- Joined
- Nov 22, 2015
- Messages
- 208
- Reaction score
- 93
Echoing stillness.
"The true Sith way lies within the Dark Side, and the Dark Side alone," his parents would whisper to him. Their voices cloud his mind, repeating themselves through the empty chamber and rattling over the dense shadows. Calloused fingers brush over the fabric of his ancient cloak, an artifact unto itself. Like those used by the early Sith, his robes are all concealing, a nebulous blackness that binds him permanently to the shadows. The hood, worn and tattered, conceals the young scholar's face within the darkness. It pools against the floor, radiating maleficence and corruption, heightened by its wearer's state of intense meditation. A chant exits his lips, a ritualistic hymn. The call of the Old Tongue. With every word, every phrase, the primordial darkness that lingers upon the surface of Korriban find their way through the pours of his skin and the depths of his soul, filling him with a sense of unity and calm. The Dark Side flows through him, and the ruin of countless galaxies, the screams of innocents ring through is ears simultaneously. Footsteps in the distance.
Eyes of luminescent orange remain closed, but the Force is all seeing...and it alerts him to the overbearing presence now making its way toward his empty chamber. The aura flares around the being's form. A deep red, flaming. Powerful. The color begins to shift, producing distinct shapes against the strangers' body, distinguishing characteristics. Tendrils. Scars. As the Red Sith enters, the Acolyte relinquishes his status of meditation and rises to both feet, only to place himself on a knee in the presence of the Sith Lord. Though he still remains puzzled by the Arcanist's presence, respect must be given. That is the way of the Sith Order. There is no room for arrogance or pride. Not for Acolytes, and especially not in the presence of a member of the venerated Dark Council. But where many Sith kneel simply to stay alive, K'hlanu's stance is one of pure respect. He would do so for any master of the Dark Side, be it a mere Crusader or a Dark Jedi...such as himself. It takes dedication and innate prowess to reach the heights that Maleficar has. A talent and prowess that he would gladly humble himself in front of. His head bows, the tatters of his cloak spilling across the shadows. The ancient Sith chant has ceased. If he payed attention, Maleficar could sense the boy's aura; above average potency for a mere Acolyte.
"My Lord. Your presence is an honor."
Perhaps these would be his final breaths. Or perhaps his true destiny lay neatly drawn before him, a regimen of tutilage under the most proficient Sorcerer in the Order. Only time would tell.
"The true Sith way lies within the Dark Side, and the Dark Side alone," his parents would whisper to him. Their voices cloud his mind, repeating themselves through the empty chamber and rattling over the dense shadows. Calloused fingers brush over the fabric of his ancient cloak, an artifact unto itself. Like those used by the early Sith, his robes are all concealing, a nebulous blackness that binds him permanently to the shadows. The hood, worn and tattered, conceals the young scholar's face within the darkness. It pools against the floor, radiating maleficence and corruption, heightened by its wearer's state of intense meditation. A chant exits his lips, a ritualistic hymn. The call of the Old Tongue. With every word, every phrase, the primordial darkness that lingers upon the surface of Korriban find their way through the pours of his skin and the depths of his soul, filling him with a sense of unity and calm. The Dark Side flows through him, and the ruin of countless galaxies, the screams of innocents ring through is ears simultaneously. Footsteps in the distance.
Eyes of luminescent orange remain closed, but the Force is all seeing...and it alerts him to the overbearing presence now making its way toward his empty chamber. The aura flares around the being's form. A deep red, flaming. Powerful. The color begins to shift, producing distinct shapes against the strangers' body, distinguishing characteristics. Tendrils. Scars. As the Red Sith enters, the Acolyte relinquishes his status of meditation and rises to both feet, only to place himself on a knee in the presence of the Sith Lord. Though he still remains puzzled by the Arcanist's presence, respect must be given. That is the way of the Sith Order. There is no room for arrogance or pride. Not for Acolytes, and especially not in the presence of a member of the venerated Dark Council. But where many Sith kneel simply to stay alive, K'hlanu's stance is one of pure respect. He would do so for any master of the Dark Side, be it a mere Crusader or a Dark Jedi...such as himself. It takes dedication and innate prowess to reach the heights that Maleficar has. A talent and prowess that he would gladly humble himself in front of. His head bows, the tatters of his cloak spilling across the shadows. The ancient Sith chant has ceased. If he payed attention, Maleficar could sense the boy's aura; above average potency for a mere Acolyte.
"My Lord. Your presence is an honor."
Perhaps these would be his final breaths. Or perhaps his true destiny lay neatly drawn before him, a regimen of tutilage under the most proficient Sorcerer in the Order. Only time would tell.