A Song of Dragons

[Tameon Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Remember, remember…the embers of Redember...
He hears the words when he sleeps and breathes.
His mother had sung them to him, closing his eyes.
A song of the dragon, of blood and fire, death, life.

A dragon’s cry…across the sky…
We can hear you, O dragon, my blood…
In the inferno were you born, roaring bright…
Fire, my dragon, fly with wing, burn like the sun.

A man remembers when he was once but a child.
From the womb that he came screaming out of.
A hatchling from the mother of dragons, unbridled.
The scion of House Sylverian, their firstborn son.

The Black Knight, they called him, a dragon knight who knows no end.
He knows no bounds, no boundaries, though in black armor so bound.
There is no distance beyond his vision, no end to the paths he will pave.
They cry ‘Black Knight’ for he follows his own way, but he never forgets.

His family is his, the House of Sylverian, and those Dragons That Rode.
Even now, bidding history, the Sylverians breathe fire in their very roots.
They uphold their traditions, strengthen the scales of their ancestors too.
The dragons are gone, the Force link is weak. But still burning in my bones.

Fingers curl in and form a fist as the man descends the steps.
Stone that twirls and spirals top and bottom of a lone tower.
Not so alone though, that bastion and beacon of family power.
What was once theirs, at least, but hearts still beat for Sylverians.

Thrumming, drumming, as thunder cracks the sky. The man can hear it from behind the walls built like duracrete, in grey rock carved, turrets and parapets like teeth and claws of a dragon still beating strong.

In the blood of his veins, that fire of the Sylverian carries on. He reaches the bottom of the tower, opens a door, steps in, where men and women receive and greet him. Servants of the fortress, from guards to a group of cooks on their way to prepare breakfast.

Servants, but they’re not slaves. Each one has a name and a face. The man who walks their way would take their heads if they ever betrayed his family, a grave mistake, but their loyalty earned them their place, so the dragon’s walls kept them safe.

Redember, the ancient ancestral seat of House Sylverian in the city of Dragon’s Landing, a fortified compound on the world of Valc, but under the Sith Empire it was barely a sore thumb.

To the son of Lord Koryus, the Lord of Redember, he doesn’t much care. He woke up early that morning, not to play future head of House Sylverian, but to see to his family’s defenses through inspections, investigations and interrogations, whether questions inevitably lead to enemies being beheaded yet again.

Past the cooks preparing breakfast in the kitchens, beyond the guards at their stations of doors and corridors, through the hallways of dark iron rock and halls of obsidian steel, Tameon Sylverian finds the door he is looking for and hesitates when arriving at it.

“Leaving us again, then?”
It’s a woman’s voice. A man does not turn about as her voice wraps around his ears, slithering like a snake.
“Not just yet, but some matters need my attention.”
“Matters of life and death, more like.”
“Quite right.”
“Yours or theirs?

The man turns, and he and the woman receive each other at full stance.
Red shirt, long sleeves, black leather surcoat, studded chest, on the man.
On the woman, a long white dress, no house colors, not for her occasion.
Red, black, it’s expected now and then, not required, for man or woman.

At his left hip rests the scabbard of a bastard sword, wrist resting on hilt.
Right hip, no crimson grip, a black hilt, a lightsaber; both swords can kill.
The Black Knight, they call him, for more than one reason, Sylverian son.
Tournaments, wars; opponents are to be carved apart in fire and in blood.

She has blue eyes, cold as ice.
Grey storm clouds are his eyes.
Man, woman, each is a dragon.
Whether black night or frozen.

“I can cut someone down in the battlefield well enough.”
He doesn’t shrug but his voice does.
“Whoever dies today won’t get much of a fight out of me though.
They will most likely die on their knees, quick and clean, or screaming.”
Of that much it was yet up to them.

For a moment she doesn’t speak, they simply stare, eyes into eyes, silver hair, two siblings of Sylverian, brother and sister.
“I’ve gotten all I can out of each one already. Wasn’t much.”
“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.”
A teasing query, if testing, given the woman he is speaking to is a Sith Agent more suited to interrogation at least on paper.

“Maybe I should have been born into the Force.”
She quips with challenge, though this is proving be more amusing than a competition of wits or wisdom.
You would be one dangerous woman with this gift, sis.

It seemed that, over years, if gradually, less and less Sylverians were born Force-sensitive. Beast control, and abilities like it, was out of the question for a number of Sylverians, and even those gifted in the Force were remiss to riding their dragons if they ever even found them again.
We are stuck on the ground, but a dragon is no man to be undone.

“Where is our lord father keeping these prisoners?”
Tameon tilts his head as if expecting no answers from this Sith interrogator.
“They’re not in the dungeons. I checked that stinking shithole already and found only thieves, rapers, murderers—but no traitors.”

“Is there anything worse than a traitor, brother?”
She steps forward, Laranil Sylverian, a woman suddenly alive with motion, though so slow is her pace. It’s as if her purpose in that moment was to reap the gaze of her elder brother and eat every truth and lie resonating from his face.

It was an odd thing, really, but even without the Force on this woman, his dear sister, the Frozen Dragon was nevertheless a force to be reckoned with. She, like most in the family, was only beginning to tap into the rivers and streams that the Sith Empire had released, unleashing her abilities as a Sith spy and infiltrator when the occasion called for either.

“Kinslayers.”
“As you would be. We all deserve answers, but they are not prisoners. Father let them go."
Tameon’s turn to take a step forward, taller than his sister, staring down at her, eyes in eyes, but she’s still somehow as tall as a spire of ice.
“Those Redtyde turncloaks are not cousins in my eyes. They are cu—”

“Careful with your tongue, my son.”
The voice of Mother, the mother of dragons, Lady Atherin Sylverian in the flesh.
Tameon just then turns his head and takes her in, black dress, a black headdress.
“Members of House Redtyde were guests in our house, not prisoners, so let it rest.”
She paces forward, commanding more authority from brown hair than silver men.

Sylverians, born of silver hair, but Lady Sylverian's also Atherin of House Vallister.
The lady mother of her new family, in the grand foyer of her house and fortress.
The wife of the husband, she became a dragon when she married into the family.
But even she will not be able to raze the flames that Tameon Sylverian is bringing.

“I'll rest when my enemies are dead and I am in a woman’s bed in Dragon’s Landing. Till then.”

He has already had enough of Redember, her and her, this morning.
Fingers flick, the Force carries a message and activates a wall switch.
The entrance and exit of Redember begins to open up for him next.
A house at his back, unable to stop a dragon, or the fire in its breath.

 

[Senestra Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

‘A Pome of Home’.
First words on the letter.
Letters written in black ink.
Red dragon branded beneath.

A letter, her brother had written her, as he liked to do.
The writer among the family, Aevis, making hearts move.
A ladies man, this sibling, thirdborn, nicknamed Flamefinger.
For more than one reason, even she knew, his younger sister.

But no longer a little kid. A small smile on her little lips as she then opens.
Aevis could have typed it but he liked to write, quill to parchment, his token.
Beneath that title—‘A Poem of Home’—Senestra reads further: ‘Dear sister’.
In her position, she plays politician, representing House Sylverian as a speaker.

Thoughts drifting, upward and away from that letter again, toward her own red black pen.
Beside her computer, there in her chamber in Redember, lit up by flame, illuminating desk.
Artificial lighting available but all such light was dead; fire, however, is as naked as breath.
In a black leather chair, she rests, silver studs line its edge—she remembers the letter again.

‘Dear sister,

I miss you already. You and my other siblings too, truly, but though I tried to say goodbye to Tameon he would hardly look at me. I shrug to that as I write these words, let both my shoulders and my hand curve, for I am more sad to part from you than I am at my elder brother’s bad mood.

So, in keeping with my company, I leave this letter for you to read over—and over and over again, yes, to your heart’s content. I jest, I guess and, without further wasting my literary breath, leave you to remember our house wherever your own endeavors take you, sweet sister.

Remember the black, remember the red, remember the embers of Redember, and let this poem of home remind you too.’

She began to read it, that poem of home, when came a ring on her door just then.
Head turned, glancing from shuttered window to shut door, and whatever message.
“Enter,” she said, just loud enough to be heard above her breath, but silence was next.
“Enter,” again, firmly this time—if anyone stands behind they apparently draw no breath.

With a sigh, she gets up and leaves the letter on her desk, straightening the edges of her dress.
Black as night, almost a nightgown but not quite; it was morning, though the sun hides outside.
Pacing toward the door, she might have done her hair, long locks loose, silver, but naturally kept.
Whoever her visitor is, no sensed presence; whether servant or a sibling, she doesn’t care to guess.

Wave the hand, as lazy as she had been waking up this morning, commanding the door to open.
The Force at her fingertips, the doorway gives way while she stands at a distance, and she blinks.
Beyond the door, a corridor, in black rock bound, grey steel, but it’s empty, not a spirit in motion.
Cocking her brow, Senestra Sylverian leaves her private sanctum for the hallway, but sees nothing.

She looks left, right, naught but a hollow hall, draped though it is in black curtains, lit by braziers.
Paintings of House Sylverian line the walls, her lord father among them; Koryus, the Old Dragon.
His eyes sweep over her, eerily peering with strength; suddenly breath rises in her chest, as fears.
But a feeling, like something is amiss amid this strange silence. Foolish. You are fearless. A dragon.

Then, that unmistakable ring—not like her door had been.
A rush of wind, an alien thing in a hallway, air between teeth.
She twists round to face the distance, silver brown eyes gleam.
Haunting, not haunted, a dragon's reaction to hearing a scream.

 

[Tameon Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Darkness. Can a man grip it in his fist? If he did, would he relinquish it?
Darkness. He would not dare to kiss it. A man has ever danced with it.
Between his fingers, darkness slips, like sand, escaping, crushed glass.
Sharp as a sword, darkness pricks, like a sword’s tip, and like dragonglass.

The Black Knight, they called him, for he gallivanted about the galaxy, they said.
On his horse, his armed courier, Blackfyre, ever the explorer. No… I'm a wanderer.
He said. He felt. He told himself it was just as well. Why settle for anything less?
Was the head of his house a position to mean more? Am I to be a lord or warrior?

Tameon Sylverian, that was his name, is his name, but who should define it anyway?
Is it not up to me? Tameon thinks, there in the darkness, in the shadows. My name…
It is folly. To have shadow, there must first be light, but there is no light within this place.
No sunlight, no torchlight; all such light has abandoned; only darkness, yes, a black gate.

Yet a man isn’t sightless. He can see. He can sense. He has senses. More than most can boast.
He has eyes, grey beneath silver hair, but he does not need them to see. Oh, the Force he knows.
Indeed, a man isn’t soundless. The room is dark, the naked void, but sound is moving to and fro.
The gentle breeze, his breath between his teeth, almost silent, so serene, yes, like that of a ghost.

Yet, his breath is not alone. There is wind, a windy throat, from someone frightened, cannot cloak.
Can’t hide, though another man might try, and is merely one man of three, Tameon not counting.
Tameon. Sylverian. That is my name. He tells himself in this cave, by desert dune it’s so cloaked.
Unseen, unknown, except for the dragon who has claimed it as his lair, darkness surrounding.

Beware. Be scared. If the three men’s breath are anything to go by, well, they are not scared.
Not at all. You are terrified. Petrified. It made sense. Looming in their presence was a dragon.
He steps forward, that drake, and his name is Tameon Sylverian, firstborn of Koryus Sylverian.
Heir to the noble chair, no royal throne, but House Sylverian is not so unknown. Teeth bared.

Before him, breathing without words, begging to be heard, kneeling sluts of House Redtyde.
Slugs, each and every one, not guests as Mother had said. Sons, these three. Sons of lies.
Sons of whores. Those sons of Barryn Redtyde. Who among you shall walk away today?
The dragon takes another step, standing before them, his boot’s dull thud on rock so paved.

“Do you know my name?”
The dark silence, he breaks.
Quiet, the tongues of the sons.
“Who among you has the brains?”

They can’t see him, but he can see them, for he needs only the Force to see, this dragon.
A song just then, as blade sings from scabbard, steel against wood and leather; a weapon.
A sword, polished and gleaming, whose cross-guard quillons are of a dragon’s very wings.
It isn’t his only weapon, a dragon is a walking arsenal, for his lightsaber remains sheathed.

“You lot stole something from me…like wild beasts steal cattle.”
Silence, it's so still. Oh. Suddenly you cannot speak. Such cravens.
“Plucked it from mine own home; thieves.” Eyes—grey ravens.
On their knees, these sons, whether by blood. Blood is battle.

“You will now tell me where the Dragonrider is. Oh yes.”
Silence, his arm is silent, resting Lady Red on a shoulder.
“Sons of Redtyde, look to one another, look to your brother.”
Sylverian steel looks upon a neck. “Answer. Or I take his head.”

 

[Senestra Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

There are those who claim that a dragon’s breath was enough to melt flesh.
Not even fire, more like a whisper, a gentle breeze, to render skin like paper.
So that, when a dragon did cast its flame, it was quite like a star’s own breath.
That blaze, a little girl learned, emblazoned her very name; in a way gave birth.

From the seed of her father and the womb of her mother, there came the babe.
As naked as a flame, barely crying, quiet, but trying to speak like a dragon flying.
If one were an infant just growing its first wing, that was how they described her.
Senestra of House Sylverian, from toddler to woman, held her fire, and it burned.

Trapped in a moment, she remembers, as she stands in a hallway frozen in time.
It is as if fear itself is stuck in a lullaby, struck like a rhyme, for a little girl far away.
A long time ago, as the horse ate the hay where one brother and one sister played.
Uncertain if they heard it, that mountain’s cry of a dragon, as loud as it was bright.

She blinks herself out of it, heeding her own heartbeat, that woman, that Lady Sylverian.
In one corridor of more, hallways of the place she called home, that hall called Redember.
She stands still, breathless if breathing, like life and death, like a newborn before carrion.
Always a feeling, an emotion of this woman, where she must be emotionless. I remember.

An echo of her past, but she cannot look back. The hallway stretches wall to wall, end to end.
Outside her room, she hears a tune, some dark secret, as far as that woman can believe it.
The feeling, a Sith knows, is the essence of being broken in by the darkness that is one’s friend.
As much as my enemy. A Sylverian knows, for the Force is merely a door to wake the dragon.

Breath, like a whisper, given to the air of the corridor and the floor where she senses a presence.
A figure nearby, whether on her side, faintly familiar, stalking her, like the paintings of her memory.
She steps forward, away from her room and toward the pillars that flank her, hugging right and left.
Someone is here, taunting her. Something is near, haunting her. But a dragon has a fire in her breath.

“Where are you..?”
There is no response.
Like a dying piano tune.
“I advise you move along.”

Whoever or whatever this intruder is, it cannot best a dragon.
A noise just then, a laugh, and yet again a woman is taken back.
We were so young, brother, but fire is no lie. It lies within our blood.
A hatchling, that is what she feels, like that girl within her past.

Senestra walks along, knowing her predator hides, her supposed killer.
Closer, though the other tries to hide, both spread wings to one another.
He rounds out from behind a pillar, hand out, and pushes with the Force.
She advances, far from defenseless, catching it, letting her hand absorb.

“Nice try.” Her smile is sly.
Staring the lad down, he frowns.
“You knew I was there the whole time.”
“It’s the dragon in me, Jonithen.” She lied.

Jonithen Sylverian, Senestra’s nephew, son of Vorestra, her sister, of fourteen.
A teenager, an apprentice in the Force, of the Sith, with power being his dream.
“There hasn’t been seen a dragon on this world since the war of houses, auntie.”
“Too true,” she tilted her head. Then again. “Yet we Sylverians carry their memory.”

“Pfft, I’d rather be riding one, flying into the wind, than reminiscing—”
He was cut off just then, as something took the boy like a strong wind.
Jonithen went flying, arms spread like wings, backwards into the hallway.
He screamed, then he vanished from view, like breath in steam that fades.

A floor, a corridor, with doors galore.
Senestra breathes a dragon’s breath.
Memories beside reality, she laments.
That presence. And she storms forth.

 

[Tameon Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Silence. Sometimes it gives way to violence. Loud, so many people are, thrashing arms.
He had been to enough taverns, cantinas, to see the drunkards, and how they harmed.
They did play their part, giving way to their tempers, unbridled, like an untamed beast.
They sang their song, fingers to fiddles, but here stood a dragon, and he could breathe.

Fire in his breath, blood in his chest, he breathed, inhaled, exhaled in the black of silence.
Darkness, it captured this cavern, but only one within this pit had the eyes to see behind it.
Only one could peer past the curtain, break the drape, see the situation for what it truly was.
Only one could hear the fear of a thousand craven voices, a million, wrapped up into just one.

“Max Redtyde,” Tameon so named. It was no name of fame. However, reputation was not the game.
Max was one of three. All three brothers, and all of the same mother. What would she have to say?
“You are about to watch his head roll upon the rock.” Tameon declared, no sarcasm in his tone.
“Oh. Right.” He could see, his senses more majestic, but they could not. “I will show you so.”

The majesty of the Force, it had opened its door to him, to Tameon, dubbed the Black Knight.
He knew his purpose, to become one with the chair of Redember, to lead his house day, night.
But I walk another floor. In blood, in gore, the son of Sylverian would lead his house to one end.
We will burn the fabrics of reality, with or without the wings of a dragon. For I have mine own breath.

He breathed. The darkness of the cavern burned aglow with the seed of a flame, a single spark.
It gave way to a fire, without the kindling, and illuminated the face of Max Redtyde within the dark.
Dragons. They were ancient beasts. Painted things on murals. I am the fucking dragon. Fear me.
“You two are too quiet,” Tameon spoke of the other brothers. “I mean what I say, say what I mean.”

They failed to answer the future head of House Sylverian.
Mother and Father would call him a maverick of their family.
Yet, they could not deny that Tameon’s words were of honesty.
If his enemies would defy him then they were worthy of sentence.

Of an ending. Of punishing. For the dragon yet breathes. And the bitch chicken bleeds.
Cowards, perhaps, for the brothers Redtyde to deny their better as their master.
Afraid of facing the dragon in person, they resorted to stealing from his father.
From his mother, from his house, and to that is one answer. Break the knee…

For the knee would not bend.
So, then, it is off with his head.
So Tameon swung his Lady Red.
And the neck of Max Redtyde bled.

Compromise and consequence.
The Redtyde sluts chose violence.
Cousins, but he did not choose blood.
His family was of Redember, not Waterrun.

Red tide, fit for the name, bright in the torchlight that Tameon had raised.
“Dragonrider,” came the voice of Tameon Sylverian as their reminder.
“Where did you hide it?” The two remaining brothers were pale of face.
“Tell me, or you suffer the same fate.” Fucking traitors. “You will burn…”

 

[Senestra Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

A lady, but not lost in a maze. She knew her fortress as a girl played her little game.
Back then, a memory of torches, of lanterns; brother and sister in the dying of the day.
A lady of a noble family, of House Sylverian, a daughter of a dragon, of the Old Dragon.
He didn’t need a crown on his head to impart fire and blood, or his wisdom and strength.

Memories, bleeding, taking a lady to her past, but she pushes them back and pushes forward.
Into the hallway, surrounded by black, by ashen grey, by that amalgamation of black iron bound.
Torchlight, a Sylverian’s gesture of clinging to the ancient days, rather than a powered light fixture.
Flames beside her, whipping in the wind—there is no wind, but this is one Sylverian with wings now.

She flew, she can fly, low to high, like an arrow plucked from a bowstring, she becomes a gust.
A door to her right, and a door to her left, but they are closed to her, for she ignores each one.
Further. A thought in an instant, time slowed in a moment, but she’s fast as wind, a blur of dust.
Silver hair whipping, Force carries Senestra, toward the very location where Jonithen last was.

That presence, she had sensed it, had mistaken it for the boy. And she was foolish to misinterpret it.
She would not make that same mistake twice as she landed, looked to her left, looked to her right.
Doors again, while the hallway was as quiet as a whisper, as a kiss, but loud would be her fist.
Focus, dragon. Smell your prey. She breathed in, steady, breathed out, moved but did not fly.

Apparently her enemy was also tuned to the power that prospered the fingertips of the dragons.
No matter, Senestra Sylverian would deal with it, him or her, and she would enjoy the challenge.
Don’t get caught up in the moment. Senestra warned herself, checking her emotions at the door.
Get him back. Someone, something, had taken Jonithen; for that, a dragon would wipe the floor.

A door, durable, steel and then some, and a panel on the wall. A hand pressed in. No movement.
No response. She typed the code like turning a key. Nothing. But something dark on the other end.
Something cold, like a grave come awake, and deep as a hole in an ocean’s darkest depths.
I’ll burn the water then. Fingertips, claw’s grip, shaking, quaking, a door vibrating, and it opens.

Sliding upward, her hand is forward, open to unleash, the other at her hip, by her robed sheath.
She wore a sword, but not of the old kind; Senestra’s was yet silver, and the hilt of a lightsaber.
Darkness. The dark side had since kissed the House of Sylverian, but here the dark was amiss.
Permeated the room, pitch blackness; she entered, stepped in; a dragon readying her wrists.

That presence. She ever sensed it. As much as she felt Jonithen, as if she's feeling his very heartbeat.
It was faint, like a whisper, perhaps in front of her, maybe in a corner, as Senestra moved her feet.
They called her the Silver Whisper; little lips, quiet voice, but a tongue that was proven to bleed.
Silver hair, silver eyeliner, silver polish on long nails; and her left hand was held so as to sweep.

“I don’t know who you are…” Senestra offered this would-be kidnapper. “...But you are done.”
Whoever this is, whether Jedi or Sith or some other contraption, no matter. They will be dust.
She paced along within the dark chamber, seeing beyond her conversely brown eyes yet alive.
Not silver like others but they were hers, and they saw. “You see, a dragon is not to be touched.”

There!
A flare.
It came at her.
Hot enough to burn.

Senestra dodged, turned.
To the direction of her attacker.
Fire died out against the wall behind.
As Senestra knew her enemy was no Jedi.

 

[Tameon Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Burn. Bleed. It didn’t really matter to Tameon. He who had taken the head of another.
He wasn’t the first, by any means, and he would not be the last. There are still others.
House Redtyde, that was their name. Bravely playing the game, these three brothers.
No. That’s wrong. Tameon corrected himself. Two brothers. One less son for the mother.

“You haven’t met Lady Red, have you?” Tameon beckoned of his two remaining friends.
“A bastard sword, you might define it. Fit for one swing or two-handed. And for heads.”
They didn’t look too impressed. Petrified, maybe. Angered at their own brother’s death.
“Material is songsteel. Luminescent silver metal. Brilliant. Beautiful. Lightsaber-resistant.”

A Sith would know. Yet this was more than a Sith. He was Sylverian. If yet more than that.
“Forged from the ore of mine own mines.” He shrugged. “My family’s, anyway. My house.”
He pointed his sword forward, toward a naked face. Beads of sweat lined its countenance.
Blood dripped from the tip and edge after slicing through a neck. “Clean kill. Slash or stab.”

One son of Redtyde looked to the other one. “I will even allow you to choose who will die.”
It would be a worthy sacrifice to save the other’s life. “Or you can choose truth, Redtyde.”
One question. One answer. “Where is Dragonrider?” Tameon knew he might whisper.
Move the fabrics of the Force between his fingers, from his mind, as to find his answers.

Yet this was different. This was personal. He was not a Sith at this moment. But Sylverian.
“You made a mistake, my lord.” One brother spat. Finally. He speaks. “Whatever happens.”
The other brother kept silent. “You can kill us both. Do you think no one will know? My house?”
He had Tameon’s attention, who stood in silence. “We will bury yours into the fucking ground!”

In the darkness, in the dim light, the son of Redtyde could glimpse Tameon’s grin. “Oh? How?”
His lips split, beckoned in a bit of a giggle. “You speak as an anthill to a mountain, you silly person.”
That made his captive grit his teeth. “Jornah, right? I will remember it. After I bury it within the dirt.”
“My name goes all the way to ocean, Sylverian!” Such heart. “Fitting, then, for there it will drown.”

Finished with that sentence, Tameon delivered his different sentence, flicking his wrist, watching.
Listening. Jornah began gurgling, a slash on his throat, blood spilling, as if he was even vomiting.
His interrogator might have tortured him. Force, even. No. He had no time and he had no mind.
“I’m running out of both patience and patients.” Sword forward. “Last of the line, Guy Redtyde.”

“D-Don’t kill me! P-Please!” Guy beckoned.
“Mercy is for kings. There is little for dragons.”
“I’ll tell you anything! Everything! Ask whatever!”
“Same question, simply. Where is Dragonrider?”

 

[Senestra Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Perhaps her foe was actually some jester who could spit fire. Maybe some bloody mummer of an attacker.
Otherwise a mundane individual with no power over the Force. Same may be said of her sister or brother.
Two of them, at least, for not every Sylverian was born in the Force. Though, every Sylverian held power.
Not a single one of her siblings was mundane. Yet only those with this gift and curse may unleash fire.

It was an ability not limited to Sith. The Jedi might also practice pyrokinesis as one of their talents.
Yet, in this chamber of darkness, the Sylverian didn’t sense the presence of the light. Only darkness.
Which meant her opponent must be Sith. So, with the lightswitch ineffective, she used her senses.
As a fire died out against the stone behind her, Senestra Sylverian rushed forward. Time to end this.

She would do so in seconds before this fight had even begun. Into the fray, she ignites her blade. -snap-hiss!-
A red light lights up the darkness in an instant, illuminates her face which blazes with hatred for her attacker.
Because her attacker was just as much her nephew’s very own kidnapper. That was their first mistake.
Their second was daring to assume that the youngest daughter of Koryus Sylverian was yet weaker.

Sword in one hand but, oops, that was just a distraction. Her primary power rested with her magic.
Left hand opens, ignites a light, a fire of another kind, and it would be familiar. Senestra advances.
What!? And…she stays her hand. Stays her blade. Oh. For goodness sake... She actually knows this man.
There, sitting in the corner on that old dusty chair he preferred, the same one she once sat on him with.

There, sitting with him at that very moment, was not the girl from those ancient days. It was not a girl.
It was a boy. It was her nephew. It was his great nephew. It was a sight to see. Memories of her world.
As was he. This was his chamber, after all. Now I see. He controlled the locks, the lights, no matter time.
He might no longer visit these quarters, considering he stayed at the edge of their realm, day and night.

Still, no exile, despite his strained relationship with his brother. It was just unusual to come back home.
Though the question was why? “Mind turning on the lights?” Senestra spoke in a casual if defiant tone.
He did just so as beckoned. He was quiet though, with the faintest formation of a grin on rigid lips.
No need to ask if Jonithen was okay. His legs happily swinging away in the lap of Karyl Sylverian.

Senestra’s uncle. Koryus’ younger brother, but not by much. Marshal of Redember. Lord of Karhold.
“Next time please leave me out of your games and practical jokes,” she spoke as she sheathed her hilt.
“You would deny me my right to test the abilities of my niece and great nephew?” His lips spread. So bold.
“I would simply ask why you are here,” but there was no real ridicule in her tone. Yet she denied him still.

“Come, Sen,” Uncle beckoned. “Let me gaze more closely on your face.”
Sighing, Senestra did as bidden. “Uncle Karyl didn’t have me scared at all!”
“Indeed.” She looked from Jonithen to his would be abductor who sat tall.
Karyl was a boulder of a man whether he sat or stood. “Something to say?”

“You look the same as always. It’s as if I saw you and him just yesterday.”
“Yet you didn’t. Busy guarding the marches. Would have it no other way.”
Karyl’s Hold before it was compounded; a fortress with an implacable lord.
“Someone must. Your father charged me thus. I happily opened its door...”

Karyl looked away, gazing at his chamber bereft of decoration, bare of furniture.
“Does Father know you are here?” His lip stiffened at the question. “Not just yet.”
Right. Sneaked his way in, most like. Doesn’t want an argument. For better or worse.
“I didn’t come to see you, niece.” Eyes into eyes. “Where is he? Where is Tameon?”