the door.
Each of the bowls were carefully carved from chiselled stone, perfectly round and smooth on the bottom and edges. Within each were placed objects, arrayed from left to right in a particular order:
Bowl 1: a fragment of a woven flag, blood red with the ancient symbol of the Sith Order embroidered upon it.
Bowl 2: the petals of a white flower
Bowl 3: the broken links of a chain
Bowl 4: a small collection of different sized batteries, intended to be used in electronic gadgets
Bowl 5: Blood, still fresh, staining the sides a deep red colour
Bowl 6: Nothing but empty air.
Acolyte: [member="Tezuka Sayo"]
The chamber beyond the corridor that stood before her lacked a floor of any sort: staring into the room, all that might be noted was a deep dark pit, seemingly endless, one that would undoubtedly lead to death where one to fall into it. Arrayed at varying points within this darkened abyss, sharp wooden stakes had been plunged into the ground at different angles. None of their bases could be seen, disappearing into the void before her.
The stakes were big enough to stand up, but had all been sharpened into a vicious point, such that they would not support a person's weight for long, and if too much weight were applied, the point might puncture whatever came into contact with it. Placed at varying heights, some tall, some lower down, moving closer to the gloom below, they formed a rough pathway that led to the far side of the hall: a door that had been carved into the rock, open and inviting, a bright white light illuminating it.
To reach that other side, one would need to navigate the stakes, but doing so would be a matter of considerable risk. Such was a choice she would have to make: to remain where she was, and risk deprivation and neglect, perhaps forgotten by the Sith, or make a leap of faith, a personal sacrifice that might enable her to proceed forward.
Acolyte: [member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]
Waiting within her first challenge chamber, a simple table, two chairs, one on either side. A crude light hovered above the table, swaying gently though it was not being moved by any agent within the room. Seated opposite the entrance to the room, facing towards where Joycelyn would emerge, a figure cloaked in black, their hood drawn tightly over their face to conceal their features. Motionless, they rested in the chair, posture upright, their focus appearing entirely inward, little acknowledgement of the outside world given, not even so much as a movement of the chest indicative of life.
Upon the table rested a metallic pitcher upon a tray, filled with some form of liquid, one that would be revealed to be a dark purple in colour were it to be poured into one of the two glasses that rested next to it. The nature of the liquid was unknown: it smelled faintly of some form of berry, sweet and inviting, the rich colour delicious to the eyes.
Approaching the table, Joycelyn would be greeted with a cold voice, one bereft of humanity, seemingly uninterested in her presence, but offering a tepid invitation to sit. Those cavernous tones lacked any warmth, like a death knell ringing in the back of one's mind, flat and threatening, perhaps even ominous.
"Sit, and drink. Before you lies a poison, harmless in small doses, but deadly if drunk in quantity, though your death would be slow, your remaining life measured in hours," the figure would remark, waving a pale, shrunken hand at the jug that rested before them.
"Here is enough to kill ten strong and healthy people. The door behind me opens only when all of it has been drunk." The faintest hint of a smile could be heard in that voice.
"If even a drop remains, the door shall stay sealed, and you I shall die eventually, drinking companions even in death."
It waved to the chair opposite once more.
"Sit, and pour us a drink."
Acolyte: [member="Ryiah Tenriem"]
Madness was a dangerous quality in a Sith, and alone in the darkness, the energies of the Force carried their own whispers, sufficient to drive even the most self-aware person into the depths of insanity. Ryiah perhaps might remain within her entry chamber, choosing to whisper to shadows, expecting a reply in return. Should she move forward, a different challenge would be presented to her.
What could only be described as a torture chamber awaited her. Not for her, the modern technologies that enabled such atrocity to be rendered cleanly, with little blood or marking on the skin. This was a dark, dimly lit room, the only illumination coming from the flames of the two braziers stood within the centre of the room. Three pillars stood central within the room, to which were chained people, stripped of their clothing but for a tattered tunic of rough cloth that reached down to the knees.
The first, a human male, sported a long beard, filthy and matted, lacking any of the cleanliness one might expect of a prisoner well-treated. His figure was emaciated and clearly lacking for nourishment, as though he had been imprisoned a long time. At his feet rested a rope, knotted into a hangman's noose. The second figure was a Bothan, also male, clean of fur which was neatly trimmed. He looked healthy, eyes bright and glaring, though chained to his pillar by metal manacles. At his feet, a blaster pistol, empty of cartridge. The third, a Twi'lek female of the Lethan variety, red-skinned and beautiful, her eyes showing the fear she felt at being in this place, though she bore the weight of her chains with a casual familiarity. A small black bottle rested at her feet, a skull embossed onto the front in white.
Standing to their right, a fourth figure, their captor: a burly man dressed in thick trousers and with a hardened leather apron draped across his figure. The apron was bloodstained, scratched, evidence of hard and persistent use clear upon it. He had bright amber eyes, the fiery stain of one that had given themselves to the Dark Side. In his hands, he held a hot iron, the bodies of those before him clearly having experienced it pressed against their flesh many times.
"One of those here is a murderer," the torturer announces, staring at the Acolyte.
"A Sith is expected to dispense justice on those they rule. You must be jury, judge and executioner." He drew a small dagger from his belt and holds it out, proferring it towards the student.
"A person has died at the hands of another in this room, and you must avenge them."
Acolyte: [member="Shuduc Macar"]
Unarmed, unarmoured, alone and without possibility of aid, Shaduc would have no choice but to press forward, along the darkened corridor that led out of her entrance room, into a small circular room, convex after a fashion, with a deep depression in the centre, circular in turn. Standing within the circle is a man, tall, armoured, his face concealed by a mask, head covered by a hood attached to the armour by small metallic clasps, hiding any sense of personal identity. In his hands, he clasps a sword, sharp and menacing, evidently intended to be used with relish in a violent fashion.
Arrayed around the room are a series of odd objects, each not something that one might expect to find in such an environment. A length of rope; a set of cutlery (though the knife is not sharp enough to cut through a thin steak); an antiquated hourglass with soft sand running through it; a book with arcane symbols embossed upon the cover; a small datatape, dusty and looking as though it was recorded decades before.
The warrior stepped forward with a menacing growl, brandishing his sword before him, clearly intent on harming the Acolyte.
"Choose your weapon, worm," he spat at her, glaring from behind his mask.
"You will meet me in combat, and have but a moment to decide how to meet your deserved end. Choose now!"
