A Lesson Learned

[Ysmir]

---

The heat of the desert sun beat upon his armor, though his skin felt no such sweet kiss. The light reflected from the glossy black plate and the bronze pin affixed to his cape, which flowed behind his feet that thudded against the stone ground with every step's weight.

When he came to a stop atop the outcropped overlook that gazed upon the Valley of the Dark Lords, pride and determination swelled within the pit of his gut, threatening to spill out from every orifice it could. But his fists clenched tight, and he swallowed that feeling with every ounce of willpower he could. Nothing had changed. His duties remained the same, his objectives the same. All that had changed were his methods; he was no longer a Lord, a Praetor.

No, he was Darth Viren, the Bronze Pillar of the Empire, the Praetor Magnus of the Cult of Strife. Breaker of Her Enemies. And he had work to do.

But there was always work to do, such were the times that they lived in. Even as his soul burned for retribution at the actions of the Republic, he would stay his hand at the request of his Empress. Servitude? No. Gratitude. For the first time in his life, his talents, his potential, had been recognized fully by one he deemed worthy. When he looked at her and the Empire, he saw the Galaxy's salvation, and Viren would do whatever had to be done to see that salvation spread to the far corners of this universe. In the meantime, however, he basked in the afterglow of his recent promotion to the Inner Sanctum. It was rare enough for one of the Order to stand in the presence of her Imperial Radiance, rarer still for one to claim to be her arm, her eyes, her ears, her will. Viren was confident, proud, but even he knew the limits of his own mind. To truly take to his post like a true Darth should, he needed to walk those sacred sands with his own two feet, bask in the presence of the Dark Lords that once stood before him. Ajunta Pall, Tulak Hord, Marka Ragnos, Naga Sadow. These figures were legend and yet, their presence in this Valley served as much for reverance as a cautionary tale.

All of them, in their own way, had failed at some point. None had died peacefully at old age. No Sith ever did. The ultimate fate of all who joined their Order was a painful death at the hands of betrayal or on the field of battle. Viren was determined for his own mortality to be the latter.

But as his eyes turned south toward the path leading to the academy, Viren wondered of his own legacy, of the legacy of the Sith beyond the sight of his mortal eyes. So he walked along the sands, the sun-blast landscape a dull red behind the visor of his helm. As he approached the doors to the Academy, he needn't spoke a word to the guards there before they were opened; his visage was, since his promotion, recognizeable on sight.

His steps echoed through the halls, and the air that followed behind his stride exuded that of his authority. Such it was that his presence drew the attention of quarreling academy students who ceased their bickering to gaze at the Darth whose armor gleamed in the dim lighting of the halls. Viren stopped his advance, turning his head slowly toward the students that stared. Even featureless as his face was behind the helm, the students almost perspired in dread as they realized the error of their gawking; hurriedly, they gathered themselves and bowed before him. Satisfied with their etiquette, he turned wordlessly from the two and continued his stroll through the grand halls of the Academy.

It wasn't long before he happened upon something... peculiar. Not peculiar in its nature, no, but in how it grasped his attention. He sensed a subtle gasp in the Force, a budding rage that almost reminded him of his own. Turning his head, a few meters away, he saw a student sitting by the doors to the duelling yards. Ghostly pale with wavy white hair. He assumed the boy was Arkanian. As the student made no effort to hide his emotions, Viren could read them from afar like a book; anger, frustration, sorrow... pity.

Pity.

Viren stepped toward the door, toward the boy sat off to the side against the wall. The reverberation of his heavy steps would alert the student to his presence well before the Darth himself did so. Standing before the boy, a healthy distance apart, he folded his arms across the glossy black plate of his armor. Red slits were all that greeted the student when he looked into Viren's face, a featureless and classically designed helm of a Sith Warrior. The pin of the Cult of Strife was worn openly on the collar of his cloak.

When Viren spoke, it came out like a distant explosion, quiet but full of untold power, a mechanical buzz through the vocabulator of his helmet that only added to the atmosphere in the silent hall.

"Why do you sulk, Acolyte?"

[Rugs]

It wasn’t supposed to be like this...

Karn winced — a sharp hiss of air through grit teeth — as he shifted his weight. The rough stone floor and walls near the exit to the sparring grounds offered little comfort, but he didn't care. It felt better than standing. Or walking.

Fresh welts smarted on his legs, and at the tendons on the back of his heels. A lightsaber — or lightfoil, as Janse had used against him — set to training intensity wouldn’t maim or kill, but it still hurt. It had taken all he had not to limp more visibly as he retreated from the training yards, pride bruised and proverbial tail between his legs.

He slammed a fist against the wall beside him. The blow, augmented by the Force he still clung to for comfort, left a subtle crack in its wake. It was supposed to be his day. His chance to show everyone what he was made of — to show that he deserved a master who’d carry him through the rest of his training to Knighthood.

Colubus, his old master, had said he wasn't far off. “But she’s dead now,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “So what did she know, anyway?” He pulled his legs up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them as he sat there.

Karn was still angry — angry at himself, angry at Janse, angry at the Initiate who walked by with a strange look at him. But the loss outside had smothered rage’s flames. Now he simply sat, smoldering.

First Nar Shaddaa, he thought, closing his milk-white eyes as echoes of that disaster of a battle played through his mind again.

—-

The last Sith soldier in his ragtag band fell with a purple crystal the size of Karn’s forearm sticking out of his chest. The Archeri swarmed around him, down the walls, from the ceiling. Karn, face half-covered in blood, screamed as he fought wildly, desperately to fend them off. One fell before his crimson blade, then another. A blow from behind staggered him, and another threw him to the ground. His long-hilted lightsaber clattered across the ground.

Karn screamed as the Archeri raised a long, scythed limb over him. Then the Jedi’s green blade appeared from nowhere and split the creature in two. Shouts erupted as Republic soldiers stormed into the cramped old warehouse.

Salvation, at the last minute

—-

Karn squeezed his eyes shut further, as if that could erase the memory. His master dead, and him saved by a Jedi. Transferred from Dromund Kaas to Korriban, and now embarrassed by Janse in a fight he had picked.

So much for the superiority he’d boasted of to Janse. So much for proving himself worthy.

Heavy footsteps echoed from further in the Temple. Karn half-turned his, eyes cracking open to see the source. A tall, impossibly-large Sith strode toward him. As soon as he saw him, Karn felt the weight of his presence. A master then. Maybe more.

Karn sighed and contented himself with staring at the wall on the other side of the corridor, convinced the other Sith would simply pass him by.

But he did not. He stopped, looking at Karn, and spoke to him.

"Why do you sulk, Acolyte?"

“Sulk?” Karn asked, as if measuring the word. Had he been sulking? Does it matter? He looked up at the Sith — craning his neck from his position on the floor — and stared at the emotionless mask that greeted him. A voice told him that he should tread carefully, but his tongue was already moving.

“Because I’ve had a bad day,” he said sullenly. His fist tightened, as if to hit the wall again. “I’ve had a bad month. And I guess this is the only thing I can do without fucking it up, so...” he made a broad motion, a sort-of shrug and put his arms around his legs again. “Here I am.”

For a moment, he sat there, staring at the big Sith, wondering at who he was and why he’d taken notice. “Why do you care, anyway?”

[Ysmir]

From his position above the acolyte, Viren could feel the contempt radiating from his core. Perhaps, in some strange way, it reminded the Darth of himself when he was around that age. Of course, that was a lifetime ago, a different lifetime, but the agony of such an existence played back through his eyes like a holorecord on repeat even if he tried to will it away. The past was something you never truly escaped, no matter who you were, merely something you either came to accept or let define you. Viren chose the former.

Besides, he had carved himself this far. What were limits but falsehoods told to excuse oneself of the responsibility to improve?

As his eyes scanned the boy from behind his helm, he became all too aware of the rigors of combat he had clearly just experienced. Even were it not for the physical fatigue the Arkanian wore plainly on his features, the mental exhaustion was clear; the boy could feel a presence, dark, looming, but controlled, as it searched his mind unopposed. Viren felt the shame that had befallen the young acolyte, though did not care enough to press further to discover why he felt this way. It was evident, though, that the memory was a painful one, one that almost mirrored the physical trauma that marred his form. Sad, Viren mused to himself, but lucky.

Viren had learned, as most Sith did, to draw strength from such events, such pains and regrets. Either the boy was well and truly beaten, mentally and emotionally, or he was simply not trying hard enough. Viren aimed to correct this error.

At the boy's question, Viren's arms dropped to his sides.

"I don't." Viren responded plainly, voice buzzing from behind his helmet.

Then, he took two steps forward, reducing the physical distance between himself and the acolyte. The lights that ran in an alternating pattern across the hall's ceiling now hit the Darth's back, casting a looming shadow over the acolyte's body. "But where I see weakness, it must be extinguished."

Suddenly, in a motion that would no doubt come as a surprise to the boy, the Darth's lightsaber hilt had flown off of the clip on his belt and into his outstretched palm. A beat later, the blade sprung to life in a pop and hiss, flooding the dimly lit chamber with a deep, crimson glow. The motivation here was survival. The saber hummed in rhythmic fashion as he held it aloft by his waist, no true stance taken. If this acolyte lacked the will to so much as stand after a humiliating defeat, what place did he have here?

"Ignore your pain. Stand. Or you die." His buzzing voice betrayed no hesitation or remorse as he stared down the Arkanian acolyte.

[Rugs]

Karn felt the presence enter his mind. It was dark, powerful, searching. Goosebumps rose along his forearms as a cold finger of fear ran up his spine. He was, he knew, powerless to stop the presence, which had to be from the huge Sith standing before him, from finding whatever it wanted.

Just as he’d been unable to stop Janse’s mental assault. That memory, still as fresh as the welts from the saber burns, rankled.

Still, he made himself continue to stare at the Sith’s face, at the mask that hid away any hint of emotion or intent. His white eyes met those red slits, behind which he could only imagine lay the man’s real eyes.

“I don’t,” the Sith warrior said, in answer to his question.

Then why are you here? Karn wondered pointedly, though he kept that thought to himself.

The warrior answered soon enough, as his lightsaber sprang to life. Karn winced slightly — the abrupt heat of the lightsaber in the cool, dim hallway briefly agitated his eyes. Sitting as he was, the warrior towered over him — he suspected the same would be true even if he stood — and threw him into shadow, with nothing but the lightsaber’s red light between them.

“Ignore your pain. Stand. Or you die.”

A deep fear, more visceral than what he’d felt as the warrior rooted around in his mind, rose in Karn’s stomach. If this Sith wanted to fight him, if this sith wanted to kill him, he could not win. He could not triumph at full strength, let alone limping and hurting.

For a moment, it seemed hard to breathe, with the weight of the other Sith’s power so evident, and with his own limitations pressing heavily on his mind.

And then, a flicker of anger rose. A flame of rage, as weeks of frustration bubbled back to the surface.

Ignore your pain.

Karn snarled. Again that voice told him to be wary, but he was past the point of caring; if the Sith was going to kill him, he at least refused to go out meekly.

“Ignore my pain?” he growled. He leaned forward, pushing himself to stand. He clenched his teeth to keep in groans as his body protested anew. As he stood, back quite literally to the wall, he glared at the bigger Sith. He unclipped the long-hilted lightsaber from his waist. “What the fuck do you know about my pain?”

Karn’s crimson blade flared to life with a hiss. He held it before him, stance defensive. If they came to blows, he’d prefer to lean on his form of choice, Juyo, but he wouldn’t take his usual aggressive stance unless forced to.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Subtle trembling in his voice and of his lightsaber gave away the lie.

[caelum]

Pain, according to the Sith Philosophy, was an old friend. It was a constant thing, an everlasting thing, that no matter how many sentient species would evolve from the mulch and much of a hundred million worlds, or however those same species would believe themselves enlightened and beyond their primeval origins, pain would follow. Entire societies formed around it, in seeking to flee from the pain they organize and build, in fear of the lash of pain's embrace, they sought more power and thus civilization is borne.

Lady Eeyrie has believed it, believed in it so strongly that a portion of her quarters on-board the 'Affliction' were devoted to ancient devices that justified such belief, torture devices and dark side monuments both. Her belief in the paramount importance of it so evident that when such antiquities weren't enough, she inflicted pain upon herself. Eeyrie had dragged forth knowledge from the Jedi Civil War, cracking her body and mutilating herself under those long velvety robes. It made for an interesting contrast, the soft hands, the pale mask of her face versus the scarred and deformed remnant of her youth.

Nostos snorted. What bantha shit.

His body ached. Beneath his gloves his hands were wrapped in antiseptic bandages, so required because when he had busy burning away Lady Eeyrie's skin off her bones, the lightning had sloughed off the muscles in his hand and inflicted third degree burns all the way to the bone. He stood tall and proud, but that was to afford the spinal frame installed onto his back, slowly repairing the damage to his vertebrae when his former master had shoved him through the reinforced glass separating her room and the void of space. Not that the spinal frame was the only thing inhibiting his movement, after all, the surgeries required to repair the shredded remains of his internal organs after Eeyrie had shoved that very same glass through his body required the most careful of movements.

And despite all that, despite that pain, Nostos didn't feel one wit wiser than before. In the ancient texts he had been told that the act of ascension, of the murder of one's master and the rise to mastery oneself, was a sacred thing. A potent ceremony that would further unlock his connection to the dark side and allow him to revel in his new found abilities.

The only thing he'd reveled in within the past 24 hours was that he was able to swallow liquids via his own power.

Still, despite this, he was a Lord now. A surprise, but not an unwelcome one, and he was afforded the best care the Empire could provide. Slaves entered his quarters to change his linens and maintain his body, all under his watchful gaze. Nurses and doctors bowed and kowtowed to his will, all while claiming that the physical damage would dissolve in time. They had brought him a mirror, allowing him to see what had become of his features.

Nostos stared at it for hours. The bright eyes, the greying hair, the man that looked closer to fifty than thirty. The texts had spoken of this too, physical degredation in exchange for great power in the dark side.

Lying on his bed, a tube feeding him his meals and without the power to even dress himself with his own hands, Nostos didn't feel powerful.

And so he left. He had dressed himself, using the force to unbind his arms and dress himself, he rejected aid from any doctor, even Lieutenant Nivis herself, and walked out into the temple.

They scrambled out of his way. Most didn't recognize him, only knowing that a Sith showing such advanced signs of dark side degeneration was not someone they wished to confront. Nostos found it amusing, considering that an old woman could possibly beat him to death in this state.

He felt him before he saw him, even half dead. A presence in the Force, forceful and omnipresent, like a sudden eclipse in the middle of a midsummer's day. Nostos followed it, until he reached the source and came across a curious sight.

It was not every day that one laid eyes on a Darth. Trusted by the Empress, invested in them the power of Empire and wreathed in the power of the Dark Side, they were rare, singular, creatures. Of the Trillions of creatures throughout the galaxy, of the Billions in the Empire, of the thousands in the Order, they stood above and beyond.

Even in his bed, he had heard rumors of Lord Viren's ascension. Though he had never met the man before, he knew enough to guess that this was him. Unbidden, he stepped forward, into the light of the training room, but far enough away so as not to interfere with the training. He allowed his presence to be felt, out of respect to the Darth and he knew, already, he was braver than most, though some would say mad.

Nonetheless, if there was any impulse that led the Order of Silver it was curiosity, and a Darth training an Acolyte? That was worth any price to observe. Still, he couldn't help himself.

His voice was raspy and dead, like cold air from a sullen tomb. "If you are not afraid." Nostos says, his bright gaze on the acolyte. "Then you are a fool."

[Ysmir]

"Wrong. Again."

Haven cursed and pressed his forehead into the loamy soil beneath him. Dirt clung to his body in more places than he cared to count, sweat dripping from every pore. In most things, he was triumphant and proficient in quick fashion; he found his way around a blade from the moment one was pressed into his palm. But the Force was another beast entirely. To bend it to your will was like trying to subjugate a living, breathing thing, but much more than even that. This entity was all-encompassing, all-devouring, all...

Knowing? No. That wasn't quite the word. In any event, its nature eluded him. No matter how hard the young Warrior tried, he simply could not lift this boulder. A pebble, a twig, his own blade? These things were trivial in nature. And perhaps he had been overzealous when he claimed to his Master that he was capable of much, much more. Now, at the end of his rope, Haven panted and drew in deep, shaky breaths to try and calm his excited nerves. Under the watchful eye of Vash, the boy was struggling. His eyes squeezed shut, the boy's attention was drawn away from the ground by a hiss, and an eminating heat behind his head...

"Lift the boulder. Or you die."

---

Viren remembered Vash's training as though it were yesterday. In a quite literal sense, it was a lifetime ago, before Haven Nox Vadam was killed and Darth Viren born. But, as always, the warrior was astute enough to know that wisdom could be found in all things, especially the past -- its triumphs, its mistakes, and everything in between. Unorthodox though it was, Vash's training had made him strong. The fear of imminent death was often enough to push virtually any being to its absolute maximum potential. A lightsaber to his neck and the boulder between him and the void, Viren had summoned the strength necessary to lift that troublesome thing -- strength he wasn't even aware he possessed.

And so, beneath the visor of his helm, the Dark Lord's eyes narrowed as he witnessed the agitated Arkanian struggle to his feet. Good. The boy possessed some mettle. As the Acolyte drew his saber in defiance, shaky and withheld though his stance was, the Darth didn't falter; in fact, he stepped forward toward the boy, his saber still held tightly in his grasp. Less than a lack of fear, Viren exuded a complete lack of care, as though the acolyte meant nothing more than the dirt beneath Viren's own heel.

"Good," Viren began, lifting his saber before him as they stood mere feet apart, "better not to die a coward."

The Dark Lord gave pause; a Lord, no doubt, from the manner in which he carried himself, firm and confident despite the presence he stood in. Still, Viren was perceptive, and this perception gave way to notice of a peculiar gait that the man carried himself with. It seemed that the acolyte was not alone in his suffering, though the more experienced Sith seemed far better at hiding the fact. Was this the state of all who walked these hallowed halls? A decade, it seemed, had worn heavy on the state of affairs within the Academy. Though perhaps he was simply quick to judge. Time would tell.

Whatever the case, Viren did not address the Lord, nor did he turn his face to look at him. Viren lifted his free hand and closed it. An overwhelming, crushing force bore down on the Acolyte's body, causing him to lurch over at the midsection and fall to a knee before the Dark Lord against his will. Viren summarily disengaged his lightsaber, the crimson blade hissing as it collapsed upon itself. He held his fist aloft in the air as the force continued to bear down on the Acolyte's back.

"You will see that all pain is the same, in time. You are not special." With a subtle movement at his wrist, the unseen force pulled back on the Acolyte's head, causing his chin to lift and his eyes to rise up to Viren's face once more, struggle though he might. Now on his knee, the Dark Lord seemed larger than ever. "Learn to use it."

And then, as quickly as he had subjugated the boy, he released him; the Darth's hand fell by his side as the invisible force ceased its hold over the Acolyte's body, allowing him full control over his actions once more. Though his saber was still drawn, Viren was confident that the boy knew better. Or, perhaps, he was daring the Acolyte to make a move. Who was to say? In any event, he pulled his helmeted gaze from the Acolyte to finally, and silently at first, regard the new arrival. Humanoid, tall and proud, a curious and whimsical glint in the eye that betrayed more knowledge than he himself would let on. Obfuscating. A good tactic. A few beats passed before the Dark Lord finally addressed him.

"Who are you?"

[caelum]

The act of teaching, from one Master to another, was always a deeply intimate affair. It cut to the core of both participants far more comprehensively, far more deeply, than any blade. For the acolyte, it reveals weaknesses and failings, their manners of thinking, what they would naturally desire and how they may be influenced. For the master, it reveals far more telling information. It shows their powers, it shows their preferences and favored tools in the Force and, more importantly, it shows you what they truly believe in.

Darth Viren was powerful, but that was a given, the Praetor Magnus of the Empire could not be one who failed to embody the precepts and philosophies of the Cult of Strife, but how he chose to manifest it was something entirely different.

Why was it that Viren chose to draw his lightsaber? The man was so far above the acolyte that Nostos was fairly certain Viren could discipline and toy with the boy with naught but a flick of his finger, and the subsequent use of the Force to press him to the ground, to force him to concede to Viren's power, only confirmed this. An indication of his priorities perhaps, that while he may be in tune with the Dark Side of the Force, that what Darth Viren, first and foremost, was a warrior? Did it reveal a weakness, that the man's first reaction, first instinct, upon needing to carry out a task was reach for the most obvious and unwieldy of the instruments available to us? Did it reflect his own training in some way, that the Cult of Strife focus their education upon the use of the Lightsaber was obvious, but how much of it applied specifically with him?

Regardless, Darth Viren was likely magnificent in that regard, and Nostos harbored no illusions. On his best day and Viren's worst, with his life on the line, to face each other as warriors? He would lose that duel. He would lose that duel every time.

Which was fine, Nostos considered. He had never considered himself a warrior anyway.

The Sith Lord bowed his head, a deep, respectful, bow that strained at his still recovering spine and made his internal organs sing with agony. Nostos drawed upon the pain, using it, focusing it, and rose up again to his full height.

"Greetings, Darth Viren." Nostos rasped, his lungs recovering still from the vacuum of space. "Though the title may still be unfit for one as new to the role as I, you may know me as Lord Nostos of the Cult of Mysteries."

Nostos had considered the words in his head, as Viren continued his instruction with the boy. Who wouldn't, after all? There had been a moment of consideration on how much to tell the Dark Lord, but honestly, if Darth Viren came asking it would not be difficult for him to learn what he wished to know. Not when the events of his ascension were still so raw and new.

"I have only been recently arisen to this position, my Lord." Nostos continued. "The responsibilities previously held by the Lady Eeyrie has now been assumed by me. While I would not deign to imagine what business you may have with the Order of Silver as a whole, rest assured, I am at your disposal."

[Rugs]

“Good,” the imposing warrior said, “better not to die a coward.”

Karn swallowed hard. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down his back. He tightened his grip on his lightsaber. If I can strike quickly, he thought, maybe I can catch him off guard. As the warrior stepped forward, he instinctively, reflexively pressed back further. But with the wall already firm against his back, there was nowhere to go.

There was no running. Not from this man. Not from whatever he meant to do. Karn could only resist and hope he acquited himself well.

A raspy voice, urging caution, from an onlooker broke his focus for a moment. Karn shot a glare at the Sith who’d emerged from the shadows, watching the confrontation unfold. And who the fuck are you? the look seemed to say. It was all he had time for.

The warrior’s hand rose and closed. Next Karn knew, he was being pressed down, by an invisible, unstoppable force. He strained, groaning loudly as he fought to remain upright, but he could not. The force — the Force — dragged him downward; he could as well have tried to escape a black hole.

“I. Will. Not. Bow. To. You.” Karn growled each word. His straining against the pressing made each word more guttural than the last.

As his body failed to withstand the warrior’s crushing might alone--as he was bent over, and slowly driven to a knee — Karn turned to the Force. Yet as soon as he took hold of it, he found himself at a loss for what to do. Attempts to strengthen himself made little discernible difference. A protective barrier around his body, flimsy and half-formed, failed and shattered near as soon as it flashed to life.

Nothing worked. White-hot fury — at this warrior, at himself — began to blossom.

—-

”What’s wrong milk-eyes? Can’t take a hit?”

Karn rolled over in the hot sand, gasping for breath. He clutched at his side with one hand where a booted foot had slammed into his ribs. Thraken Sato — a Sephi Acolyte he’d once insulted for his sharp ears — stood over him, circling like a cat toying with prey. Thraken held a grudge, no matter how many times he dominated the Arkanian in their spars.

Another kick fell, this one to the stomach. Karn’s vision went murky as he yelled struggled to breathe.

“You talk a big game, Albrecht,” Traken said, gloating for the other acolytes who gathered ‘round to watch, “but when it comes down to it, you never could back it up.”

Karn grit his teeth and grabbed the training saber he dropped at Thraken’s first blow. He rolled over, swinging wildly at the Sephi, only for the strike to be knocked away. Thraken’s training blade burned across his chest, and a blast of the Force sent Karn careening into the wall.

“I don’t even know why they let you in here, if I’m being honest. You sure as shit don’t belong.”

Karn’s head swam. His body ached, and he wanted to get away from Thraken, away from the embarrassment of yet another beating for all to see. Under that burned a fury -- an unquenchable rage at Thraken, for beating him. For mocking him. For being better than him.

A rage at himself. For allowing it.

Lightning crackled around his fingertips.

“Tell you what, Albrecht, I’ll let you off easy if you do one thing.” Thraken had walked over to him. The tip of his training blade hovered near Karn’s throat. “Kneel to me. That’s all you’ll ever be good for here, so you might as well start getting used to it now.”

—-

Karn’s knee touched the ground. He snarled as he continued to fight, but there was nothing he could do to force himself up.

“You will see that all pain is the same, in time. You are not special.” Now his head was pulled back, forcing him to stare at the towering Sith. Karn’s look could melt a battleship hull as he glared at him. “Learn to use it.”

And then he was free. The Force’s hold on him vanished, and he felt as if he’d surfaced at the last moment before drowning. Karn fell forward onto his hands. He took heavy, ragged breaths, unaware that it’d grown hard to breathe.

The Sith had turned away from him, to address the onlooker. Karn’s lips peeled back in a hateful snarl.

Learn to use it.

Lightning crackled around his fingertips.

—-

The blast of Force Lightning took everyone by surprise, Karn included, but none moreso than Thraken. Karn’s attack hit him square on the chest, knocked him flat on his back and left him writhing on the ground.

Karn never gave him time to recover. He descended on the Sephi, sitting on his chest with Thraken’s arms pinned underneath him and punched him in the face. And then again. And again. And over and over until his knuckles stung, until the training sands turned wet, sticky red with Thraken’s blood.

Again and again he struck, right fist then left, focused on nothing but his tormentor and his rage, until he felt hands forcefully dragging him from atop Thraken’s body.

“That’s enough, Acolyte Albrecht. He’s beaten.”

Karn spit on Thraken as the instructor dragged him away.

—-

Karn, still on hands and knees, raised a shaking hand toward the back of the Sith warrior as his words echoed again and again in his mind.

”Learn to use it.”

I’ll show you, he thought, manic. I’ll show all of you. He had more control now than in that fight with Thraken, years ago. His will fed his rage, focused it as he pointed at the Sith’s back. The sparks grew brighter as he prepared to unleash his attack; it was too late to stop himself.

"Greetings, Darth Viren."

The name echoed like a gunshot across Karn’s mind. He swung his arm wide as lightning erupted. The burst slammed into the stone wall across from him with a shower of dust and broken, heated stone. Karn felt icy dread spreading through his core.

Darth Viren, he thought, as the Lord, Nostos, introduced himself, I nearly picked a fight with...

“You are Darth Viren?” he asked, incredulous. He’d heard of the man — the newest Dark Lord raised to the Inner Sanctum — but he’d never met him, let alone considered coming to blows with him. “The Darth Viren?” Karn swallowed hard again. He pushed himself to his feet, grunting at the stinging from his sparring wounds, and hastily deactivated his lightsaber. He felt, suddenly, very foolish. “I... I didn’t know it was you.”

[Ysmir]

While some may view his particular lack of knowledge on the Order's internal affairs in other Cults as ignorance, it was, in reality, more indicative of inconvenience. The Galaxy post-battle of Nar Shaddaa had been shaken to its very core, and the focus of Viren's work - and by extension, that of the entire Cult of Strife - had shifted entirely to combat readiness. Since the day of his ascension, he had ensured to the extent of his ability that every single one of his subordinates stood prepared to march at a moment's notice. So, it stood that certain news had gone over his head.

Cult of Mysteries. When it came time for Viren to choose his path upon Empress Renata's rise to power and subsequent restructuring of the Sith Order, he had carefully considered his options. While it had always been a constant companion of his and something he felt great affinity for, the Force fell second in line to his martial pursuits. This distinction, however, told Viren much of what he needed to know about this Lord Nostos before he had even continued his line of thought; inquisitive, thoughtful, curious, driven, likely intelligent, and no stranger to the higher powers of the Force. He presented himself as well as any other would in his position, dutifully, especially considering his physical condition. As the Prophet bent at his waist ever so slightly, Viren could sense him drawing determination and vigor from the pain that coursed through his body.

Good, Viren mused to himself.

The Darth lifted his hands to the neckline of his glossy black armor, his gloved fingers curling into hardpoints where the bottom of his helmet locked into place. Upon flicking the latches back, compressed oxygen hissed outward as the seal was broken. Nimble fingers went row to row as more latches were undone, and eventually, he pulled back the onyx hood that covered most of his head. Viren pulled upward on the helm at its sides, removing it inch by inch, until his face was fully revealed.

Upon inspection, even at a quick glance, his most notable feature were his burning orange eyes; stern, observant, and in a quite shocking turn, relaxed, as though he knew something you didn't. His hair was well-kept and jet black with streaks of gray despite his otherwise youthful appearance, a consquence of his surrender to the Dark Side. Across the right side of his face was vertical script, a marker of his past life.

His eyes turned downward to Nostos.

"While I would not deign to imagine what business you may have with the Order of Silver as a whole..."

"None," the Sith stated in his baritone, smoother and less mechanic without the helm's vocabulator, "for now. But you will be the first to know."

Despite his brevity and abruptness, it was clear that the Darth at the very least appreciated the efforts of Nostos to lay bare his loyalties in the way that he didn't simply stare through the Prophet, but rather regarded him directly. Such was the respect of the Dark Lord when he viewed someone as worthy of his time. In his brief but extensive observation of Nostos, Viren had almost forgotten of the Acolyte's presence on the floor just in front of him...

Almost.

It didn't take an adept to sense the power that was summoned to the boy's fingertips, and even as he redirected his attack at the absolute last moment, Viren made next to no effort to move; in fact, his eyes simply swept over to the Arkanian as the lightning barraged the stone wall off to the side, dust showering across his placid expression. Calmly, Viren clipped the hilt of his lightsaber back to his waist, turning his full attention to the Acolyte.

The Dark Lord was almost impressed. Even overwhelmed as he was, defeated as he was, injured as he was, the boy still managed to summon enough vigor to try and strike. Although Viren had his back turned and such underhanded tactics were beneath him, the effort alone was worthy of silent commendation. It was only upon learning of Viren's identity that the Acolyte ceased his attack; did the name truly carry that much weight? This was something Viren needed to become used to. As the Acolyte came to grips with this new information presented to him, the Darth held his helmet beneath his arm, staring down to the boy with mild amusement and intrigue.

"Clearly not," he said plainly, tilting his head. "And what do you call yourself?"

[caelum]

Darth Viren's was interesting. He was a youthful man, though the rigors of age had begun to affect him, though not overly so, well kept and orderly. A handsome, worthy, face to serve as Darth. The tattoos on the side of his face marked him as a slave, the Orvax system Nostos believed, though the particularities of that language escaped him at the moment. A curious choice to keep it. A sign to others to fear him? Or a sign for himself to not forget? 

The Dark Side had left it's mark on the man, as with most things, and even here the Dark Side defies categorization. Viren's eyes had undergone the same Oculus Mutatio that affected Nostos's own, but a subtype, a variant. Viren's eyes glowed gold, reminiscent of a fire gone rampant, contained in orbs that seemed to know far too much. Nostos's own eyes had mutated even further than that, his entire cornea a pale amber, that even the pupil had succumbed to the light, leaving only the white scelra of his own untouched. Nostos knew it was unusual, one of the many unusual degradations he had suffered from the aftermath of his killing of Eeyrie, and in the darkest of nights he stared at his reflection in wonder and terror, pale light emanating from his eyes, thinking what it could mean.

And what did it mean, that Darth Viren, Dark Lord of the Sith, was less affected by the degradations of the Dark Side than Nostos himself?

The Sith Lord stood aside, not minding Viren's interruption, and instead watching the interactions between the two. The acolyte had foolishly lashed out, and Nostos watched as Viren contemptuously negated the burst of electricity the boy had conjured. Viren's own question was followed by his own.

"I must admit to being impressed." Nostos says, walking around the stage, closer to the boy, the Sith Lord's robes fluttering by his feet. "Acolytes who choose to kill themselves typically pick a less painful method than suicide by Darth. Why is that?"

Unbidden, Nostos reached into the acolyte's mind, a sledgehammer rather than that of a scalpel. The boy was undisciplined and unfocused, ruled by impulse, and while Nostos was uninterested in hearing the boy's entire life history, he was curious about the reaction he'd gain.

[Rugs]

Karn nodded, keeping a semblance of deference as the Dark Lord spoke to him. There was a small comfort in seeing the man’s face — in seeing that he was a man — and not the unstoppable, unknowable force of nature he had seemed to be before. No, he told himself, raising his eyes to look once more at Viren, he’s still that. That and more.

Dread still churned in his stomach. Would the Praetor Magnus decide that he had to die now, for defying him? No, not yet. Viren’s lightsaber had returned to his waist--though he certainly didn’t need that to best Karn, as he’d so clearly shown already. But Viren’s expression seemed... intrigued, more than disapproving.

For all his earlier bluster, Karn found a bit of meekness coming over him like a wave as he clipped his lightsaber to his belt. To any other Sith, even to the Lord, Nostos, he’d not waver in showing the same fire he’d only just shown Viren. But the Inner Sanctum; they stood apart, second to none but Her Radiance herself.

Even he knew when to bend his neck to his betters. If he felt a pulse of a disappointment that Darth Viren was not an Arkanian, he didn’t allow it to show.

Before he could open his mouth to answer Viren’s question, Nostos posed one of his own. Karn set his jaw stubbornly. He wanted to say that he’d been minding his own business, but that wouldn’t do.

“I am Karn Albrecht,” he said to Viren, deciding to take their questions one at a time. After a brief hesitation, he added a hasty, “My Lord.” The words were clearly foreign on his tongue. His gaze flickered to the bronze emblem on Viren’s armor, and began to add, “My master was Lady Co-”

A sudden presence, unexpected and unwelcome, slammed into his mind. Karn grunted and staggered sideways, bracing himself against the rough wall with an outstretched arm. He squinted, vision swimming briefly. Old memories of his master, already near the surface, bubbled to the fore.

—-

The hot sun beat down on the jungles of Dromund Kaas. In a small clearing, a few miles from the Temple, Karn stood before his master. He was stripped to the waist and slick with sweat. Welts and bruises from a training saber dotted his arms and torso. His breathing came hard and heavy, but he held his training lightsaber — he’d yet to build his own — with a sure grip and stared at her with determination bright in his eyes.

Lady Colubus, his Mirialan master, stood across from her. For as flushed with vigor as Karn was, she seemed to be as unmoved as the soft earth beneath their feet. Her viridian lightsaber matched her green skin.

“You’re making progress,” she said, eyeing him as if weighing the whole of his worth. “You’re aggressive — sloppy, but not without merit. Juyo will suit you.”

She raised her blade. Karn took a steadying breath.

“Now, come at me again.”

—-

Karn put a hand to the side of his head. Who was that, digging around in his mind? He looked at Viren, terror plain on his face, but no, this felt different. It had to be the other-

—-

Karn’s stomach shifted as the Forbearance dropped out of hyperspace.

“We’ve arrived,” Colubus said, looking up from their game of Novacrown. Karn offered silent thanks for; it hadn’t been going well for him. Colubus stood and walked to a viewport; she moved smoothly in her sleek armor, with overlapping plates that resembled a serpent’s scales. They sat a few levels below one of the twin bridges on the Viscount-class cruiser, and were to lead a ground assault against the Archeri.

Karn followed her. The rest of the massive Sith fleet spread out around, pinpricks against the dark of space. Far off, he thought he could see the Singing Spire, a purple speck hanging in orbit over Nar Shaddaa. Beyond that, the Republic’s forces marshaled for battle.

“You’ve done well, Karn,” Colubus said abruptly. Karn blinked. “Your training is not complete, but soon, you will rise to Knight. A Knight of Strife, I believe would suit you.”

Karn wasn’t sure what to say; Colubus was sparing with compliments, and outright praise was an exceptional rarity. “I.. I...” he bowed his head as she looked at him over her shoulder. “Thank you, Master.”

She swept past him with a swirl of the black cloak hanging over her shoulders. “Come. We’ve preparations to finish before we touch down.”

—-

If the look Karn had given Viren earlier could melt a battleship’s hull, the glare he turned to Nostos could burn through to a planet’s core. His lightsaber hilt flew to his hand. ”You,” he hissed at the Sith Lord.

—-

Karn huddled alone in his room aboard the Forbearance as it took hyperspace back to Dromund Kaas. The battle was won, the Archeri spires destroyed and the hivemind driven away from the Y’toub system. It didn’t feel like a victory.

He sat at the end of his bed, arms wrapped around his legs and head leaning against his knees. He wept, sobs shaking his body.

Colubus was dead. He’d watched her die. He’d been the reason for her death, as a panicked moment of hesitation let an Archeri barrel past him and put a sharp arm through her back.

And after her death, in trying to pick up her mantle and lead the men she commanded, he’d failed. Completely. Every man under his command lay dead somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. He’d nearly joined them.

Too many emotions to count raced through Karn. Depsair, pain, anguish, dread.

Regret.

Anger.

And under it all, loneliness.

—-

The red lightsaber blade snapped to life again as Karn pressed uselessly against the presence in his head. He pushed himself away from the wall and took threatening steps toward Nostos. “Get. Out.”

[caelum]

"Lady Colubus was your master? An unfortunate end." Nostos says idly, still walking around the acolyte. He was cognizant of the lightsaber pointed his way, that acting such towards the boy was perhaps not a constructive use of his time, that of all the times to indulge in anything, doing so in front of Darth Viren was perhaps not the greatest of times.

But he felt something, now. Day after day of being stuck in that hospital room, recovering from illnesses that doctors claim would heal in time, feeling that time was moving too slow, the injuries healing at a snail's pace, feeling as though the Dark Side was ever distant, just barely out of reach. He was sick of it.

Here, implementing his will, relishing in his curiosity, submerging himself in his powers, why did it feel so right?

Bright eyes stare at Karn and the light seemed so much farther from the boy now. "You are being unwise, Acolyte. First you lay your power upon a Darth with lethal intent, someone you knew near nothing about and sought to lash out instead of graciously accepting the lesson he sought to teach. Cities have died for such contempt."

The training arena for the room was a gothic, crimson, affair. The sort of bladed, obsidian, architecture favored by the Sith for centuries. It was well lit as a matter of course, for in the interest of practicality over atmosphere, most Sith would rather be able to see their environment when practicing casually. It maintained all the necessities of modern design, including climate control, spacious room and a half dozen other features Nostos would be entirely uninterested in knowing about.

But for Karn, it was something less now. The lamps seemed to dim, a presence seemingly intruding upon the room. A darkness, a corruption, so deep that the very air seemed to breathe like turgid molasses, a winter chill biting into the bone. The lights were present still, but as they flickered and died, the only source of illumination remained the singular crimson saber in Karn's hands. Nostos continues walking, the room still pleasant and well lit for him, the Darth behind him and anyone else seeking to look at what was being done to the acolyte.

Footsteps in the darkness now, slow and deliberate, and all that Karn could see of Lord Nostos was a pair of bright eyes. His voice echoed out, reverberating in Karn's mind like the ringing of a hundred bells.

"And then you seek to threaten me, a Prophet of the Silver, for what? Breaking into your mind with the force of oblivion? I could have done it without you knowing, I sought to see if you could even push me out. A distressing lack of performance there, I'm afraid. You should be thanking me the insight into your weakness."

The shadow shifts, the bright eyes disappearing, only to reappear closer to the boy. "Or was it for looking into your mind and learning of your sad little tale? Save your outrage, the universe is filled with such tragedies. Countless books lined with blood and written in tears, and it is the Order of the Sith that seeks to bring a stillness to that chaos. Direction. Purpose. We are inheritors to a flawed galaxy wherein neither justice nor mercy abide and so we must make it so. To do that, we must be more than sad little puppets to the Dark Side, lashing out and hurting and corrupting and destroying without considering or thought, ruled by petty impulses and the haggard remains of morality."

The voice is softer now, more compassionate. "I forgive you the outburst, your soul sings raw with the hurt of your loss. But cast away your lightsaber and realize the lesson being taught, or I may become unpleasant."

[Rugs]

“Your own end will be less fortunate if you do not leave me alone,” Karn growled at Nostos. He had, moments ago, not cared about the Prophet one way or the other. Now he wanted to peel the man’s skin from his weakened body and let him see how it felt to be powerless to resist.

He did not take his eyes from Nostos as the Lord deigned to lecture him. As his surroundings darkened — as corruption seemed into the space around him, darkening the lights, thickening the air until it seemed he had to will each and every breath into his lungs — Karn kept a singular focus on Nostos. It was the only thing that grounded him; the only thing that kept at bay the icy hands of horror that threatened to drag him under.

The man faded away; a pair of bright eyes remained, though Karn could not say whether the light was their own or of his lightsaber, reflected back at him. He did not care.

Nostos continued to lecture him, to berate him for his actions, for his inadequacy. Karn pushed again against the Lord’s presence in his mind, but found no more success than if he’d tried to push the Temple over with his bare hands.

Give in, a voice whispered as the Nostos’ appeared closer to him, shrouded in darkness like a demon from a fairy tale. “Or was it for looking into your mind and learning of your sad little tale?” The Prophet’s voice taunted him.

If you give in, you can make this all end.

—-

“I yield!” Karn scrambled back across the floor, lightsaber forgotten. Colubus stood over him. Her short, slender figure seemed to dominate the small, spartan training room. It was their first time sparring, as master and student.

The tip of her green saber licked across Karn’s front, stinging from waist to shoulder. He yelped at the blow.

“What the hell?! I told you I yield!”

“And?” Colubus looked unimpressed. “What obligation have I to accept?” The corners of her lips twisted in a dark smile. The look of amusement didn’t touch her voice. “The same obligation Thraken had as he made you his whipping boy, I’m sure.”

Karn snarled.

“Ah, there it is,” she said. “You can show some spine, when pushed. Know this, Karn. We are Sith, and I am a Sith of Strife. There is none among us who would walk these hallowed halls without facing hardship, and none who will survive them without surmounting it.

“You may surrender to your troubles, but that is not the way of Strife. It is certainly not Sith.”

—-

Let it go, the voice whispered. All of this will end.

Karn narrowed his eyes at Nostos. His grip tightened on his lightsaber’s songsteel hilt. No.

“Stand. Or you die.”

Karn pulled on the Force. There was one trick he knew to turn against Nostos. Force Plague, one power he rarely deployed against his Sith brethren. He followed Nostos’ presence, turning his focus to finding the Sith Lord. The illusions around him seemed to fade; the Force offered a natural defense against such tricks, but Karn’s focus was so narrow he didn’t notice.

“You’ve been unpleasant since you first arrived, Prophet,” he twisted the title. The acid on his voice made it an insult. “Why stop now?”

You will suffer for this, the voice said. You cannot do this. You cannot best a Lord.

No.

"You will see that all pain is the same, in time. You are not special,” Viren’s words echoed again within his mind. “Learn to use it.

“What are you before the Dark Lord?” he asked. “Nothing. Why should I fear you, next to him?”

Every ounce of malice, every bit of frustration and pain and anguish Karn felt, he turned on Nostos. This time, there was no flickering lighting, no flashing display of power turned against the wall. There was only silent hatred as Karn turned the Force on Nostos’pressing malevolence to poison the man physically, as he rooted around in Karn’s mind. If it took hold, the effects would be immediately noticeable — nausea, weakness, sickness taking hold as sudden as lightning from a clear sky. If the plague took root, it would only grow worse, and quickly.

Karn could stop it, if it succeeded, but only if the Prophet withdrew.

[caelum]

More scenes, more vignettes of the boy's past. It was almost touching, how the boy managed to draw memories from his time together with Lady Colubus. The Sith do not love, or they are taught not to love selflessly, but Nostos imagined that the feelings Karn had for his master was as close to it as he would allow, exacerbated from the pain of losing her via his own incompetency.

Nostos sighs in frustration. It didn't help that the lessons she taught was foolish idiocy. If they weren't, she'd still be alive, and stubborn warriors with a propensity for bullheaded stupidity and impulsive behavior was not what the galaxy required.

The Sith Lord could feel the boy searching for Nostos in the force, casting about for his presence, and Nostos considered what he was doing with some curiosity. His intent in the force was as clear as an exploding starship, to reach out and affect the target on a cellular level, to corrupt his body, cell by cell, promote artificial cell death and cripple his already ravaged body. It was significantly more subtle than the charged energy he had sent out against Viren.

More than that, he did so efficiently. The boy's own strength in the force was reasonable but lacking, rage and impulse ameliorating Karn's failure in wisdom, but in this it was different. A more subtle, creeping, manifestation of death that was so out of character from the Acolyte that Nostos was brought to a pause. He could imagine that if he was weaker, if he had been paying less attention, if Eeyrie had been something more savage as he choked the life out of her, that he may have even fallen for it.

But Nostos had ever been cautious. The presence in the Force a trick, to force the boy's attentions elsewhere, a position that coincidentally matches with the illusory eyes Nostos had sent ahead of him. The shadowed, bright eyed, monstrosity in Karn's vision merely a puppet, where the true Nostos merely stood from afar, hands clasped in front of him, eyes wide and bright, the shadows enveloping the boy's mind as inevitable as the sun's retreat into dusk.

"Oh?" Nostos's voice echoed in the darkness. The lightsaber's plasma sputters, casting the area in intermittent light. A chill fills the air.

"All you know of the dark side is lightning and parlor tricks." 

Lights return, down below upon the ground, dozens upon dozens. They shed no light, pale illumination in the darkness, and it isn't until Karn looks closely that they are revealed to be eyes. Fear chills Karn's veins.

"All you and your kind have ever known is strength. Such focus leaves you hobbled, your ignorance crippling."

The lights flicker, the eyes staring at Karn, and they begin approaching. Haphazardly, slowly, implaccably. Cold hands alighted upon Karn's legs, freezing. Voices began overwhelming his senses. Familiar and harrowing in equal measure. The fear grows, a nigh impossible thing to shake.

"Your ignorance costs you, Karn. Trapped forever in the dark, lost to a sea of your own regrets. Your own failures."

Hands grasp at Karn's head, gentle, loving and dead. The lightsaber flickers to life, impaling the figure and casting it in deadly focus. Her dead eyes, her open mouth, the pale pallor she never had in life. Lady Colubus, as Karn had found her, her eyes staring at Karn pleadingly, desperately, scornfully.

The light reveals the hands and bodies of her men, _his_ men. Men that he had failed, that were lost, forgotten underneath the rubble of Y'toub. All reaching out, desperate and lost and dead.

All because of him.

"Suffer them now, Karn. Suffer their scorn and loss. It's what you deserve."

========

Karn's body kneels on the ground, still upright, his face still expressing the nightmares that only he could see. His lightsaber lay forgotten upon the ground, cold and unignited, and Nostos raises his head from the acolyte's sorry state, turning towards Viren.

"A threat promised must be delivered when challenged, my Lord." Nostos says dutifully and obediently. "If normal situations, such an acolyte daring resistance against me would be left scrambling in the ruins of his own mind for weeks."

A pause, considering. "However, and I apologise for my own presumption, I imagine you would have use of him. The curse upon his mind is only such to punish his hubris, not to render him useless to you. I may cleanse it from him, should you wish."

[Ysmir]

For all his vim and vigour in the face of adversity, the Acolyte's incessant devotion to his own arrogance was something of an enigma to the Darth. Viren was no stranger to the platitudes of superiors warning him to be mindful of his own rampant emotion, so he disregarded any notion of attempting to regurgitate unto Karn the same tired teachings. He would learn on his own, or he would perish. This was the way of the Sith.

At least the Acolyte knew his place. Beyond his sudden shrinking of tonality in the face of Viren's true identity, the body language Karn wore plain for all to see was indicative of his recognition. Viren's eyes turned down the hallway as the Acolyte began his introduction, only half-listening it seemed.

His mind wandered to the storied history of the academy they stood within, the very seem walls that Viren himself was taken to as a young man, nearly a decade ago. It all seemed so far away now, though the teachings remained engrained in his very soul. What Vash taught him on Panatha was strength of body and mind; discipline with a blade, with the Force, a determined will to perservere through even the harshest of hardships, the ability to let go of that which makes you weak, a philosophy of worth through might to keep you going. These things were indispensible to the Dark Lord, but Korriban taught him something entirely different. They say that those who are not privvy to their history are doomed to repeat it. The Sith Order was not immune to this wisdom. Too often, his brothers and sisters on the Dark path would forego their academic study in favour of only honing their martiality.

Fools.

Although lost in his own world of thought, the Darth's trained ears still heard the Acolyte's words, such that when they were suddenly halted, it drew his attention.

Viren turned his eye to the Acolyte with a hint of curiosity, raising a brow as he saw Karn struggle against an unseen force. Without even a moment's investigation, Viren's eyes turned further to the only other presence in the room.

Nostos saw the boy a plaything, it seemed. Karn's own vocalizations seemed to confirm his theory, and so did the crimson lightsaber that hissed to life as Karn shot daggers toward Nostos. Unamused but curious nonetheless, Viren stepped back from the two with his arms crossed over his chest. The towering Dark Lord exchanged glances between the two as Nostos -- clearly in control -- began his lecturing of the young Sith. Perhaps this would be an important learning experience for the boy? Crippled though he may be, Nostos was obviously no novice in the Force. Even now, Viren could feel his presence bearing down on the room around them with all the subtlety of a superlaser. With a small manipulation of the Force, and a clarity of his vision, Viren saw into the mental struggle that had befallen the two Sith in his presence; the Darth saw vignettes, snapshots of the memories that Nostos had called forth against Karn's will. Colubus, Nar Shaddaa, the Archeri, failure, loss, regret, sorrow, passion, anger, hatred, pain -- things Viren knew well.

Though he lacked the full picture, in the end, it hardly mattered. Viren witnessed with his own eyes as Karn lashed out with a focused attack, one that would normally be considered far too advanced for an Acolyte of his caliber; Viren rose a brow in intrigue. Though Nostos was consistently a step ahead and out of harm's way, the fight that filled the cavity of this broken Acolyte was something to be admired, nonetheless.

Perhaps...

---

Viren walked forward as Karn fell to his knees. Each step was like a triumphant echo, a reverberating beat through the halls that they stood in. He saw in Karn's eyes the silent horros that wracked his mind, courtesy of Nostos. Viren did not regard the Prophet, even as his words were directed toward the Darth, despite what was spoken ringing true. Extending his hand beyond the small threshold that separated them, Viren placed it upon Karn's head, unresponsive though the Acolyte was.

The visions that plagued Karn were soon washed away. However, salvation and safety wasn't what Viren offered him, only respite. Once these horrid nightmares had seen themselves away through Viren's direct interference, Karn was left feeling empty, not tormented. Hollow, not imprisoned. As soon as the Acolyte had regained consciousness, Viren removed his hand and stepped back once more. For his part, it was a gracious and rarely seen moment of leniency; it was difficult to tell if it was a genuine notion or an assertion of his power over both parties present. Viren clearly enjoyed the ambiguity.

"Yes," Viren stated plainly, his burning orange gaze lazily turning to Nostos, "some use."

Then, he returned to behold the Acolyte once more. "No matter how strong your hatred simmers, it means nothing if left to run wild. Remember this."

[Rugs]

The visage of his fallen master, lips parted in a soundless scream as his lightsaber pierced her chest, faded. Karn felt as though he was falling, as Nostos, Viren, the hallway — everything — faded to pitch black.

He landed, not with a thud, but with a dull splash. Some thick liquid, oozing and black as pitch, held him as he struggled to roll over and stand. Dim, grey light filtered in — from where, it was impossible to tell — as he slowly rose to his feet. The thick ooze stuck to him where he touched it; it dripped in fat, slow globs from his back and his hair.

The liquid covered the ground, stretching out forever in all directions. Around him, broken buildings, some suspended mid-collapse, rose out of the muck. Above, more floated in the air as if from strings, some twisting slowly, up and up to the formless sky.

"Suffer them now, Karn.”

Karn looked frantically for the source of the voice. Some part of him knew that voice that seemed at once to boom like thunder and rasp like a serpent’s scales against drying leaves. “Who are you?” he called, afraid. His voice echoed back at him a thousand times against the silence. “Where am I?”

A frigid wind blew, and suddenly an army of bodies rose out of the pitch. They were all black as the pitch itself, but hard and charred. Each stood frozen, stopped in time as they fired weapons, or swung fists at some unseen foe. Some had been running, others stood with their hands raised against some terror.

One rose out of the pitch before him. Karn recognized a Sith soldier’s helmet, with a shattered mask exposing the face twisted in horror and pain beneath. “I know you,” he whispered, shocked. The whisper echoed, louder than thunder, as Karn reached out to touch the body.

A sigh of wind escaped and the soldier crumbled to ash that floated away as the chill wind blew again.

“No!” Karn’s voice caught in this throat. “No, I never meant-”

“Suffer their scorn and loss.”

The voice boomed again. The soldier’s ashes touched another, and that one crumbled to ash on the wind. Another crumbled, then another and as the whole tableau began to disintegrate. The wind turned to a gale.

“No!” Karn screamed. “Stop!”

No matter how much he screamed, how much he shouted, the reaction carried on. He reached for the Force and found nothing. He tried to run forward and struggled to move at all as the pitch sucked at his feet and held him firm. Karn could but watch as the men — his men, his men — crumbled away to an avalanche of black ash.

“It was a mistake,” he said, tears wet on his cheeks. “A mistake...”

In the distance, the ash coalesced to a roiling, formless black cloud. For all the howling wind, it remained steady, circling around on itself as if gathering strength. Karn watched, dread mounting as he knew, somehow, that the black cloud was turning its focus on him.

The shape roiled and twisted, and for a heartbeat, he saw his master’s face, still in that wordless, soundless scream.

Hands, large and small, erupted from the pitch behind him. They grabbed his arms, his legs, the back of his shirt and dragged him down. He screamed and struggled, but for nothing as the solid ground beneath the pitch disappeared. The hands pulled him onto his back and he began to sink, screaming, as the black cloud filled the sky above.

“It’s what you deserve.”

—-

Karn felt a jolt, and was abruptly back in the hallway with Viren and Nostos, on his knees. He trembled weakly. A cold sweat coated his skin; his hair clung wetly to his forehead.

“Yes, the Dark Lord was saying, “some use.”

Karn fell forward onto his hands. His stomach twisted and he dry heaved violently until he was left coughing and gasping for air.

"No matter how strong your hatred simmers, it means nothing if left to run wild,” the Dark Lord said. “Remember this."

What happened? Karn felt dazed, lost. Between his earlier fight and the confrontations with the Sith Lords, he’d pushed far beyond his limit; he felt as if a mountain pressed on his shoulders. He wasn’t sure he could stand if he tried.

Nostos, he remembered with clarity as everything came rushing back. He looked up at the Prophet, burning hatred plain on his face, but it did not last for more than a moment before he broke eye contact and looked at the ground. He hated Nostos for what he’d done, for assaulting his mind for his own amusement, but he could not do anything about it.

As hard as he’d tried, he’d failed. Too weak, he told himself. Still too weak.

Yet, there was a chance... He turned to Viren and pressed his head to the ground at the Dark Lord’s feet; he could think of no other way.

“Teach me,” he said to Viren, his voice shaking from weariness. “I need... I need someone to guide me. I will do anything you ask. I will pledge myself to you.” He paused, feeling shame roll over him. A Sith should not beg. A Sith should stand tall. Yet Karn had tried and found his inadequacy laid bare for all to see.

If this last self-embarrassment was what it took to open the door to greater power then so be it.

“Please.”

[caelum]

Lord Nostos stands back as Karn throws himself onto Darth Viren's feet. He listens closely, watching the boy beg for guidance, begging for strength, and watched with fascination.

In a way, training an apprentice was akin to preparing for the end. The Philosophy of the Sith found strength through conflict, and the most integral and vulnerable of such conflicts is that between master and apprentice. In that struggle, that desire for power, a Sith Lord is most vulnerable. In training an apprentice you train a successor, in training a successor you train that which seeks to challenge you and, in so doing, you create the greatest challenge you might ever face. Perhaps the final challenge one would ever face.

So it was with Darth Revan that he was overthrown by Darth Malak. So it was that Exar Kun turned on Freedon Nadd once his use had come to an end. So it was that Exar Kun himself was betrayed by Ulic Qel-Droma, who turned to the light in defiance of his master.

So it was that Nostos turned upon Lady Eeyrie, taking all that she had offered him and more.

"Have you grown arrogant, childe?"

Nostos breathed slowly, deeply. He could not afford to lose focus, not here, not now. Green eyes stared vibrantly into sickly yellow, as the Lady of Pain ignited a violet blade, bathing the bedroom in magneta hues. Nostos raised his own saber, crimson tinging his face.

"Never, milady. I have learned much from you, and I could have learned much more, in time. The Path I walked with you could have gone farther still."

"Then why fight? Why now?" her pale face shows no emotion still, as much a mask now as it ever was. Putrid eyes stared back, curious.

"Because I can." Nostos shrugs, before pausing, considering. "Because I know I can win."

No, that still wasn't right. After a moment, a small smile erupts on his face. It is broken, damaged.

"Because you would have had me kill Clarent Latt's family." he says, the sith's tone something far away and distant. "Because if I had not, you would have killed me, after making me watch them die. Because it is something that neither Clarent Latt, nor Nostos, would ever do."

A pause at that, silent and damning, before she laughs in disgust. It is the sound of glass breaking.

"I see. Then I've raised a fool."

Lord Nostos watches the pair, bright eyes considering. He watches not this moment, not necessarily, but what the act could mean. What it does mean, tying the two together, two souls, unto death. One or the other's.

[Ysmir]

Perhaps there was something to take away from all of this. Viren so rarely indulged in the decadence and self-interest that pervaded the majority of the Order's ranks. To him, there was nothing to be gained from terrorizing the young initiates. Fear was useful as a weapon, not a training tool. And yet, he found himself at an impass as he regarded Nostos from the small distance between him. This Prophet understood what it meant to read the mind of another, obviously. Were it under any other circumstance, Viren might take this opportunity to prove exactly why he had earned his post, and why his mind wasn't such an easy quarry. But such lust for conflict and worthy challenge would have to wait.

The Dark Lord's eyes turned downward. 

Yes, Viren thought to himself. Now you understand.

Karn, as he so called himself, lay before the Darth's feet, his seemingly boundless capacity for disobedience and vim run completely dry. At the end of the day, this was what Viren sought to instill within the boy; a feeling of inadequacy, and a specific desire to see that inadequacy done away with. The worst fate imagineable for any Sith was that of complacency. To become complacent, comfortable with one's own development, was to become a slave to stagnation. This was something Viren would never allow for himself, and similarly would never allow it for those beneath him. It called to mind stories of the Dark Lords of old who rotted away within their chambers, bodies wilted away from months and years spent in their "seats of power", the very seats that became their undoing. The life of a Sith was -- always and forever -- conflict. If you became content, you died.

This acolyte would realize that, sooner rather than later. Viren would ensure it. In fact, the Darth was hardly even shocked when Karn laid bare his desires to be taught, to be guided in the ways of the Dark Side. His anger and discontent were mere smokescreens that veiled his own self-loathing. He was ruled by his emotion, and thus would always be shackled by it. Viren, for his own part, couldn't care less what happened to the boy. But he showed potential. He could become strong. And if Viren became the one to bring him to that height? Well, all the better.

Viren's eyes turned to Nostos as Karn's request hung unanswered in the silent air. They were knowing eyes, full of inquistiveness and perception. It was as though the Darth knew what the Prophet was thinking. No, he thought to himself. This will not be the end. Not even close.

---

"I fail to see the point of this," Haven said, "have I not proven my strength already?"

Master Vash chuckled, pacing around the boy as he was surrounded by three spinning vibroblades, suspended in mid-air through Vash's use of the Force. "You are strong, perhaps more gifted than any acolyte I've yet seen. Certainly moreso than the hypocrites of the Council..." he answered, a modicum of disgust present in his snake-like tongue, "but without training, you are no more than a charging Bantha. So much raw power, no finesse. I can teach you. I can bring you where you want to be."

Haven scoffed, deflecting one of the three blades as it suddenly and violently lashed out at him. This was not entirely dissimilar to the training Jo had put him through months earlier, except there was no body language to study, no indication of what the floating weapon's next move would be. He had to act purely on instict. His eyes were shut. "I don't remember asking for your help, old man." He deflected another one of the blades.

Then, Vash stopped pacing. Two of the blades lashed out with increased vigor and speed; Haven yelled out in agony as one pierced through his shoulder. The other went lower, passing under the sweeping edge of his own sword to drive through his unarmored thigh, ripping through the supple flesh and pinning his leg to the ground. Warm blood seeped out from the fresh wounds, and the teenager seethed as his eyes shot open, wide and hiding -- barely -- his pain behind a veil of anger. Vash stepped up to the boy. Gently, as a father would a troubled child, a guiding hand carressed Haven's cheek.

"You didn't ask. But you will accept it," Vash said with a slight tilt of his head, "no one knows you like I do, Vadam."

---

If he failed, he would simply die. Viren saw no fault in this plan. Retrieving his helmet from his side, he slowly lifted it and placed it back atop his head. As the hardpoints met with the brim of his armor's collar, they re-sealed with a muffled hiss, the eye slits alight with a faint red glow. He let his hands drop by his side.

"No apprentice of mine shall be seen grovelling like some vermin," the Darth stated firmly, his voice a mechanical buzz from the vocabulator of his helmet. "Rise, Karn Albrecht."

Viren stepped back, wondering if the begging boy even had the strength to stand. "Rise, and state your desires like a true Sith."

[Rugs]

The silence tore at Karn. His own breathing seemed, to his ears, louder than a spaceship’s engines. His heart thundered in his chest. No word from the Dark Lord. Blessed silence from the Prophet, though Karn could feel the man’s eyes on him.

What if he refuses? What would he do then? Limp back to his quarters and sleep the rest of the day away. No one would know, but himself, the Prophet and the Dark Lord. But the shame — the shame would eat Karn alive. Another failing, piled atop a hill of trouble he’d created for himself.

And he’d been so sure of himself, when he stepped onto the sparring sands with Janse earlier. So sure of his superiority, of his worth.

Or maybe that had been a lie — a facade put on for himself as much as anyone else.

Look at you now, he told himself wearily, brought so low.

A hiss broke the silence. Karn wanted to look to Viren, but didn’t dare. It wasn’t the buzz of a lightsaber; he couldn’t defend himself, at this point, even if it was.

“No apprentice of mine shall be seen groveling like some vermin.” Viren’s voice was different now — mechanical, buzzing, as it had been when he first approached Karn. Karn’s breath caught in his throat.

No apprentice of his? He dared to lift his ivory eyes, struggling to keep a look of wonder from his face.

“Rise, Karn Albrecht.” Karn’s heart fluttered in his chest. Is this happening?

"Rise, and state your desires like a true Sith."

Karn looked down at the ground again. His arms trembled, but not from weariness alone. The idea that the Dark Lord might take him under his wing — even when he turned to Viren to beg, he wasn’t sure that he expected him to accept.

Standing would be no easy feat; the burns from Janse’s lightfoil still ached, and he’d exhausted himself resisting Viren and Nostos. He desperately wanted — needed — rest. Yet Karn found a reservoir of resolve within himself to slowly, shakily rise to his feet. To show his master than he had yet the strength. To show the Prophet he would not stay down for long.

“I would serve you, in all that you ask,” he said, looking at Viren directly, intently. The hallway could be in flames and Karn would not have noticed, so focused was he. “I would stand with you against any who oppose you or our Empress.”

These things were true, but they were expected. What did he want? For a moment, Karn fell silent, considering his words. A perpetual pursuit of superiority, of perfection. That was more than the Sith in Karn; that pursuit was in his blood, passed down from his parents and to them from theirs.

“I would learn from you to find strength in my passions,” he said, “to focus them. I would take your every lesson until I stand atop the mountain with you, so that none may challenge me.” He did not care that the Prophet heard the last; he doubted his feelings toward Nostos were hidden, after the intrusion into his mind.

“And I will ensure, Master,” he said, “that your blade remains ever sharp.” He had considered leaving the last unsaid. But everyone knew the way of the Sith; students were expected to see their masters as a wall to climb, a challenge to overcome. Karn didn’t see it that way, or he hadn’t yet; he had been fiercely loyal to Colubus.

Yet, if he could push Viren, in his own ways, it was the least he could do in return for the man’s instruction.

“Passion breeds strength,” he said, speaking in the Sith language. He’d taken an interest in it shortly after arriving on Korriban, years ago. “Power from strength. Through power, victory. In victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me.”

Karn smiled subtly and bowed his head to Viren. When he next spoke, it was in Basic. “Teach me to break my chains, Master, and I am yours to command.”

[caelum]

It was different. Then again, that was the nature of their enterprise. The Sith were a mutating hydra to the Jedi's monolithic tomb. The Sith grew and formed and ate each other, and while every head stemmed from the same source, each could be drastically different from each other as it suited each Sith.

Darth Viren seemed interesting. A quintessential Sith Warrior, of the likes of Darth Malak and Darth Sion. A force of nature given physical form. He wondered why he seemed so interested in the acolyte in the first place, Nostos certainly couldn't see anything of value in the whelp, but that was also natural. The Lady Eeyrie would not have selected an apprentice with the kind of characteristics that would interest the Grand Praetor. In fact, he imagined he would have made a terrible apprentice underneath the Darth.

Still, it was curious, watching them form this bond. Watching the apprenticeship form. It was almost polite, in comparison. Though perhaps that was simply the norm, and Lady Eeyrie had been a particularly vicious master.

A pause. That was most likely it, yes.

The lights in the ship were gone. Crushed and shattered, their sharp remnants used as weapons and blades to throw against his master. The only light in the room was the violet light of his master's lightsaber, burning bright and searing in the darkness. The Lady of Pain stood unafraid, searing plasma kissing the floor, leaving scorch marks and flame as she passed.

Suddenly, a beam of crimson erupted in the darkness, the snap hiss of Nostos's lightsaber. The Lady turns quickly, parrying the blow as their blades hissed in fury. She pushes him back, and Nostos feels something breaking inside. The crimson blade quiets, and 

Still, her block was too late. The Lady turns to the side, observing her off-hand with curiosity. The hand had been stricken, a blade cut through the middle that had robbed the Sith Lady of two fingers and bit deeply into meat of her hand. The smell of cooked flesh flooded the room. Nostos stood, taking advantage of the distraction to disappear into the darkness.

The Lady spoke. "After all this time, still you act like a coward. Cowering in the darkness, seeking leverage in the shadows like a common assassin. If you want to kill me, you will do so bloody and broken. Pained and gasping. Your soul an inch away from blessed oblivion.

She breathes, and Nostos recognizes it for what it was. His panicked gaze turns to the spot behind him, the expanse of space staring back at him through the transparent material of reinforced glass.

"My last gift to you, my son. The same as my first." the Lady said, voice calm and eerie. "Pain."

The room explodes, blown apart in a nexus of dark side energy. Wood shatters, metal crumples and Nostos feels the bone fragment in his hand as he reaches out to stop the wave of power from evaporating him into a cloud of mist.

Not that it matters, as moments later the glass shattered behind him, and he feels the vacuum of space drag him out into the ether, the Lady's cold, crimson, eyes staring at him as he is thrown into the void.