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The Arena Drrane T'keen vs. Qû’jara Jinyeva With or without the sand to cradle his bare feet, Drane had not exploded toward his opponent with the vehemence of Djem So but with the elegance of Makashi. Footwork being key to maneuvering, the balance of his position wasn’t broken, yet the balance...

Passion. Strength. Victory over your opponents. Combat and combatants. If there was no entertainment to be relished from such conflict then why be a Sith to begin with? This one might have liked to know the name of his opponent, for his own selfish Thyrsian customs if no less than Sith, but...

What he would have done. What he could have done. Had the moment been given to him. It wasn’t. That was the twisted secret. The delicious deception. That it’s all an imagination. His. Hers. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t reality. It was fantasy. Realistic, yes, that taste of her lips. The kiss on...

Fear. To be in this chamber, this building, with no emotion, was to mean you weren’t even Sith to begin with. A Sith had to feel the darkness, the anger, the terror; the hate and rage and pain. Otherwise what was the point of it? That the Sith were emotionless pits of emptiness was a...

It was not every day that Drane visited the temple, whether on Korriban or elsewhere, or even in private meditation within his personal chamber. Such temples were a place to escape as much as create; to learn as much as teach. Yet this was one Sith with another temple, not of darkness but of...

It was such an odd thing. There they were, one man and one woman, two Sith, but suddenly they were becoming one. They would be in union soon. Once he would arrive in her ocean her, they would be together. One voice. Joined. She lifted his chin, met his eyes with hers, only inches away like...

Violent. Delights. Both words applied. Two Sith fought with words, with fists, with the Force. He was forceful with her. The way Drane shoved Cheriss against the wall, pushed himself onto her, ready to thrust himself into her any moment, kissing her, touching her, asking for neither permission...

She resisted. Pushed against him. Broke their kiss. For a moment, Drane just looked at Cheriss, and listened. She had beautiful brown eyes, deceptively hazel, as hazelnut as chocolate, milk chocolate even. A man could get lost in them. No, a man had already gotten lost in them. In this...

Violent ends…violent delights… It didn’t make sense. Not the statement, not this environment, not his emotions, none of it. Fear gripped him one moment, the kind he fed on from others, left behind in his past, a kind of fuel to his fire, never burning away but kept at the base of the flames...

Getting up after being sent backwards, Drane watched as Cheriss swung at the woman, or whatever she was, whose hair clung to her face like a curtain. The Thyrsian had been taken by surprise, as much as his mind had been taken by visions, but there was a power in the attack of that sorceress or...

Fear. The fear of the apprentice. Of punishment. Failure. The fears in the person. Of loss of loved ones as with Anakin. Loss of power. Humanity as with Vader. The fear of the person. A tool to gain power. Using it. Just as Sith do. Yet a true Sith, whether Sith, Human or Thyrsian, commanded...

Finally, the puppet went quiet, and the broken man and the torn woman stopped moving, stopped speaking, stopped eating. Drane took Cheriss’ hand in his, shifted it down his arm, to his chest, as he had only moments ago done when he was about to put himself inside her. Only now, he simply let...

It didn’t make any sense. Was this man dead? Undead? Alive to begin with? There he was, alive, dead or in between, as real in sight as Cheriss was at Drane’s side. They both stepped backward as Cheriss whispered. “Cheriss…” Drane suddenly wondered why he had only just now thought of it. His...

Drane exchanged a glance with Cheriss. They were probably thinking the same thing. Destroy this thing and carve apart this entire environment. Punish everyone and everything within it for daring to disturb two Sith in a kitchen. Except he didn’t. This Sith was gripped by something he couldn’t...

“You heard that?” Heard that. Heard. Saw that. Saw… Drane T’keen heard Cheriss Ktrame but that wasn’t to say he listened. It wasn’t the same thing. They faced the same way but only she peered to take a peek inside the kitchen where they both heard what sounded like a metal bowl clattering...

Shirtless on account of Cheriss wearing his shirt, Drane made sure to venture forth into the corridor with his pants intact. There was a nice cool breeze against his skin amid the heat beneath his surface. Beneath the skin was flesh and blood and bone. Above the skin was armor. Amid the visor...

“Drane…” I came to slay. The universe can burn. Those were his words. Were her words too. No poem or haiku. The Force circles. Curves like words. Scarlet. Not purple. Around their world. Two Sith of no mercy. Together if in between. On that circle so round. Their order upside down. Maybe...

Swords. Force. He was a swordsman before he was a Sith. He honed his weapons in combat. He had killed in the field. He searched for that challenge, as the son searches for his purpose, and the sun searches for its palace. He was a warrior. He had a fire. His burned for war. For conflict. He...

Would he give up an eye just to not see her cry? That was a question for another space and time. Whatever Drane was in this moment, he existed. Even if he sees Cheriss as his long lost girlfriend. His woman. His Thyrsian. His sun and his stars. But she left him in darkness, and though he...

That man’s body had positively popped like popcorn courtesy of the Sith Champion and her abilities with the Force. Drane wasn’t in any way shocked or appalled by what he saw. It had just happened so fast that he didn’t know how to react. Who, even, was that man? No time to worry about that...