Waking Dragons (Open)

[Samael]

Rian Asrael felt the dry-cold of Korriban's rocky desert leeching away moisture from his body like a slow-acting poison. Even the air here was sinister. A valley stretched before him, filled with the enormous mausoleums of dead lords. Their weather-beaten faces stared out menacingly upon the valley. Carved from reddish stone, they seemed immortal in their age. But nothing was immortal, these ruins were testament enough to that. And even ruins faded eventually. Rian closed his eyes on the ribald terrain and reached beyond the physical, letting the Force flow through him. To a Force user, the darkness in the Force on Korriban could be felt just as much as its dry, cold air. An old darkness, faint whispers. Every time Rian reached out to the whispers they grew more distant. And each time he tried to listen they stopped. It was maddening.

Opening his eyes, Rian scowled. Little about this planet was pleasant. He turned around and retreated into the Sith Temple. Yesterday he had been initiated. Today... well, today he would have to find a master. The doors slid shut behind him and he began walking. No purpose really, just walking. He passed a few other faces in the sandstone halls. All appeared too occupied to notice anything but where they were headed. Rian chose to ignore them as well. He fixed his eyes upon the sandstone hall, examining its texture as he walked. Soft lines traced themselves through the stone, appearing like-

"Oof," grunted Rian as he bumped into something hard and definitely made of metal. He backpedaled quickly, hands coming to a defensive position. "What the hell?"

A droid stared at him. It was an old HK assassin droid, with an ugly durasteel exterior. Unlike protocol droids, it did not have 'nice' features. With a bug-like head and slanted, sharp eyes that glowed red it was made to intimidate.... and to eliminate.

"The meatsack is lost?" came a harsh, synthesized voice.

Rian shook his head, slightly relieved the thing wasn't about to try and take his head off. "Not lost, just walking," he rasped.

"Then the meatsack has no excuse for collision."

Anger like lightning seemed to leap from Rian's green eyes. Normally, his intense stare had a slightly paralyzing effect, but no droid would be affected by human emotion. "I don't need one, scrapheap."

"The meatsack was not looking where he was going. Shows lack of etiquette."

Rian snorted, "And yet, you were looking where you were going and still bumped into me. You should have been able to calculate that. Your processing unit must be malfunctioning. What would you know about etiquette anyway? You're trained to kill."

The droid stared at Rian for a moment. "HK-50-1O knows a great many things," it said, sounding almost nostalgic. "Among these is that HK-50-1O can eliminate, but no limitations are set upon HK-50-1O eliminating with style." The droid loomed over Rian. He could've sworn it was smiling.

"Why are you here, One-Oh?" asked Rian suddenly.

The droid seemed to stop looming, and glanced down the hall. "The meatsack has no reason to receive an answer. Answer refused. Goodbye, meatsack. The odds of us meeting again are high."

Rian watched wordlessly as the HK droid clanked down the hall. Perhaps the droid was used in training? Or not. He really did not know nearly as much as he should about this place. Dangerous, very dangerous. He felt... he felt like a shark that had suddenly swum into an area of the ocean and found sharks even bigger than itself. They were all predators here. And he was no longer at the apex.

After a minute, his aimless walk carried him into a large, open room. In the center of the room a carved marbled fountain stood. Inside the fountain lay a giant globe of dark marble, or was it metal? Rian could not tell, for the water ran all around the globe, making it revolve in various ways with the fountain's push. He found a bench and sat down. In silence, he watched the globe spin.

His mind wandered now, instead of his feet. It carried him back, back, back. A shadow seemed to pass over his face, deepening the few lines on his forehead and mouth and making him seem older, weary. His intense green eyes lost some of their vividness, becoming glazed as he lost himself in the bygone years. A hand seemed to grab his heart and crush it, filling him with unbearable grief as it clenched tighter. If he could have wept, he would have, but he had no more tears to shed. The galaxy ran him dry years ago. So he sat, arms on his legs, staring into the waters of the fountain, with a face marked by such sadness that a passerby in such a place as this might have killed him for sheer pity. And then the sadness faded, replaced with a mask of stone, but the eyes still stared out in misery.

[Apillis]

Increasingly Hervor has seemed to make her presence known within the last month or so. She has kept still and silent for so many months upon the Sith Order's reformation, isolating herself to the archives--devoting her time fully to rebuilding and replenishing them. A dark place, where the air is stagnant and stale, it almost feels like a tomb itself. A tomb where the knowledge of long dead Sith rest, fitting given much of their knowledge seems to have died with them. Hervor herself regards the current era to be the time where all knowledge dies in the wake of the posturing, nihilism, hedonism, and audaciousness of today's Force adepts.

The realization outside of herself and the Overlord himself, the archives often prove to be a fairly sparse place in regards to visitors. On top of which recently having to ABC to a supposed Sith 'Knight' the core of what it means to thrive as a Sith, she was finding this worrisome. She begun to think her isolation to the dusty old archives of the Sith Temple and not be as active within the temple and its alumni and students had been a mistake. Some knew battle, but real battle is not fought with Jedi or Sith trinket or even the Force by itself. It is fought with knowledge. And the lack of genuine pursuit of such knowledge versus diving headlong into conflict and battle, she was finding woeful discouraging.

That is what brought her outside to the tombs of the ancient Sith Lords, and while much had already been excavated from them. It was not artifacts she was seeking. But rather, what she was doing was creating holocrons detailing their achievements, historical accounts, and what was factually known of their power within the dark side. Some of which she could recite with ease from memory from her years of study into history and the Force itself, and her time brief time spent as an Jedi Archivist as well as her decades spent as a student to Jedi Archivists. Having spent a century studying such things, it is not too much to say she has learned much with time. But, even so, she understood there was still so much more she needed to learn.

The holocrons she made only numbered in a few, she had them all in a small dark brown leather sack slung over her shoulder. She crossed the courtyard of the temple heading back to the quiet of the archives to add the holocrons she made to the collection down there. But catching a sight from the corner of her eye, she paused in her steps. Her half-opened red eyes turned their gaze to the figure that caught her sight. A brow slowly arched at the scene. From the looks of it, there was a young Sith who looked a bit mopey. Then again, 'young' is such a relative term--especially with her, she may look to be in her mid-thirties to a human, despite in reality she being about three times older than what she appeared to be.

There was a clear understanding to her that she did not attempt to rationalize with herself, as it would be nonsensical. Which is if she believes she needs to start becoming more active and engaged with the students and alumni of the temple, then the solution is really quite simplistic--that being to simply do just that--engage them. Changing in direction from where she was walking to, to instead the despondent figure.

"Stalling out of abjection will not serve you well here.", she uttered, her tone blunt with a measure of severity within it--as her general tone of voice seems to consistently be. Her gaze--half-open as her eyes were merely stared at the young man before her as she stood there with a natural sense of that she deserved to be there. It was a natural, unwavering confidence and disposition of this is where she belonged, and she had more than a right to be where she was, but rather as if she were ordained by a greater power to be there. It was more than some silly sense akin to nobility or high-brow posturing, it was metaphysical--beyond the material. A stalwart, unimpeded poise of knowing where she stood within all that was transpiring within the temple--and even more so, her relation to the dark side.

[Samael]

Perhaps three minutes earlier, the comment would have made no impact on Rian. He might have even agreed with the woman. But she caught him in a dangerous mood. His facading mask of stone seemed to flicker, revealing the roiling hatred beneath as his brows drew together and fires leapt into his eyes, while his mouth twisted into a cruel gash. Just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. He shoved the mask of stone back into place. "There is no emotion. Emotion clouds the mind. There is only control," Rian thought to himself, but inwardly he still seethed, though it was a controlled anger now. Yet, control by the half-insane is arguably not control at all, but Rian still felt as if he held the reigns to his own emotion.

He looked up at the woman slowly. His eyes were still half-haunted, but the grief was hidden behind layers of clamped down emotion. His paralyzingly green gaze studied her almost absently, but the intensity of his stare belied all aloofness. Her presence was a dark shadow in the Force. She was powerful. More powerful than him. And she looked older, much older. Who could say how long she had been here? Rian cocked his head slightly.

"Stalling?" Rian asked, his voice a husky, rasping whisper, but for all that a voice of varnished silver, when he wanted it to be. "You are old. If anyone knows of stalling it would be you. It is not power you seek, or else you would be master of the half the galaxy by now. Wouldn't you? I will be, I will have nations kneel before me in terror. I will bend worlds to my rule, or break them to pieces. But. You......." he paused, letting the visceral venom of his hatred seep into the words he formed. "If it is not to rule the galaxy, to destroy it? No." His eyes still studied her intensely. Perhaps, in a different mood Rian might have felt that he was endangering his own sense of self preservation. But, right now, he simply did. not. care. "To wreak vengeance on your enemies? To make them suffer? To right some wrong? Tell me, what have you in all your infinite lack of stalling done?" sneered Rian.

His cold attempts at vivisection of humanoid emotion could serve many purposes, but ultimately whether or not he succeeded in hitting the mark was irrelevant. What mattered was that he was the one in control. That he did the questioning. That he was the dissector... and not the lab rat.

Suddenly, the Force seemed to grow cold with the Dark Side. A well of anger. Only at the end of his little serenade did he notice the full measure of this woman's power. A chill crept through him. His own survival was sacrosanct. How could he have violated it so? In his mind, Rian reached for another mask. His face slackened, and his eyes widened slightly, as if he just realized who he was speaking to. To any who felt him through the Force or simply watched his expression he would seem to be in consternation.

"I- I," he stumbled, his eyes wild. He shook his head violently and lowered it. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's come over me," he apologized, still a voice of burnished silver, but now when struck it rung with the peal of humility. "It must be the whispers. I can't get the whispers out of my head. They always run away. Always, always." Now he would just appear to be slightly insane. Then again, who wasn't?

He shook his head again and stood suddenly, throwing off the bonds of momentary insanity, spitefulness, and apologetic pleading. He stood straight and tall, locks of brown hair flowed neatly over his ears, while those startling green eyes flickered with indiscernible emotion. His simple clothing of all-black fatigues lent to a slight regal aspect unseen before. Now, he appeared an abashed duke, battling with the sanity of the human mind, but still human and ashamed of it.

"I apologize. I haven't been quite myself lately," He extended a hand. "My name is Rian Asrael."

[Apillis]

While she did not seem to hold much outward reaction to the young man's diatribe, she was amused by it. She knew if she were to succumb to a fit of rage what exactly she could do unopposed against the hopeful before her. But then again, Iniquitous may not take too kindly to that. He does not seem to take too kindly to the Lords and Knights crushing the hopefuls of the temple. She saw the logic behind it, and that was enough for her to abide.

One of the things she found amusing as well was his assuming how old she is. While her being over a century is fairly old to most species, but for a Morellian, that is when they are in their prime, generally look to be around mid- to upper-thirties to humans. She looked no more than maybe a few years older than the young man, so just how old did he presume her to be? Or what was his standard for being 'old' exactly? Appear to be around mid- to upper-thirties in human reckoning and thus look elderly?

Besides... it is always a dangerous thing to call a woman 'old'. Especially when they do not look it...

But her inward amusement turned to disappointment when he suddenly apologized. What amused her most was his sense of grandeur, after all--to assume that by gaining power and being active and not moping about equates conquering the galaxy was a bit comically hyperbolic to her. Even the Sith Lords fortunate enough to ascend to such stations of power to make such an attempt, and were even more powerful than she... never were able to accomplish such a grandiose feat. His declarations of quashing worlds underfoot in his 'rule', almost made her crack a smirk.

His challenging her as to what she has done almost even elicited a chuckle out of her. What she has done and learned is a long list coupled with a troubling history. Though, why she did not react to it was simple. Who the hell is he? She is a Sith Lord and archivist in this temple, who has lived around three times his life span. What does she have to justify to this hopeful about anything of what she has done in her in her long life? And she will like live well over another century providing she is not struck down by another more powerful than she. If anything, as it stands in this moment, chances are he will just become another forgotten face to her in a few decades. Or will he?

But that apology... disappointing. He went from mopey to argumentative and egotistical to soft spoken and humble within a matter of several sentences he spoke within a trice. A bit bipolar, but then again--what Sith (hopeful or otherwise) around here is not by some measure?

"Tch tch tch... Don't do that.", she remarked, "You were so much more interesting a second ago. But now you went ahead and apologized and choked down your pride. It's true I was very tempted to use your skull to paint the pillars of the temple an interesting new color called 'Hint of Brain', but I did respect your tenacity. Now I'm wondering why I shouldn't just move on."

Crossing her arms under her chest, she remarked, "Whatever these... issues... you're having--my suggestion is--use it. Pain, anguish, confusion--whether experienced or seen in others, simply feed on it to push yourself forward. Otherwise--", she then grew a slight smirk, "...you're stalling. And all those worlds you melodramatically proclaim to be conquered will never be."

[Samael]

She was on to him. He should have foreseen it. Sith were an entirely different breed from the rest of humanoid culture. The high concentration of power made for wary predators, like a pack of wolves surviving together, but never quite trusting one another and always looking for an opening. Rian, however, did not consider himself part of any pack. He was here because the hunger inside him still yearned for more knowledge, more power. Weakness could not be shown here, he realized. It could get him killed as easily as his first response. And if a choice between the two, Rian would not have any think him weak.

The mask of humility fell away as Rian revealed his true nature. His eyes stared with the dark intensity of a madman. The regal bearing stayed, while a certain dark magnetism crept through his presence, like a slowly growing cloak that hung about him. He smiled disarmingly, showing brilliant whites, but to the discerning eye the smile seemed... off. It was not a smile of mirth. It was alluring to some, full of mysteriousness. To others, however, it was a smile of sinister intent. No reason to hide from those who already guessed his true nature.

"Generally, it's polite to give your name in return, but, as we are on the subject, what makes you think I was not?" Asked Rian slowly, his deep, rasping voice of silver a touch thoughtful, while his eyes glinted dangerously. His gaze traveled over her face from the red of her eyes to the spidering veins that ran on the skin beneath them. The sickly pallor of her skin and creases on her face marked her with age, or so he thought. "You know very little of me to judge so quickly. A lesson in anatomy: I am not a firaxian shark needing constant motion to survive."

His mouth twitched in contempt as the smile disappeared. "If you have lived as I have lived you would not begrudge me my brooding. Then again, perhaps you have." He took another glance at her face, her lanky body, as if he was simply reassessing. "Tell me, how did your own advice work out for you, feeding on the pain? Hmm?" He chuckled, a dark laugh, a humorless laugh. "No, I would not exchange my brooding for a face such as yours. Unless you truly are the hidden ruler of the galaxy, or some destroyer of worlds?" He raised a questioning eyebrow, but shook his head in mockery. "I thought not."

In a strange way, he did feed on the pain, but it was not as this woman suggested, of delighting in the pain and using it to bolster himself. The weakness of humanity's feelings disgusted him. Their simple pains, simple hurts, all so utterly, banally simplistic. Wretched, wretched beings. They knew so little of pain, so little of hurt. Such ignorance Rian wished to purge from the galaxy. He would show them true suffering and thereby expunge their simplicity. In their new understanding they would turn from their acts of cruelty, be they lesser acts or greater. And if they did not, he would show them the way. Such was his goal. Sometimes to fight fire one had to use fire in response. But where did his own strength come from? The memories of his own weakness and that of others and the urge to be better, to be greater. So he dwelt on it, remembering how not to be. And the brooding gave him strength. But this woman asked him to simply push forward. Forward? He already moved forward, but he could no more forget his past than he could chop off his own arm.

[Apillis]

"That's better.", Hervor uttered with a dark monotone utterly unfazed, and given her life--what she has lived--who and what she has fought through, it is understandable why the words of an upstart does not bother her any. The young man's grandiosity was just utterly amusing to her, it was pure entertainment at this point.

Her features seemed to darken, those eyes of hers held all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming*--glaring straight back into his eyes. After all, when one wanders into dwelling where dark beings make their haven, there is always one of those darker monsters lurking within the deepest darkling of the inhabited caverns, only to come out from time to time amidst the smaller creatures scrambling for dark power. Hervor is one such creature--and the darkling in which she inhabitants is the center of the Sith Temple's knowledge itself: the archives.

Her presence was not the garden variety of broody darkness--no, this was a presence of unyielding acrimony and opposition. Unrelenting suffocation of hope and light that has the unfortunate haplessness to find itself near her--as if it simply reaches out with a grand iron hand and quashes it before it has the chance to grow and flourish. Hervor was not a figure to sit in a dark corner moping in grief. She had much to grieve over--but rather than idly ball up in a corner, she continuously found something for her to remain active. A defining trait of hers. Never idle--always keep in motion. After all, idling is stagnating and stagnation always breeds weakness, remaining active keeps one strong--and her connection with the Force intensified.

There was nothing stated that fazed her or even left her ruminating on the feeble point he was trying to make. All of what he said was undercut and dismissed with as easily as the sweep of a hand as she stated with all the will and determination exuded within her presence as one who could rip the very life out of him on a whim--not far off given her power, "Spare me, boy. Unlike you who can only boast of dreams you can only wish to accomplish, I literally have conquered worlds and razed civilizations and brought ancestral lines to extinction.", she went on to further say as she took steps closer toward him, utterly unnerved and unafraid anything this boy had to offer, she moved with steely purpose and unwavering certitude with a malignity intertwined with constant state of being, "Understand this. I am not only Sith, I am a Sith Lord. You are not. The end. I owe you nothing, and you are owed nothing. The only time I feel you worthy to given my name is when I deign to give it. Politeness? I don't give a damn about posturing or what you think you deserve to be given by me. You want to know who I am? Perhaps you should have learned that ahead of time by getting off your ass rather than moping about and learning the inner-workings of this place. And learn which Sith Lords are which."

The very shadows around them seemed to darken as she moved to be uncomfortably face to face with the young man, and initiates froze in their paces at the discomforting sight of the Sith Temple's Sith Lord archivist. The very malignancy within her presence was thick--even seeming palpable. There was no fear within her, and why would there be? She has faced vastly more powerful opponents than him--even herself. She has built herself as a wall of utter opposition, the more one pushes the more she pushes back. This boy wants to push, she will push back--harder, he wishes to challenge, she exists to oppose--she will take up that challenge. But the question will remain, will he be able to withstand what she responds with in that challenge?

"So... boy.", she uttered with her blunt, direct tone of voice as her presence continued to darken seething with malice, "Other than boasting, exactly what do you have to offer? More words? More posturing? What? Spare me the diatribe, spare me the melodrama. What do you have to offer? Hm? I've heard a lot of bluster in my years. You remind me of the Mandalorians I fought fifty years ago during their last sad attempt at a crusade. Those that liked to offer me their bluster with their vaunted blasters, I crushed their skulls with my bare hands. But at least with their bluster they offered some form of action, rather than continue their stagnation. So what, what you do have, boy? I am Sith, and a Sith Lord. I have proven myself. You have not. You are the unproven one here, boy."

She then looked him up and down with a flippant sneer, "Pathetic."



((* Line obviously ripped off from the poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe))
((Edit: Fix'd a few typos, likely more.))

[Samael]

Rian smiled. A small thing. A very small thing. But its meaning held deep waters. This was no gesture of contempt, happiness, or even anger. It was a tiny smirk of victory, its size mirroring the proportions of the triumph. Small, yet significant. Rian's eyes danced with that curious, intense, beguiling light as he simply stared at her. She might not realize it, but her malice and blunt, directed words gave him far more than she intended. Emotions were so... predictable. Even among Sith Lords. The victory might be unnoticed now, but Rian planned to give it its due limelight.

Her words were like lashes, but thirsting for a reaction instead of blood. Or perhaps a mixture of both. Rian clamped down on the dark fire in his heart, not daring to respond how he wished. "Emotion is the mind-killer. I shall not rage. I have faced belittlement hundreds of times. Control," he thought to himself. She probably expected him to try and prove himself by some display of power. Others might. He would not. Even though he longed to reach out and shatter the fountain, burst it into a million pieces with his mind, he would not. Why should he? He acknowledged no one as his superior.

"Sith Master, not Lord, which would be Lady in your case," Rian corrected her, but in his head. "You are no Darth. Renata is younger, or so I have been told. Iniquitous is a man, as is Eurachis. Few of the Masters are old, fewer still are women. Only one is the archivist." He had indeed asked about all the heads of the Sith. It was not as if he could learn their inner workings in a day and a half, but he did know the heads of the various departments. The apprentice he had been talking to about it knew the Darths secondhand, but he claimed to have met Allvitende, the archivist, and Aurelius the training instructor. Rian intended to pay a visit to Aurelius eventually and he did need to find the archives, but this woman seemed to think that every moment not in action was a moment wasted. "For all her time in the archives, she has no sense of the philosophical."

"You assume much, Allvitende. Ah, not so ignorant as you thought? Giving a name and knowing a name are two very different things. Much as age and experience are. Which leads to another of your assumptions - you do seem to enjoy them - that age indicates ignorance, so you plaster me with the moniker of boy. Wisdom and knowledge do not follow age, but experience. Another time, I might relate to you the vast experiences of this boy, but I find listening to you stumble along through your oh so ancient history far more enjoyable." Rian's eyes were dark furies and his words dripped with venom. "Forgive me, my knees are shaking in fear of Hervor the Archivist, ruiner of the Mandalorians. Tell me again how you crushed their skulls," he sneered. He stopped suddenly, his eyes staring off into the distance. "You're right though, you owe me nothing," the eyes grew cold, "But you seem so desperate to prove yourself to me, with all your relating of titles and feats, that I just can't help but listen in rapt attention." He snorted and fell silent for a moment.

He might as well have drawn out a banner of victory and run circles around Allvitende. She literally seemed to know nothing of him and assumed he some ignorant, initiate youth that cared only to sit around and brood. He thought Sith were supposed to be more perceptive.... and deceptive. His victory was in her words. She lashed out at him because she sought to defend herself. And in defending herself she gave away piece after piece of information, which all went carefully away into Rian's memory. Rian was no officer of the law, but he had been a corporate enforcer. Interrogations were a weekly routine for him. So he knew full well that the best way to prevent an interrogation of himself was to turn it on the interrogator, which he had successfully done through use of questions and taunts. Oh, she still asked him questions, yes. But he was not the one trying to beat the other into submission by recounted the glory days and titles earned.

No doubt, she wished to put fear into his heart. Fear of her and her wrath. Rian found it amusing. In all his travels, he had found none who equaled his abilities with the mind and telekinesis. Hervor was certainly powerful, but only with age and experience. If it came to a battle, Rian felt he could hold his own. If not in saber combat, at least with the mind. But, if it came to a fight at all it would prove Rian's victory with words. He would be the one to attack first. The mind was his weapon, and he could use it with words just as much as with the Force.

His eyes suddenly looked on her with pity, yet another one of his masks. His voice was soft silver tone of sorrow. "Poor Hervor, for all her feats and titles, her many years and her wandering among the archives of knowledge, she still feels the need to prove herself to an initiate. What do I have, Hervor? I have my words, which can move even you." Rian sighed and tossed away the emotional mask of pity for his normal appearance. "You have interrupted my philosophical pondering and deep reverie, though I wouldn't expect you to understand such things. I have things to do, places to be. Up and about, as you would have me. I defer to your lofty rank and leave the room to you," Rian said darkly.

Opening himself up to the Force completely, his senses fully attuned to its current, he strode toward one of the many exits form the room. He trusted no one, expecting to be attacked no matter what he did. Paranoid, perhaps, but in a place such as this surely a lifesaver. Rian felt he came away better from this encounter, not only meeting Hervor but also learning some of her past history in the process. While she, on the other hand, knew only his name and that he wanted to conquer the galaxy. But what Sith didn't want to? Despite his seeming victory, Rian was not cheery or even swaggering. The weight of his past sat squarely on his shoulders. The bitter drink of sorrow still ate away inside him. He was not happy. He was never happy. Happiness was not why he was here. He came because he thirsted for power and he came as part of an agreement with the Sith Empire. Little else mattered.

[Apillis]

((Careful with all that info about her he was able pull out of his ass, it bordered preeetty close to being a little... meta-ish. Especially given... she's not known as Hervor, and she never exactly gave out her identity to anyone within the temple outside of those within the higher echelons and she is known as Allvitende there))

Hervor suddenly cracked up laughing in the boy's face in the same way one laughs at the village idiot. Every time her gaze went back to look at him, she just could not take an inkling of him seriously. He thinks much of himself, and he knew even less about the Sith than he thinks he does. Her simple comparison of him to babbling Mandalorians she had encountered as well mentioning she is a Sith Lord, he seemed to take to mean far more than what it was. Just as a cigar is really just a cigar, he liked to make a mountain out of an anthill. Clearly while he thought greatly of himself, he did not seem to understand just how small he really is. The more he tried to use her to pump himself up, it just exclaimed to her all the more how insecure he truly is within, which just gave her more source material to laugh at in amusement. His entire posturing to her was like watching a toddler trying to act like a man.

Her laughter subsided for a just enough into toned down chuckle to where she could utter, "Dear little boy, I will ABC this reality to you. The whole 'Lady' title is merely political correctness, which I do not care for and reject. Before the 'Lady' title was ever utilized by women who happened to Sith, they called themselves Lord. And one with even an iota of a lexicon knows that the title of Lord is unisex, not gender specific. The last example being Darth Traya, Lord of Betrayals. I am a Sith Lord here, boy. And you are a no name. Deal with it. All your every utterance in this moment is that you are an ignorant fool. You remind me much of Honog, our current resident addle-brained creature. Your ignorance and stupidity might even begin to rival his. Will you surpass it, I wonder? We'll see... if you live that long."

Thinking back to his melodrama and self-absorbed presumptions she suddenly begun cracking up in face. Again, the more he spoke and with his every mannerism left her the utter inability to take anything about him seriously, so all she could do was laugh in his face. Then again, even her brief encounter with Honog, his disconnect from reality did not elicit any laughter but merely just her looking down her nose at him. But this boy was just an outright melodramatic child, his every word was like an emo high school student monologuing in theater class at those that picked on them. He seemed to be taking this as though it were some sort of battle of wits, which her presence as vicious as it can be, had the boy any sense and had been paying any sort of attention the reality is she was simply to trying to get him to take some form of action other than just his bluster. But, he proved her every point and assumption about him true, all he had was talk. And talk is the cheapest thing one can offer, and if that is the best he has to offer--than despite how much he has to say--nevertheless it amounts to very little.

But it all confirmed one thing to her. She was right about him, to which she gave voice to as he made his little walking away attempting to leave some sort of impact--though it fell flat and left none other than a momentary source of genuine comedy to her, "Exactly as I said... nothing but bluster. You proved my point about you for me. Pathetic. You move nothing. You have no voice here. The artificial facts you put in your head are not reality. All you continue to offer are empty words with cliched dreams of melodrama that will never be realized, and be nothing more than source of laughter for me.", chuckling she went on to remark, "Dear child. Whatever deeper significance you seemed to think was transpiring here was nothing more than silly dreams out of a little boy's mind who thinks just a bit too much of himself. I was merely trying to get you to act, rather than just offer more blather and balderdash. But... if you cannot get yourself to act. Then I will just have to make you. Consider this your first lesson here at the Temple. Let's see if you learn faster than some of the other initiates who failed to learn to act instead of babble."

She nonchalantly lifted her right hand while her left casually rested on the satchel of holocrons she recently made slung over her shoulder, "Talk only goes so far. If you don't have the power to back it up, it means nothing--it moves nothing. Show me this 'power' of yours that you think can 'conquer worlds'.", she rolled her eyes at that latter bit, for someone exclaiming how they will conquer worlds to someone who actually has--the words come of as well... to put it lightly--silly, "So, prove yourself to me. No more talk.", and with that last statement, she meant it. The dark side within the temple where she stood was overwhelming, dense--thick, some maybe even difficult to breath in. But for one who can easily be considered within the current era as one of the foremost authorities in wielding the power of the dark side. It should not be all that surprising.

What she unleashed in the next instant with astounding power and strength, while a well-known technique--a not often seen one. Most know it as draining life from another through the Force, as simple as that. But this was on a scale utterly of its own by its raw magnitude. Visibly it was somewhat similar to the lightning practitioners of the dark side unleash through their fingertips, but but this seemed to be more like a field that surrounded her entire being of dark power. The grand bolts themselves arcing through the air and crawling across the ground at tremendous speeds, appeared like lightning in all respects, but were a brilliant magenta in hue. And of it, all of this power was directed right at the boy with the express purpose of ripping out his very life from him.

There was a complete ease in her motion, it was exclaimed by her every movement and motion--just an amused nonchalance. Hervor was never exactly one to deceive others, while she has a definite academic streak in her, she is a warrior--while she can contain emotions behind a stoic visage, it is more just her self-control. Otherwise, whatever emotion she is displaying is the genuine article. There was no layers beyond layers to her emotional states, what one sees is what they got. She is no Machiavellian socio-political schemer, she hates politics and cannot stand schmoozing. And right now, Hervor was simply indulging her own amusement, pushing this boy to act beyond silly melodramatic bluster. No great plan, no grand scheme, no pointless manipulation--just her trying to teach a boy who has all the melodrama of a theatrical teenager to show some action beyond bluster and boasting.

As she maintained her attack through the dark side, she calmly just begun walking toward the boy. While she is no great talent with telekinesis, she was good enough to pull the lightsaber of her belt into her left hand as she lifted her hand off of the satchel. Action always speaks louder than words, and she was going to put this little boy through the motions to prove to her what he could exclaim through his own actions. Thus far, his words were barely a whisper. From actual experience, Hervor knew--one does not conquer worlds by boasting about doing it 'some day'. One gets off their keister and damn well does it.

Could he be expecting her to attack? Maybe. Any practitioner of the dark side would or should expect such a thing... as if she cared...

[Samael]

(It's almost meta-ish, I agree, but she's the archivist and Rian is very good at getting information. It's what he's done his whole life. I'll change the name to allivetende and nieraan to aurelius since I forgot about the Sith names)

He heard her sputter on about how he had to prove himself to her. "Honestly, and she thinks I'm the droll one?" Ryan snorted, but continued walking. What he felt next in the Force was akin to standing on the beach, watching the ocean draw back as a hundred foot tidal wave loomed implacable, unstoppable. It seemed his expectations were well met. Rian reached out in the Force and felt the Dark Side empower him, leaving a sickly sweet tang as it raced through him. He grasped the large marble ball in the fountain with his mind as bolts of jagged lightning sizzled toward him. No, not bolts, a veritable storm of lightning.

The large globe leapt from the fountain in a spray of water, flying through the air to intercept the path of the lightning. Its smooth surface shattered into a thousand pieces as the bolts struck it, tearing it to pieces and misdirecting the lightning. The explosion flung marble shrapnel in all directions, Rian held up a hand. He blinked. Shrapnel hung suspended in the air, not two inches from his face. Sudden pain. Rian's left leg buckled. And he spun as something slammed into his shoulder. He looked down to see both his shoulder and leg smoking as electricity crackled up and down. A few of the bolts got must have gotten through. Rian shuddered as the electricity raced along him, making his nerves fire wildly.

A dark fire came into Rian's eyes. He saw Allvitende striding toward him, lightsaber in hand. He focused his thoughts, bundling them into a spear that he launched at Allvitende's mind. A digging, gnawing spear that could tear up unwanted thoughts and hurled them into her face. Telepathy was a dangerous weapon, and Rian used it like a precision instrument. Years of practice honed his mind until it was like a scalpel, able to cut into another person's thoughts and make them see unspeakable things, or simply leech knowledge from them. But this attack with his mind, though powerful, was only a distraction.

Rian continued backing up until he was half-in a corridor leading away from the fountain room. He released the furious assault on Allvitende's mind to grasp the doorframe of the hallway. He made a pulling motion. The arch shuddered, then broke, collapsing in on itself. The ground shook. Rocks tumbled from the ceiling and walls and piled up in front of Rian. The entrance to the hallway was now choked with rubble. Allvitende could probably get by blasting it with Force lightning, in fact, Rian counted on it as he purposefully weakened the support pillars around the rest of the hallway with powerful and precise applications of Force push and shove.

Rian moved down the hallway as fast as he could, pain shooting through his limping left leg with every step, while his shoulder ached. He could smell burnt flesh. His own. His face was a mask of dark fury. Some people just couldn't get along. He did not have to prove himself to her, or to anyone else. Nor did he care to. He was starting to rethink this whole Sith Order thing. If everyone was as quick to attack as Allivitende, he might end up dead within a week.

"Stalling," he snorted.

[Apillis]

((Alright, but then in the future, try to mention HOW he learned that information. Just pulling out information about another person's character or even an NPC without any reference is... meta-ish. Because by that same logic, Hervor is an archivist so she's super-duper-awesome at gathering info all her life too--EVEN LONGER, so she should know everything about him!!!!... Doesn't really make sense without reference, does it? So yeah, some reference about how he learned something about another character especially their actual identity when it otherwise has not been given to people should be there. Unless you're aiming for him to be Shart-lite. ;D))

It is a very dangerous thing to assault a Sith Lord's mind, or really any master of the dark side. Especially by throwing past grievances back in their face that they had spent years laying to rest. Because one never knows what one is going to get in response. In Hervor's case, she had been spending those decades feeding on that pain caused by experiences to empower herself. In fact, it is a large source of where her strength in the dark side comes from. Never one to brood or mope around about it, she long learned to take it and eat it--to fuel herself going back to her days fighting the Mandalorians when she relative for her people was younger than even him. In human reckoning, those days she would have been considered in early twenties, despite in reality because of her people's longevity she was about sixty. In fact, she was still just a padawan in those days. And that was one of things most humorous to her earlier, he was boasting about things he will do 'some day', that she had already begun doing as a padawan years ago. Then again, she did not sit around talking about it--she just got up and acted on it.

The bolts of the powerful variation of life drain that had landed on him stole some of his meager life and absorbed into herself. This was one of the dangerous things about facing the woman. The theory behind her method of fighting being so long as her opponent has life--she can keep fighting them by stealing their own. A master at manipulating one's own physical form through the Force, picking herself back up again even after life threatening injury--then use the opponent's own life to propel herself ever forward... can be a quite intimidating thing. It was the logic behind her having spent decades honing her abilities to literally rip the very lives out of others through the Force, and learned to utilize techniques as Death Field to which she just performed, with such ease. Also, the knowledge that she is using her opponent's own lifeforce through herself to destroy them amuses her immensely.

But the young man's response was to invade her mind, throw the continuous transpiring events that lead her down into the chasm. But much like the philosophy with the Djem So form she had been taught going back to when she was a very young padawan under the former Grandmaster Hjo reaching back about a century ago, with every action-counter. Djem So's basis is around block-counter, a defensive form, one she is a master with. Its philosophy is one she uses constantly in her day to day and in battle, because its philosophical notion is simple: for every action, react and/or have a counter to it. The form itself was utilized to supplement the stalling, drawn out defensive form of Soresu, for something more proactive. It was her not just knowing a philosophy and babbling about it--it was her genuinely using it and living it. It is one thing to think about philosophy, it is another to actual put into practice, because actually putting it into practice, i.e. acting on it is the only way to discover if it provides the answers one seeks. So, what was Hervor's reaction to the mental invasion? Rage.

The young man's action in throwing past tragedies and heartbreak in her face was much like a wildly thrown haymaker. There was no art or finesse to it. Most powerful telepaths are quite talented at sensing and feeling out various aspects within their victim's minds: their inner-workings, thoughts, feelings, fears, hatreds, insecurities--to really drudge them up and strike at them with precision. There was none of that in this, it was just taking what past grieving she had and throwing it in her face, something she lives with and is ever present within her mind in her day to day that she has learned to not just deal with but feed off of to motivate her over the course of a half-century. And what his doing so successfully did was turn her wanting to teach him a lesson to wanting to have him as a broken figure at her feet.

Her amusement seemed to vanish in a flash, her jaw clenched tight as a sneer on her upper-lip begun to form. The vary shadows of her features seemed to darken. This was no ordinary rage that many believe to more the detriment than benefit. This was an old technique used by Sith and Dark Jedi alike for millennia, since the dark side has been known even the most ancient of Force adepts in the long forgotten past. The malevolence expressed within this vile dark rage left a stillness in the air--a tension that could practically be felt physically. It is a hell of a thing to see and sense someone with as much power and talent at wielding dark power like Hervor use what is generally a common technique, but to the extent she utilize it--is a rare thing given how few in the galaxy itself are as adept as wielding the dark side as she.

He could assault her mind in such a way all her liked, but without the ability to feel out her despair--what truly crippled her beyond what was on the surface--all he was doing was throwing more fuel to the fire. And while some may possess the silly logic that getting an opponent enraged is some kind of victory. Is it really a victory if their opponent's rage they caused nearly kills them, enabling their opponent to stand over their broken figure? The logic often behind such thinking is making an opponent so angry they are stupid. Anger is one thing, but rage within the realm of the dark side is entirely different beast all of its own. And for one like Hervor who is essentially a veritable berserker--using their rage to empower themselves for greater strength to crush their opponents with, 'making them angry' is not really the best strategy to use against them. It is why often times even the most pragmatic and cynical Jedi try to soothe their Sith opponents, undercut and undermine that rage in some way, rather than be forced to fight a Sith or Dark Jedi empowered further by their rage. More so given that strong emotion and feelings makes it more difficult for others to perceive and/or delve into the inner-workings of another's mind.

All she really saw of the young man was him trying to stall so he could run away. So now he was procrastinating and displaying cowardice. Truly what the problem was she saw within this young man was the very systemic problem she was seeing with the current era's Sith, mostly among initiates. Constant boasts of their knowledge or ruminations of philosophy, or exclaiming what they will do 'some day' as Sith, and exclaiming just how powerful they think they are or 'will be some day'. But never actually doing a thing to try to make it happen, or even further the Sith Order.

This entire situation to her was a prime example of that. Here she approaches an initiate telling him to move beyond mere abjection, and so his reaction is to mock her and then acts meek in the next instant. Amused by it she tells him to be candid, so he continues to deride her about never conquering worlds with her power... when she has... Then he boasts about his future power... which she is someone who can teach him how to obtain it as one of the foremost authorities in wielding dark power in the galaxy... And then he exclaims how much more wise and knowledgeable he is... to the century old Sith Lord archivist who easily for well over twice his lifespan has been studying, gathering, and obtaining knowledge in philosophy and the Force... He boasts about how powerful he is... and when made to put up or shut up--he makes every effort with his power to thus far run away... There is a fine line between arrogance and stupidity, and the young man seems to want to make every effort to sprint deeply into the latter as far as he possibly can.

In this young man, she saw only the very worst aspects of the Sith, especially among the initiates, realized... If one is just sitting around and not actually proactively contributing to the advancement of the Sith, than one is just a worthless hanger-on and part of the problem. This young man needed to be broken. Perhaps her time among the military as a Jedi General she picked up their line of thought. Which is just as any recruit has the potential to be a great soldier, any initiate possesses the potential to be a great Sith. But, first those initiates, especially this one before her, needs to be broken of everything that is wrong within this current era's Sith, again mainly among the initiates. Hervor always thought she should get more involved with the temple's initiates than she had in the past... well... today at least she is.

Now... how to break him was the next question to be answered. Well, she is a warrior... damn near the quintessential berserker among dark side practitioners. While her ability to wield dark power is among the absolutely extraordinary, her method of using that dark power lies primarily within physically beating and slicing a person apart. No other reason why she drew her lightsaber, after all... as mentioned by her earlier... she likes crushing skulls.

With her master of using the Force to manipulate one's physical being through the Force coupled with the gargantuan burning dark rage within her building--her speed is nothing shy of staggering. But one thing she wanted to avoid was destroying the temple anymore than it had been. After all, she is an archivist--and as such she could be considered a historian as well as learning and preserving the past is part of being an archivist. Also, the Overlord would likely not take kindly to destroying the temple needlessly. Even if it is to make a point to an upstart.

But one thing she knew was the temple like the back of her hand. After all, as the archivist she has been studying the structure of it for quite some time as it had been rebuilt. The temple's various avenues is not limited by a singular entrance into any corridor... no temple is, that includes one built by the Sith. And with that astounding speed she possesses through the Force, the question remains... is the young man fast enough to avoid her? If he collapses more than one pathway into a corridor recklessly as he just had, it will likely not be just Hervor's gaze that will fall upon him to break him in two.

Man or woman, eventually there comes a time when a person cannot simply just keep running away or avoiding their problems, they have to just man-up and face them directly. The young man's running away from her will not solve his issues.

In any case, moving with such speed she was little more than a blur, she rounded about down a connected hallway, which lead to a t-junction. That t-junction possessed a hallway connected to another, which upon her reaching the latter--to her right was another hallway connected to the corridor the young man was in. Overall the distance was maybe one hundred fifty meters. Something human Olympians have been known to run between thirteen to sixteen seconds. Albeit, for Hervor, her movements empowered by not only her talent in the Force for altering her physical prowess, but also the dark side--it was a distance she could close only a few seconds, if even that.

She merely just shook her head at the thoughtlessness of the young man before her. If only his supposed ruminations lead him to some genuinely thoughtful conclusions and discerning answers, this entire situation may have been avoided. She did not mind people being mouthy or arrogant, even to her, but as mentioned, when called to act and back up the back-talk and posturing arrogance--and all one does is essentially run away. There is nothing for her to find respect in that.

With the power of her dark rage radiating from her very being, even the shadows in the area around them seeming to darken just for her. She begun walking toward him, her lightsaber in her left hand still, she flipped its switch igniting its brilliant orange been sharing the same hue as the dawn... or maybe setting sun... pending one's perspective.

((Edited for a major screw up on my part.))

[Samael]

Rian heard the snap-sizzle of an igniting lightsaber behind him and froze mid-step.

"You have got to be kriffing with me," he growled.

He pivoted to see the Archivist striding toward him, her orange blade casting shadows in the dim lighting. He had no idea how she caught up to him so quickly. He'd expected the fight to be over, with both parties still alive. With his shoulder and leg still in pain, drawing his own lightsaber was out of the question. He had no great urge to lose a limb. Rian preferred to play to his strengths, only fighting when all the advantages lay in his favor. Admittedly, he made a mistake with Allvitende. He had not expected her overwhelming power with destructive attacks. It put him off-balance. He would not underestimate her again, she was a Sith Master after all. He knew the Sith Order was cut throat, but this... this was ridiculous.

The rage spilled off her in the Force like a dark fountain. She was beyond reason now. Rian felt a low growl emanating from his throat. He could not believe she was a Sith Master. They were smarter, did not get drawn into attacking an Initiate who they knew they could beat simply because of a few aggravating words. Rian saw this all as her trying to get even. And it burned him.

All her incessant talk about proving himself. All the idiotic bantering. The ceaseless pursuit. Rian grew sick of it all. It was petty. It reminded him of the mindless honor duels of one of the six. The six. The ones whose minds he tore to pieces in a fit of fury, because of their simple minded idiocy. He watched Allvitende approach him, his own feet unmoving. Cold, green fire burned in Rian's eyes. He would end this foolishness now.

"Enough."

His paralyzing green eyes stared into the bloody black of Allvitende's. Like a wolf, harried and desperate to end the fight, Rian went where she was weakest. His mind was like a spearhead. No distraction this time. He would tear her mind to pieces and leave her drooling on the floor. Her Force Rage acted like a shield against his mental assault, but Rian's own anger filled him with strength. It was not a burning monstrosity like her's, but a precise plasma-torch of cold fury. It was like a vibro-knife through flesh.

He still did not have mastery over the Memory Walk technique. So he did not use it. Instead, he attempted to run through her mind using drain knowledge. Usually, it took precision to extract the wanted information, but that took time. His would be no careful search of a calculating robber. He would ruthlessly ransacked the store, stealing everything off the shelves, counters, everything. Anything he saw, he would plunder, attempting to rip memories from her mind with force enough to inflict actual brain damage. Unskilled users of the technique often damaged the victim's brain by accident, but Rian would attempt to do so on purpose. It was not the intent of the technique, but it sure as hell was Rian's.

Force Rage would do her no good now. He would not attempt to make her relive past hurts. He simply would savage her mind. She could keep walking towards him, with her lightsaber in hand, but before she reached him she would most likely be in a comatose. Just as she was forcing him into a corner by chasing him down with her lightsaber, so he was forcing her into a corner with his mind. She would have to defend telepathically, or else Rian would leave her in a vegetative state.

A second snap-hiss sounded in the hall as Rian thumbed the activation on his own lightsaber, its green hue spilling across the walls and floor. "Just in case," were words he lived by.

Rian smiled then, and in his smile and in his eyes there played a low tune of such violence and brutality that his appearance of 'dark and brooding' vanished in an instant. In it's place stood a pillar of fiendish spite. He wore malevolence like a cloak. Depravity furrowed his brow. Nefariousness burned in his eyes. And in all, he presented such a heinous picture that the Dark Side swarmed around him with glee.

[Apillis]

Invading the mind of another is not something ever easily done, nor carelessly--or without first truly understanding the measure of their opponent, and most importantly taking the appropriate time to spend on concentration accomplish it. Not just the greatest Sith Masters but masters of the Force in general when wielding telepathy struggle to invade the mind of non-Force-Sensitives. It becomes even more difficult requiring far more concentration with Force-Sensitives especially ones strong in the Force, irregardless of the victim's own talent with telepathy. After all, if it were so simple, only telepathy would be taught by the Sith and they could then conquer the galaxy utterly unopposed.

As Hervor walked with a seething, burning rage that only kept growing and growing. The light within the corridor seeming to shrink more and more as if out of fear of the darkness she channeled through her to grant more fuel to her rage, building upon the power it gave her. The young man's telepathic assaults made her pause in her steps, but resumed walking forward as his feeling about her mind like a blind fool made her rage continue to soar.

After all, overwhelming emotions, repeated singular lines of thought, or just overall powerful feelings are techniques even non-Force-Sensitives can be trained to utilize to block telepathic invasion. It is why such acts are typically done during the calmer moments, times when the victim's mind is more open, receptive, and unguarded. During moments of intensity such as combat, and when the victim is expecting it and prepared for it, especially after a prior attempt had been made--the chances of success are vastly more dimmed. If one truly wanted to telepathically affect the mind of a Sith Lord with any depth, they would best be suited somewhere out of sight, away from danger, some place calm where they can best quiet their mind, focus and concentrate on that sole task alone shutting out everything else. Because again--assaulting or invading the mind of another is not something easily done, nor done carelessly.

The mental assaults while causing pain tearing through her mind leading her to pause in her steps. Nevertheless--pain, as any Sith worth their salt knows, is fuel. The pain it caused within her mind only served as greater fuel to the fires of her rage. Suffering through pain whether physical or otherwise held power within it. Sith and Dark Jedi alike have often used pain to propel themselves ever forward, especially those who could be consider masters of the dark side. Despite the mental pain it caused her leading to her brief momentary pauses in her ever continuous stride toward the young man, she feasted upon it just as she feasts upon life itself to continue pushing herself forward.

Had he attacked in those moments where the pain shearing through her mind made her pause in her steps, she could potentially be wide open to another form of attack by him. Yet, instead, he merely elicited to stall in his actions--drawing his lightsaber but never doing anything with it and just stood there, seeming to rely solely on one thing. An exceptionally battle hardened and experienced warrior such as Hervor was never one to not take advantage of such things.

But when she got within ten meters of the young man, that was when she made her reaction to his continued stall tactics. Block-counter, that is the design behind Djem So, its philosophy being to counter every action given. Though with Hervor, this philosophy is married with that of Ataru, where the philosophy is continuously keep the opponent off balance with swift, unrelenting assaults. The former she has partly done--the assaults upon her mind have, in part, been defended against with ability to use her rage through the dark side to empower herself. But the counter only now she is doing but doing so via Ataru's philosophy...

Her movements with her incredible ability to amplify her physical prowess through the Force, once again became little more than blur as she charged with her lightsaber ready to strike--backed with the power of rage burning oppressively with the darkness flowing through her. Her steps were light and agile, closing the distance between them within a second.

There was no hesitation, no words--after all--as she said moments ago: no more talk. Conversations were over at this point. While she as an archivist or even just an academic enjoys a good intellectual discourse, but that chance this young man seemed to continue to just want to piss that opportunity away to boast about himself. Not very intellectual of him. And his method of facing someone to likes of Hervor has not been the best choices; then again--the best choice would have been not being loud, boastful, and tossing out repeated mockery about how much better he is to the likes of a Sith Lord such as Hervor in the first place.

With her nimble, adroit movements she made two fast and ferocious strikes at him as her blurred movements placed her to his right side. The first attempted strike being a cross slash at his thigh just above the knee--the goal being to completely hobble him with that leg. The second strike was just as quick as the last but with vastly more ferocity behind it. For that second attempted strike aimed this time at his right lung, it was an abrupt change in grip from her left hand to both hands, but the primary grip no longer being in her left hand rather instead switched to her right. However, while her actions were wrought out of the Djem So philosophy of maintaining opposition with action-reaction, and her movements and the concept behind her continuous pressing ever forward being born out of Ataru philosophy; her strikes themselves were something other. There was a dark, furious motion and intention behind either, and the technique to them were not Ataru or Djem So, but something other... something lesser known... But that vicious intensity seemed to blend both her Ataru footwork and ideals with her Djem So methodology as one...

[Samael]

Rian blinked in momentary surprise as his telepathic assault did not seem to have any effect beyond a couple of faltering steps. To enact force persuasion, one needed great calm and composure. It was hard to perform even on non-Force users. Rian's assault was nothing like persuasion, or even an attempt at understanding feelings and reasons. It was the complete opposite. It did not necessitate complete serenity, nor would it need to be fine tuned. Persuasion and torture were like building a sandcastle with tweezers, but destroying the mind only took a few massive hammer strokes. And even a complete idiot could use a hammer, if they were strong enough. So he couldn't imagine how she managed to deflect his assault. Enraged as she was, she would not have fine control over her mind. But apparently, she could do everything and come out completely unscathed. Good thing Rian expected it.

Being a paranoid bastard came with a few upsides. Most notable was not dying after Plan A failed. Unfortunately, Rian's Plan B fell in the realm of monumentally bad ideas. Saber combat was not his forte, but as his only practiced style aside from Shii-Cho was Djem So, it was easy to recognize the strong, firm footed stance the Archivist came at him with. Her speed was incredible. He could only guess that it came from some combination of styles, probably Ataru - the most mobile of forms. Coupled with Djem So's philosophy of overwhelming power, it made for a winning combination. Or in Rian's case, a losing one.

He was barely able to deflect her first blow, the sheer speed catching him off balance. Despite this, Rian was able to bring his own green blade down in a low parry of "Brushing the Reeds," a wide, sweeping parry that gathered momentum with the motion and connected in a crackle of energy. Desperately, he swung the emerald blade back in "Diving Falcon," a backhanded strike that managed to connect with the Archivist's orange blade before it turned him into a Rian-Kebab.

Within the first two blows, Rian knew he couldn't win. She outmatched him on a level that approached hilarity. Any counterattack of his would be turned back on himself, as per the Djem So philosophy, and end up with a very dead Rian. A result he wished to avoid. So, as Plan B crumbled at the same alarming rate as his saber defense, Rian enacted Plan C.

Instead of counter attacking immediately after the parries with his saber, Rian dipped into the reserves of his strength and sent a Force shove at Allvitende with enough power behind it to almost equal the concussive blast of a grenade. If he had had more time he would have been able to put more strength behind the blast. Enough to not only ruin the gastrointestinal system, but rip off appendages and burst the heart. A blast that, if it hit her, would turn her into the galaxy's first gelatinous Archivist. Unfortunately, her incredible speed did not allow him time for such a pleasant attack. Instead, he had to settle for possible intestinal bleeding and bone breaking. If it hit her. And at the close distance, it would be pretty hard to miss. Almost impossible.

[Apillis]

The blast she received sent her flying backward, her back slamming against the corridor wall behind her. Though while she was knocked, she was far from out. The telekinetic blast was certainly painful, her teeth clinched tight as she hissed in pain. The blast itself and her slamming against solid stone--oh, it hurt--but to think that the likes of any Sith Lord in one decisive blow is going to be defeated is either an idiot or delusional, or more than likely the latter causing the former. It was becoming more and more clear to Hervor that the young man seemed to believe just that, if he just does this one thing--it will grant him victory. No. Victory is never so simple unless one is against an overwhelmingly weaker opponent, and Hervor is no where near his inferior. Weaker in regards to his apparent two strengths, but everywhere else his utter superior: power, experience, skill, knowledge... everything that counts... as expected from a Sith Lord to an initiate. And something an initiate should know full well before taking their arrogance and mouthing off to a Sith Lord a bit too far. Some Sith Lords are more tolerant than others and let it slide at least to point, and Hervor did, but eventually a line is crossed and that line had long been sprinted passed by the young man.

She let out a low grunt as she picked herself back up, it was mixture of pain and her rage seeming to somehow grow further. It was a sound not like something a human would make, it was low, guttural, primal, even bestial--more akin to a growl than grunt. Sith Lords have been known to make such sounds, while under the effects of their rage channeled through the dark side of the Force, or when using the primal-esque attack of Force Scream. And Hervor is a monstrous figure when in battle, decades spent fighting with the most vile and horrific aspects the dark side has to offer its practitioners. That power flowed, one could say it even bled from her being.

Her bones and body ached from having slammed against that stone wall. Still she could pick herself back up with the mastery she has over her own body through the Force, she is not stopping. Even were she to be mortally struck, she yields a technique that she could still pick herself up keeping her connection to the Force, and still press on. The technique known as Force Body. Despite she has not reached near that point to use it, it is what lends to her endurance to be astounding. But what makes this set so terrifying is how she responds to receiving such blows...

As she rose to her feet, like earlier when this battle begun, a veritable field of death had seemed to form around her. Only this time it took shape as she lifted her left hand, rather than her right as it now held her lightsaber. In one gargantuan unleashing of power magenta bolts sharing their likeness of lightning exploded forth right at the young man. However, like before--these bolts as they near filled the very corridor they were in, they arced through the air, crawled across the stone floor--over the walls as well as the very ceiling itself--and all heading straight for the young man. Albeit, these bolts as before sharing their appearance as lightning though magenta in hue, instead of outright destroy-- they fed on life itself. Much like the life draining techniques often utilized by Sith and Dark Jedi talented in utilizing the dark side's very power itself. But this... this technique while the same concept, it operated on a stratosphere all of its own vastly more powerful than the garden variety of life draining techniques normally known and employed.

Maintaining this power of hers attempting to rip the life right from the young man, she continued her stride right for him. Twisted in its way, the intent of what she is doing--using her opponent's own life in order to destroy them. But that is something all masters of the Force do, or should in a way, find a way to supplement where they are weakest. Otherwise, continually relying one thing to do the job in one blow is merely being a one trick pony. With this powerful form of sucking the life out of her opponent she is simultaneously attempting to do four things at once: restore herself, use the power of her opponents own life against them, thus weaken her opponent, and thereby leaving them further open for her continued unrelenting assaults with her blade. It is using one technique to set for another and another and another for one continuous string of onslaughts.

Long ago she formulated a philosophy built around one singular ideal: opposition. It was a simplified articulation of a means to power within the dark side as she honed and refined it over the decades. Her personalized and philosophically blended form of Djem So, Ataru, and Juyo backed by her immense endurance and ability to manipulate dark side powers to degrees most in the galaxy have never seen, all of it distilled to one simplistic philosophical: to oppose. Everything this young man does against her, she will continue to oppose unrelentingly, she continue coming at him. Her entire arsenal she has devised for near three times his own lifespan since she was a little child, had been developed to implacably continue to coming at her opponent. To continue opposing them. She is not stopping.

Almost as if in a blink, the very field of death that Hervor had created abruptly receded. Once again in a motion of blurring speeds her stride turned into a charge leading her to be right there in his face yet again. With her blade suddenly having switched to a two-handed grip but now with her left hand as the primary grip, backslashing at his stomach.

[Samael]

Again, the woman recovered from the best Rian had to throw at her. It no longer surprised him. His gut clenched as he watched her rise up off the floor. He landed one blow, but in the long run it didn't matter. This was a fight he couldn't win. And Rian didn't fight when he couldn't win. The best he could hope for now would be to mitigate her eventual triumph.

As the woman unleashed her attack on him, Rian deactivated his lightsaber and hooked it back onto his belt. It was slow. It was deliberate. He wanted her to see. She would not have the pleasure of beating him, because he simply would not fight. She would probably strike him down, but it would be no victory. Because Rian allowed it to happen. Even with his death, he could still be in control of the situation. And that was really all he ever wanted: to be in control.

From his days as a teenager, Rian remembered two principles about beating bullies. You could beat them fast and beat them hard, bloodying them so bad they wouldn't come back again for a second fight, but would instead cower in fear when you walked by - obviously this wasn't an option in Rian's case. Or, you could give no resistance. Bullies only bullied because they got enjoyment out of watching their victims struggle, feeding on their hopelessness, pain, and despair. Someone who simply stood there and took it, stone-faced or smiling, did not give bullies pleasure. Eventually, they would either end it with a rage-induced murder, or stop altogether. And that was what Rian knew the Archivist was. Take away all her fancy titles and force powers and she was a simple bully.

Bolts of magenta bounded along the walls, ceiling, and floor, crackling toward him with the singular purpose of killing him. Rian remained unmoved. Joining the Sith Order had been a monumentally stupid idea and he berated himself for it. He had not been thinking clearly after all that had happened, but that was no excuse. He should have known. He would still be alive if he had. The smartest thing to do when faced with a predator higher up the food chain was to run. Survival was sacrosanct to him, but penultimate to his need for control. He couldn't see any way out of this unless the hand of some god reached down and scooped him up. But if he was to go out, he would go out on his own terms. Still in control. He watched the bolts, their brilliant hues reflected in his eyes, until suddenly they receded. The Archivist leapt forward, so fast that most professional athletes would be put to shame.

Rian extended his arms at his side slightly and turned his hands palm up. The meaning was clear. "Here I am, come get me." An insane, twisted smile slid across Rian's face. He had won a fight more important than their physical combat. The battle of minds. In fact, from the moment his words had touched off her anger like tibanna gas he had won. She stooped down to his level, as it were. Lower, even. He had incited her to throw the first punch. He, a mere intitiate, had caused a supposed Sith Master to lose calm and go into a killing rage. Instead of dispatching him calmly and in a calculated manner, as would befit her station, she threw everything she had at him in a fit of dark, heated passion. No different than a mere child responding to taunts at a playground. She might claim to be above it all, but she was a clear case of hypocrisy. Rian laughed then, a humorless, barking laughter, his eyes shining with an intensity born of madness.

As the lightsaber hummed toward him, Rian, still laughing through a crooked grin, took the image he had of Allvitende in that moment. The image of a decrepit woman, possibly beautiful beneath layers of corruption, but Rian couldn't see it. All he saw was a bully. Without titles. Without any real power. He sent out the image with telepathy to her mind, containing what he saw and felt about her, in what he thought was his last moment in life. Not an attack, just a simple image. More of an idea, really. The idea that the Archivist, a Sith Master, was no better than a young child who pushed around others for sport. And ideas are saber proof.

[Dire Wolf]

Initiates were all the same. Each one believed that he was the Force's gift to the universe, or the one who was meant to single handedly destroy it, bring the Jedi to their knees, and turn the Republic into a crumbling memory of what used to be. It was likely that this initiate believed he could fight the Grandmaster of the Jedi with one hand and one foot tied behind his back, and capture the illusive Jedi General who abandoned her men and her war. The truth was that half of them were barely capable of wiping their own backside, let alone fighting a war or dueling a Jedi Master. This Rian was likely one of them.

Yet he had a certain potential to him, and that was why Vesperia sat in her chair near the door, icy blue eyes silently observing the events of the trouncing that could narrowly be called a duel. She had happened by the room when she overheard a voice she didn't recognize disrespect Lord Allvitende. Generally when she didn't recognize a voice it was one who's droning arrogance and boredom can be attributed to one of the myriads of initiates at the Sith Temple. A small smirk formed on the Vesperia's face as she withdrew her presence into herself, and stepped into the large training room to sit on one of the chairs that ringed it. When Vesperia doesn't want to be seen she generally isn't seen, especially when dealing with Force users. Most of which trust the Force a little too heavily and their own body far too little.

As predicted, the two parties quickly took up arms against one another and began their little fight. It wouldn't last long. Vesperia quirked a brow when the initiate apparently had enough, and did his absolute darndest to try something new. He stood there for a few heartbeats before Allvitende paused her stride, and continued on. Adara quirked a brow before realizing that the fool had actually tried a high level mental attack on a woman who was far his superior. She had knowledge or care on how Telepathy worked, but she knew that anything beyond basic stuns without serious focus and time was a foolish notion to attempt. Perhaps the initiate did attempt to stun his opponent and fail, but whatever it was... it was apparent that Allvitende laughed it off before charging.

The initiate could barely defend himself and, when pressed, sent all the power he could muster into a Force push... again possibly hoping to end the fight with one fell attack. Vesperia only shook her head at his actions, and slowly rose to her feet with the assistance of her staff as Allvitende rose from her crumpled state and unleashed a Force scream at the boy. The scream wasn't even close to being directed at the forty year old Sith Lord, and she still winced at the way it teared and rended at her ears. By the time she recovered, the woman saw magneta bolts of lightning come from all around the initiate, and his superior rushing towards him.

Adara sprinted towards the pair with all of her gathered strength. The Force powered her legs as they pulled up and drove down into the ground like the pistons of the ancient internal combustion engine, propelling her forward at a rate that turned her body into a blur. Just as Allvitende began to swing her savage blow Adara lashed her foot out at the woman's lightsaber in something of a push-kick. The aim was more to disarm and block than it was to damage. Her second attack was to whirl around and lash the metallic staff at the back of the woman's knees before pulling upwards in the hopes to sweep her stance out from under her.

To ensure that this initiate did nothing... regrettable... she continued the spin to attempt a sweep of his legs as well. Once all was done, Vesperia tapped the bottom of her staff to the ground and looked between the two, "Initiate, you are an imbecile and a fool. Allvitende, we don't have the numbers or the power to kill our own over foolishness." Vesperia turned her head towards the initiate with the usual look of irritated condescension strewn about her face, "next time you speak out of turn, or otherwise challenge any of your betters... I will not be here to save you, initiate. Congratulations, by the way. You've proved to me that you are a mewling weakling, and you're mere presence is now an affront to mine."

Was it a show? Most certainly. Adara had never cared much for the Sith code, and her own alignment could best be described as Chaotic Neutral... far from the 'evil' Sith. In truth she simply wanted to attain the power to be truly free, even if she had to temporarily give a little up before gaining more.

[Samael]

Rian stood still as stone, shocked. He expected to be dead. Yet, he lived. Luck, or fate? As things stood, Rian was delighted to not be lying in two halves upon the floor. Even more so, since his own victory was clinched in his eyes. Taunt a Sith Lord and survive - even if only through intervention of another? Well, that was victory enough for him... for now. He would bide his time and repay Allvitende for this. Eventually, he would extract his pound of flesh. Maybe not now. Maybe not in the next twenty years. But unlike the Archivist, Rian could be patient with his anger. His brooding anger.

He curled and uncurled his hands, staring at them for a moment before looking up at the woman who, whether she cared or not, had saved his life. Dark hair framed a pale face; elegant in the way of an ice sculpture. A cold beauty, with frosty blue eyes. She looked around Rian's age, perhaps older. Rian couldn't tell. His intense green eyes met her cold, chilling gaze.

Easily, Rian slipped into the role Allvitende had mocked not long ago: the apologetic aristocrat, refined and respectful. Mostly.

"Of course. It will not happen again," Rian said, his rasping voice a note shy of odd calm. "If my presence displeases, I will remove myself." And make his way as fast as he could off the damn planet. Kriffing Sith. However, Rian made no move to leave, letting the women assume it was just him waiting for permission. What he really wanted to see was the reaction.

Imbecile, fool. He'd been called worse before. Not that Rian had thick skin. He was just patient in retaliating. Usually. He had miscalculated the Sith Master Allvitende, expecting her to have more control over herself. It was a mistake. He would assume from now on that Sith Masters were giant kegs of tibanna gas one spark short of blowing up in his face. When he knew he could escape the explosion alive, he would throw a whole torch at the keg, but until then he would have to stay alive by bending to their will. Never breaking, only bending. Rian could do that. He was adaptable.

What perplexed him was how the new arrival called him a mewling weakling. Why save a mewling weakling? It went against the very essence of the Sith, and Rian's own code, of crushing the weak underfoot. How could the whole be strong while weak links remained? Rian sent out a question with telepathy, a whisper in the Force sent to the new arrival's mind and carefully hidden from Allvitende's prying senses. Though he could display a physical appearance of almost-humility, Rian could not completely obscure his innermost feelings within the thought question. His obstinate defiance seeped through just a bit.

"If I am so weak, why stop my death?"

[Apillis]

As mentioned before, the reality being Hervor did not care if this young man pissed her off, and why should she? The logic behind 'victory by making someone mad' is idiotic at best. If one makes their opponent mad, but are defeated because of doing so, how is that a victory? Because all the fool did by making their opponent enraged was create their own downfall. There is no victory in that, only stupidity exists in that.

When a warrior like Hervor already thrives on her rage and uses it often like a weapon, all the young man did was cause her to use something she normally already does. After all, she is essentially a berserker, so how would making a berserker go berserk be a victory? It is simply causing one to do what they normally do. Which only piles on the stupidity of causing someone like Hervor to become enraged to be a victory all the more nonsensical and silly.

Sith and Dark Jedi alike thrive on rage and their passions, it fuels them--giving them power--and focus. By purposefully causing a Sith to be enraged and granting them the perfect avenue in which to use techniques such as Dark Rage, then all one has done is empowered their Sith opponent. Is there victory in this? None. Once again just stupidity. There is no logic in this, no grand foresight. Most times it is the logic of a fool who is trying to soothe their own ego after realizing their own clumsy blunder.

In Hervor's mind if the young man did not like the situation he was in, he only had himself to blame for creating the situation in the first place. He took every action to play to Hervor's passions and rage to give her more fuel and power to defeat him. He created his own downfall.

But furthermore, this young man did yet another silly thing that maybe to a vain and superficial human would mean something, but... to a Morellian such as Hervor... it meant nothing.

To say that the image the young man projected of Hervor of herself as an elderly figure in her mind, meant zero to her is an understatement. After all, she is a Morellian, for her that time would not come for at least another century. Time for a Morellian means a much different thing to humans and those species who age like the humans. Those she remembers teaching when they were younglings, or those she grew up with, the vast majority of them by this point have all died by old age, while she has only just reached her own species' prime. Her own master, the long retired Grandmaster of the Order near a couple centuries ago, Hjomalir, was an old Morellian even by her people's standards by the time she became his pupil. For the decades she spent under his tutelage as his padawan, daily she saw what she would eventually become when she has lived nearly three centuries as he had. Something she had a long time to learn and accept, nor even really care about--after all, having since fallen deeper into darkness, she figures she likely will never live that long. After all, in the dark side, all things end in death. On a superficial level even, it was ever present in her mind how powerful Master Hjo was and how he easily he was able to defeat her, despite being a withering old man.

She could only think that this young man's superficial thoughts and beliefs thought this would affect her. That she would care about an image of her as the old woman that she, before this young man was even born, long resigned that she will likely never become. For the vain it would probably mean something, but for a woman who has watched so many die from battle and old age over her long lifespan. Besides, her face scarred by a shrapnel wound and the numerous other battle scars she has on her body, vanity as far as her appearance goes is small at best.

And lastly, while he may have tried to tie in what he thought of her with that image. Still meant little to her. He is a no name initiate, and was soon to be disemboweled and forgotten like so many others that died at her feet in the past. It was that simple. Nothing else to factor or consider.

Before he dies, he is left with the knowledge that despite all his disrespect and boasting about conquering worlds, in the end proved to be nothing but a little fool running away from his problems when forced to put his bravado to the test against the real thing--against someone who has actually accomplished what he dreams he will be and do 'some day'. In her eyes, he is just a simpering coward faced with inevitability: here his posturing and arrogance means nothing and only leads to death and become a forgotten memory. In the eyes to the likes of Hervor, he is a worthless fool. While Hervor was a believer in that any recruit can potentially be a great addition, at this point all she saw in him was an idiot who needed to be expunged from the Sith Order for the express purpose to prevent him from dragging the rest down.

However, before her strike could effectively split the young man's belly open spilling his entrails to flop out of the gaping wound and plop at his feet--the blade of an interloper blocked her own. The flash of a metallic staff coming at her knees she caught from the corner of her eye, and narrowly with an agile, speedy side-twist-flip away from the newcomer, empowered by the Force she avoid the sweeping strike. Her eyes widened and her rage only swelled in reaction--who in the hell had the gall to step in between her and doing the Sith Order a boon of eliminating a useless initiate before he became a greater problem to the Order?

Her eyes now wide with sweltering rage, they turned to the interloper. A twisted grin with all the likeness of a monster glared right at the interloper as she hissed her name, "Vesperia...", her blade remained at the ready, her stance was not any of the common forms recognized by most--then again, a lightsaber duelist of Adara's standing likely knew it. A lesser known form, and one that the Jedi Order often cautions in teaching to anyone given the ferocity and intensity of one's countenance required for using it. Within the very kinetics of her being exuded only intense rage and raw aggression in its ideal form, something that Sith and Dark Jedi alike spend decades striving to achieve but never do.

With a snicker, she hissed again to Adara, "This is for the good of the Sith Order... quality over quantity, this one can be sacrificed for the greater benefit of the Sith Order before it becomes a drag. There is nothing worth preserving in that little thing.", Hervor drew back her blade preparing for another onslaught as she told Adara, while rage remained burning like a torrent of fire within Hervor, "Vesperia... let go of your humanity and accept some things just are not worth saving. And that thing you are protecting from my wrath is not one of them.", her eyes lit up with delight with her twisted grin ever beaming widely in this service for the Sith Order.

It was funny, but as she spoke to Adara, she did not seem to even acknowledge the young man's existence outside of being a 'thing' to be eliminated, like killing a lame kath hound. Executing it because of its uselessness.

[Dire Wolf]

The fire seemed to have been snuffed out of the arrogant child as he responded to her, and she could sense the lies dripping from his tongue as he spoke. That and feigned cowardice. To say that she instantly regretted intervening would be an understatement. "You will not speak to another Dark Lord of the Sith unless spoken to. If you enjoy your entrails where they are, I suggest you leave our presence. Now."

Vesperia only chuckled in response to Allvitende's enraged remark. No longer was this about the idiocy of one initiate or another to her, but rather about the insanity of the Sith Order as a whole. "I will retain the amount of humanity that I desire, Allvitende. Regardless, you act as if he is a wounded horse good for only the knacker. I would prefer such a pitiful, worthless thing to be killed on the field of battle. If, by now to the time that he is truly tested, the boy grows a single brain cell he may have some meager amount of potential. That, Allvitende, is why I intervened."

The fact that her peer used the words "save" and "protect" had the Epicanthix woman mentally reeling. Neither of those verbs have been attributed to her in a very long time, and actually managed to rouse the beast within her. A fire kindled in the woman's heart as that icy gaze bore a hole through the pale woman. Vesperia had always wondered why the Dark Side hadn't effected her much in that way, and perhaps it was because she had never fully given herself to its depths. She had Abraxas' earliest teachings to thank for that.

When the whelp snaked his telepathic message to her, regardless of how he intended it to sound, she saw a pathetic confusion, some cowardace, and a hint of gratefulness. That coupled with the fact that she loathed dIt only blew a gust of air on the fire within her heart, which was rarely kindled. When her anger was roused, however, it was a thing to be reckoned with. "You will silence, idiot child. If my ears hear the incessant mewling of your tongue flapping this way and that once more, Allvitende and myself will finish what she started. Slowly. Now begone, lest I make good on the boorish threats you have forced me to utter." Vesperia's voice had lost that regal, proud tone that they had once before in favor of one dripping with anger and fury. If idiots continued to insist on fanning the flames of her anger, she may inadvertently revert to her native dialect. That would be a bad sign.

Vesperia stood firm, across from Allvitende, and peered into the woman's dark eyes with her staff just at her side. She looked almost savage in that moment, and should things continue on their current path, dialog would turn to slashesfairly quickly. The other two would know why she was one of the better duelists of the Sith Order. The best, if you asked her.

[Samael]

Rian sighed. Apparently, all Sith Masters were pompous windbags of cliche insults and paradoxical disinterested lack of disinterest. Asrael wondered if they all shopped at the same branch of evil-r-us. And people thought Rian's ego was bad. He snorted inwardly.

He could have pointed out the fact that in a telepathic message one's lips did not actually move, but somehow he thought that the new arrival would not appreciate his insight. Rian hardly thought he was the one doing the most mouth flapping here. At least his long winded rants earlier had served the purpose of brutal goading, though he now knew it didn't take much to set off a Sith Lord.

Tibanna gas. Giant kriffing barrels of it.

The stare down between the two masters was not pleasant. The new arrival appeared to be getting angrier by the second. Rian rolled his eyes, a bored look on his face. Well, whaddaya know, another Sith Master about to go off the handle because they couldn't handle a few spoken sentences. Most beings of the galaxy had the self-control to actually not fly into a murderous rage after a few insulting words. In that regard, Rian supposed they were not as weak as he once assumed. They had more control than these Sith did, even if their only nightmares consisted of whether or not they wore the right clothing the next day.

These Sith did not control their emotion. They were controlled by their emotion. They took their superior power as license to act however they kriffing well pleased. Yet, hypocritically held it against those who did the same. What would happen when someone more powerful than them appeared? Would they manage to pull calm and composure out of thin air? Unlikely, given that they never seemed to practice it. Someone more powerful than Rian would exploit that one day. He wondered if these bombastic meatbags would even notice.

Meatbags. That damn HK's company was more preferable to this.

It seemed Allvitende and the new arrival were well on their way to starting a second fight. Rian would prefer to be somewhere else for that. He turned to leave without another word, with every intention of goading them all with telepathic remarks as soon as he was in his ship.

Cowardice? Rian shrugged inwardly. There was no such thing in his mind. People used the word cowardice to motivate honorable people to go die for them. Rian was not honorable. Nor did he believe in dying for causes, or for proving his worth to anybody. Those were all just good opportunities to be exsanguinated. He lived by his own code. The first rule of which was that he would do anything to survive. Even running away. When he couldn't win, he didn't fight. Better a live vornskr than a dead krayt dragon.