Homecoming (Darth Novus, Apillis, Invite Only)

[Gallifreyman]

Naarsion's dark cape billowed like a flag behind him as he strode down the landing bay of the shuttle. The harsh winds of Korriban fell against the uncompromising staunchness of his mask, and his wavy black hair fell in ringlets around his shoulders, his hood tossed down behind his back. Behind him strode a woman with fiery red hair, clad in dark purble-black robes, double lightsabers hanging at her side. His apprentice, the fallen Jedi Knight, Namia Kail. His visor glinted in the bright sun as his head swung slowly back and forth, observing the tiny settlement of Dreshadae. As soon as his boot had left the shuttle, and Namia behind him, the sleek, black craft rose jerkily into the air, it's engines already blazing away.

Under his mask, Naarsion smiled. The merchant had had to be...persuaded to take him here. He could feel the man's fear instinct oozing through the Force, his absolute panic and terror and unimaginable pain shining like a gleaming beacon to any Force user. Let the little man fly away-he had done his job, and done it well enough that he should be lucky to get away as relatively unscathed as he was. The fool could continue his excuse for a life without an arm, more or less.

Tossing his hood up with a twitch of the Force, he began to stalk towards the looming, black temple in the distance, Namia striding beside him. After two years, he had returned. After two years, he was home again. And they would mark his name in the annals of history.

[Neology]

Novus kneeled at the center of Dreshdae's secondary landing pad, blue eyes half closed as she focused her mind. There were better places for meditation, of course, but there was a certain amount of welcome challenge in tuning out the rumble and whine of starship engines. Besides, the quiet invited her thoughts to wander. She could do without that, just now.

Seventy-two wax cylinders of varying heights were set up in a circle around her, fourteen feet across at the widest point. A single ball bearing rested precariously on top of each, placed there by a trio of supremely bored initiates. The idea was to strike each ball bearing with one's lightsaber without damaging the wax cylinder – the second training exercise in a series of five. Melted wax and slagged bits of metal dotted the ferrocrete landing pad, suggesting previous attempts.

'Six, five, four ...' Novus counted down in her head, slack fingers tightening on the grips of her weapons. At the zero mark she launched to her feet, lightsabers humming to life in a blur of crimson. Alternating strikes, fluid and precise in their delivery, dispatched her targets in short order. About forty seconds later, she came to a panting halt. She switched off her blades, hooked them on her belt, and paced slowly around the circle.

Only two of the cylinders showed significant damage. Not a bad effort, considering the location and its many distractions. Even now, she felt something strange. Am unfamiliar presence in the Force – no, scratch that, two, accompanied by a powerful undercurrent of pain and fear. It was in the air, a caustic taste on the back of her tongue. She glanced up at the squeal of thrusters pushed too hard, the sweep of her gaze taking in the departing shuttle. A wave of her hand brought the cluster of initiates over.

“That's not one of our ships. What's going on?”

One of the three, a young zabrak, handed Novus her tunic and made a little bow of his head. “I do not know, my lady. There must be a reason, or he would not have been allowed to land.”

She frowned and pulled the tunic on over her undershirt, cinching it at the waist. “I want that ship detained. You, see it done.” Something in her tone conveyed that shot down was also an acceptable conclusion. The zabrak jogged away, and her eyes settled on the other two initiates. “Set this back up.” A jerk of her chin indicated the training exercise. With that, she stalked from the hanger.

–

It didn't take long to catch up to the unfamiliar Force adept. From the costume, the man was assuredly part of the order. The woman that trailed him was … an apprentice, perhaps? The man was someone of some rank, then, though not equal to or surpassing her own. Novus quickened her pace until she came even with his stride. With any luck, she could provoke this new arrival into some proper entertainment.

Besides, she had felt some aspect of what he had done to the poor fool of a pilot. Why not turn a touch of that back upon him? Fair was fair, and bored was bored.

“Now, I know my esteemed sister is not in the habit of promoting idiots, but you would have me believe otherwise.” Her comlink chimed. She switched it off, a deft flick of the wrist. “Ah, there. I have tided up your mess. You may thank me now, as it pleases you.”

[Gallifreyman]

Naarsion cocked his head ever so slightly. The crimson mask gleamed in the sun, peering at the woman before him through his dark, reflective eyeholes.She was powerful, powerful enough that he had sensed her as the merchant's ship set down on the world. There had been a brief spike in her power minutes earlier. From her attire and strength, he would guess she was powerful in their order, higher, perhaps, than himself, if only from how she held herself.

He bowed, his dark cape swirling around him. After a moment's hesitation, Namia did as well, her dark grey eyes fixing on the woman with a prideful look. She did not like being subservient to any other than Naarsion himself. The Sith lord ran a single hand through his dark black hair as he rose quickly to a standing position. Namia stepped forward, defiance glinting in her steely eyes, but Naarsion stopped her with a gesture of his hand, and she slid away behind him, biting her tongue and glaring darkly at the woman before them.

"My Lady. A Darth, I presume? I have not had the honor myself. What have I done that brings such a...vehement greeting? Are you perhaps referring to my mode of transport? I had been offworld for some period of time, and I wished to return with haste. So I commandeered a craft and it's pilot. I did offer to pay him, but he refused, so I was forced to put him under no small amount of..." Naarsion paused, considering his words "..duress." he finished coolly, his voice a blend of Sith arrogance, unsure respect, and an unnatural calm, as if he were discussing what robes he might wear the next morning.

[Apillis]

Standing there in her ragged and worn garbs, Hervor in her old battle and blood stained white Jedi Archivist's cloak of hers showing its years--no longer its brilliant hue but rather dulled and off in color--mostly grey in some respects. But under the tattered and torn cloak she wore a simple, old and worn out white shirt and tattered and torn black pants with the pant legs tucked into the scuffed and severely broken in dark brown leather knee high formal military officer's boots. Her Jedi utility belt worn around her slim waist over her cloak, the belt showing its great age by unraveling at the seams along its lining and some of the pouches as her lightsaber dangled from its clip on the belt.

A black mask with monstrous, crude dark grey fangs cover the lower half of her visage, while the hood of her cloak is drawn. A simple brown leather satchel rests against her right hip, slung over her shoulder and across her chest as she rests her right hand at the base of the front strap of the satchel. Covering her hands are faded and cracked black leather fingerless gloves, their poor condition reflecting their years of hard use.

Ever the wanderer upon Korriban's surface documenting the terrain, ruins, sparse civilizations, and history of the ancient Sith planet in her quest to rebuild the archives of the Sith temple. A tedious and thankless task, but as the Archivist it is one that gives her some focus and somewhere productive to channel her energy. Otherwise, ever the creature of impulse that she is grows immensely restless. With no where to channel her energy or efforts, like many of her species, she tends to grow quite volatile and ill-tempered beyond even their already vindictive norms.

But looking to head back to the temple after her wanderings was what lead her to discover the pair, she paused for a trice. Her intense fiery irises surrounded by the blackness of her eyes, watching in their half-open eyed gaze. Idle curiosity causing her to linger, she did not utter a word as she watched and listened, she did not see the point. Largely because Hervor was uncertain of what she just walked into, perhaps a bit disrespectful to eavesdrop on someone's conversation, but Hervor being such a blunt object of a personality did not really care, nor was she exactly being secretive about it as she stood in plain sight not far from them.

[Neology]

Icy blue eyes flickered from the man to his apprentice and back, brows raising as her curiosity was piqued. Novus smiled, a flash of sharp white teeth, as she watched the man motion the girl behind him.

“Please, if your apprentice has something to say, let her say it.” How did that phrase go? Enough rope to hang oneself with? She paced around, so that she still had line of sight on the girl. “If she ever intends to finish her training, she will have to deal with me. With a master who cannot even name the leaders of his Order, well, one cannot blame the poor manners on student alone.”

A familiar presence made itself known. Lord Hervor, silent and unreadable. Novus nodded in the woman's direction, inviting her to the conversation should she choose to join in.

Looking back to the masked man, Novus vented an exasperated sigh. “Look, whatever your name is. On matters of security, which I assure you this is, I will brook no argument. We do not gift wrap reconnaissance reports for the Republic, end of story. Or where else do you think that pilot would immediately go? Put them on Imperial retainer, kill them, I don't care. Better yet, travel in something other than that ridicules costume.” Her tone of voice was faintly amused, each word carefully enunciated as though she were speaking to a particularly dull initiate. She let one hand rest on her hip, the other hanging loosely, relaxed.

“Now, the problem has been taken care of and we may all go on our way. But first, I am sorry if I gave the impression that your thanks were optional. I want to hear you say it.”

[Gallifreyman]

Naarsion made a sour face underneath his mask, and his eyes tracked the woman - a Darth, most definitely - as she circled around him, in an almost predatory manner. He could feel Namia struggling to contain herself, a byproduct of her past. Cautiously, he noted their newest observer, a woman, wearing - were those Jedi robes? Archivist, if childhood afternoons spent in the Libraries at the Jedi Temple were any indication. His position here was shaky. If anything he did could possibly be interpreted as a sign of weakness, he could be torn apart. He had no way of knowing who the watching woman was, but avoiding weakness was a good rule of thumb in general, and almost a law on this, of all worlds.

"I believe you are mistaken, my lady. That man is a fugitive in three systems, and wanted by the Republic for several counts of theft, racketeering. You see, our friend in the ship just finished delivering me from the illustrious moon of Nar Shaddaa. Oh, there are people he would have gone running to, no doubt, but they are not from the Republic, most certainly. I apologize for not knowing your name, but I have been offworld for a significant length of time. I have very many contacts on that moon, and once a very great deal of people on it feared me. Some do still."

As he spoke, he breathed in. Dust and heat, pain and death. To be here, on this world, where the Sith Lords of antiquity had walked in the days of Ajunta Pall and Marka Ragnos. Where countless men just like him had risen to power, and countless more had died, trampled beneath the feet of those more vicious. Countless ages passed, and the Sith were still the same. Always the same.

No more. His contacts within the gangs were finally becoming responsive. The ones who had cast him down were growing weaker with each passing moment. Namia had served to cull the ones who were not, and he was cultivating a new power base. Namia was growing ever stronger in the Force, and soon he would be able to send her out to cultivate his cabal herself. Things were changing.

"But, of course, that is no excuse, my lady. I am sorry for inconveniencing you. Thank you."

Underneath his mask, Naarsion smiled.