Adagio: From Grace to Damnation

[Brand]

Chaos.

As a conquering foe it swept through cities, leaving behind the remnants of society. As an infiltrator it drives kingdoms to the brink of destruction, and gives one last shove. As an ally, though, chaos was strength.

A black specter glided through the town's cobbled streets, engulfed in a deep black cloak. Billowing out behind him, he watched as men and women were cut down, the product of wrath unleashed. Twin lightsabers dangled at his belt, concealed by the darkness of evening, but masked eyes watched with intent all that transpired.

It was inevitable, though, that he would be discovered. For all of his quiet and stealth he was not invisible, and as a unit of four village persons armed with basic blaster rifles retreated backwards they caught a glimpse of him. The sergeant formed his opinions quickly and trained his weapon on the figure, opening up a barrage along with his men.

In a blur the familiar snap-hiss of a lightsaber thrummed through the corridors of the city, sending the bolts ricocheting into walls and the early night sky. The trooper's eyes blanched at the sight of the familiar weapon, and Tharrow, Crusader of the Sith, gorged himself on their despair.

Not bothering to waste his energy, the warrior strode forward at a rather lesisurely pace, deflecting rounds as he went. The men backed up slowly but kept their weapons trained in him, but just as they prepared to break and run he was on them, his amethyst blade a blur. It cut through the air with the ferocity of a lion and the precision of a master, and one by one the mix-matched soldiers fell, dispatched in seconds.

The sergeant fell back, cornered against a wall. Tharrow's eyes bored into his skull, but his mind sucked in the waves of emotion radiating off of him. A storm brewed inside the Warrior's chest.

"Why... why!?" the man cried, a tear rolling down his mud spattered face.

Underneath the cold steel of his mask, Tharrow smiled.

** please note this is a retroactive thread taking place approximately two years before the current timeline **

 

[Toska]

In the dregs of society, Mikelus fought to stave off despair. Blows fell upon him from all sides, accompanied by the mocking laughter of poltergeists. Elegantly bound by the fear drifting on the air, he could only run. Rational thought ceased, drowned beneath the current of guttural fear. On he ran, blindly towards the apex, unthinking of the consequences. To think was to stop; to stop was to die.

He no longer knew where he was. This city, enveloped in war, retained nothing of its former self. A stormy cloudscape covered the sky, shrouding the world in gray. Shattered glass laid haphazardly across the street, in close company with smoldering corpses and sulfuric refuse. Smoke stained once-pristine buildings, and where that taint ended, a new one began. Blood, both fresh and rotting, dribbled downhill in hair-thin streams.

Eyes dilated in synthetic turmoil, Mikelus scrambled up the hill. The little streams marked his path. They were visible counterparts to the current of fear. He knew not what he would find at the apex, only that he needed to reach it. Something was there, something powerful. This being, cloaked in the pennon of strength, held the key to survival. Instinctively, Mikelus found his center in the strength flowing from the being.

Lost in thought, Mikelus barely registered a creature obstructing his path. He skidded out of the way, stopping himself a moment before colliding headfirst into the thing. It shifted, taunting his shock with a vicious, toothy grin. It was a human, standing well over seven feet in height. It sneered from a gargantuan face, towering over him. Though the man was unarmed, Mikelus felt a growing sense of unease uncoil within him. The man did not need weaponry to kill him.

The giant muttered something incomprehensible and lunged, arms wide open. Mikelus blanched, misjudging his sidestep and falling right into the thing's arms. It grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Eyes bulging, flailed. The grip tightened until his struggles ceased. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. Panic raced through his mind.

Hands on the giant's wrists, he churned his panic into a slow, simmering rage. Kill, he thought. Kill, kill, kill, kill. His desire manifested before his eyes as a palpable wall of energy. The vortex slammed into the giant, knocking the thing off its feet. It released him as it fell, allowing him to splutter for breath.

But he did not waste any time. In the resulting confusion, he slid a dagger from his shirt. The blade hummed as he activated it, mirroring the pounding of his heart. He fell upon the giant with the blade, punching holes in its chest and face. The vibration cell redoubled his furry, causing flesh to explode where it touched. The giant screamed, but not for long. His chest, riddled with holes, stopped moving soon after the first few strikes. Mikelus was not yet satisfied. He dug the knife into the cretin's eye; its throat; its neck.

When he was through, blood stained his once pristine shirt, soiled his nerf-hide pants, and dribbled from his forehead.

"Do not touch me, plebeian," he panted. "Never presume to touch me." The man was too dead to learn.

 

[Brand]

The specter resumed his march down the streets, slinking through the shadows to shield himself from anymore unnecessary encounters. His hunger had been satisfied for the time being and he had no desire to test himself yet again.

As Tharrow scanned ahead with his eyes he also extended his field of perception, enveloping the area in his Force sense. Down an alley way he sensed a torrent of power contained within some kind of being.

A Force sensitive on this God forsaken world? Interesting.

Tharrow quickened his steps, turning down the left and emerging to see a young noble confronted by a giant of a man, but a brute. A storm welled within this aristocrat's belly, and when threatened, he unleashed it with brutal effects, sending the giant down on his backside and knocking the boy away as well. With a speed born of training and natural augmentation he drew a dagger and ended his foe's life. Blood ran down his shirt as he uttered a curse to his dead foe.

Tharrow watched with a veiled interest. The boy had power, but it was raw and untamed. Harnessed, though, he could be prove to be an ally... someday.

"Boy!" he called, his voice punctuating the tense air. "What is your name?"

 

[Toska]

The call reached Mikelus' ears, dragging him from his stupor. Drunk on the fear and anger, he barely registered the voice. If not for the aura of power pervading the air, he would not have batted an eyelash. Vision obscured by the blood dripping from his lashes, Mikelus saw the voice as a shadow against the street, a stain on the collective sin of society. The man was a reservoir of refined power. There was no wasted energy in his movements.

He scrubbed the blood from his eyes to catch a glimpse of this specter. What he saw both awed and appalled him. This being of strength bore himself with the air of a murderer. His eyes were tilted, cruel things, set in a face that promised death. No, it promised to enjoy bringing death. There was a subtle arrogance there. It twisted the edges of the man's face, honing his jawline on a singular plane. The remaining angles worked obliquely to convey the weight of his power.

It sent a chill down Mikelus' spine. To think that such refined cruelty could exist in this world...

The specter repeated its question, startling him from his reverie. "Mikelus," he said slowly. "Mikelus Archibald Costelle." His voice gained confidence as he continued. Aplomb returned, he regained his aristocratic composure. That's right. He was the son of the upper echelons of Corellian aristocracy. He had nothing to fear, even from such an imposing force. His name alone would send the cretins skittering away in terror.

"And who might you be to presume speaking to me in such a manner?" he asked archly. Amongst the blood splattering his white shirt, he was still a noble. "Pray tell, if you retain the ability to formulate sentences ordaining higher level cognitive patterns."

 

[Brand]

Tharrow laughed.

It was a cold sound, devoid of humor, and it hung in the air. The boy's face was the epitome of a pampered lifestyle, but his cobalt eyes displayed cunning and depth. Tharrow had one mind to utterly destroy the child and be done with him, but his potential simply could not be overlooked.

"Your confidence is misplaced, boy," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "You expect deference because of meaningless authority. In time, you will learn to respect power."

Tharrow's eyes scanned the boy, probing him and searching the innards of his being. For as much arrogance as he possessed he was intelligent, not that that meant anything, but his mind was quick. Tharrow reached up, his gauntleted hands gleaming in the moon's dim light, and threw back his hood, revealing a scarred but menacing mask. It covered the entirety of his face, and only his corrupt eyes gazed outwardly.

"Tell me, boy, do you know what strength is?"

 

[Toska]

Eyes narrowed at the man's condescending tone, Mikelus remained silent under the tirade. Yes, tirade. Such was all it could be, given the man's assumption of power. Inwardly, Mikelus smiled. It appeared that he damaged the specter's pride with his remark. He ascertained his confronter's class in those few words. By his estimate, the man had been born into poverty and picked himself up by his bootstraps. He commanded a deal of power to the point that the majority of people would cower before him rather than question his social standing.

He was a self-made man, the kind of person who fought against predetermined station to create opportunity. In a way, Mikelus respected the talent involved in performing such a feat. However, on a whole, it disgusted him. He simply could not find solace in the idea of a plebeian overturning station. It sat ill with him. Furthermore, it disgusted him that this man stood above him in physical power. At the moment, that was all that mattered.

He met the man's abhorrent visage blankly. His parents' slaves had undergone worse facial scarring, though the eyes were quite intriguing. That must be what his tutors called "Force corruption." He did not quite understand how an intangible essence could visibly affect one's complexion, but he had to admit that there were things in the galaxy that even he could not fully comprehend.

"Strength?" he asked. "Such an inconsequential matter. Those who assume to be physically imposing find themselves lacking in departments of intellect, and quite often the converse is true. However, I see merit in the query. As such, I shall attempt to enlighten you on my ideals." He smiled thinly.

"Strength is a state of mind. It is the power one commands over others, the absolute ability to hold a live in one's hand and crush it. It is control. To be able to hold a dream in one's hand and slowly corrupt it... to sit in the shadows and smile, knowing that the world is revolving at the tip of your fingers. That is strength. To obtain such is to become a veritable god in the eyes of commoners." He made a show of dusting the blood from the cuffs of his shirt. Sheathing the dagger, he met the specter's gaze.

"Are you quite satisfied?" he asked. "There may be a broader field of speculation, but I have divulged my opinion on the matter."

 

[Brand]

Tharrow was surprised the boy could irritate him so. He had a sly tongue, and it would have to be curbed if he hoped to survive, but Tharrow could take advantage of the raw power vested in his being. Quashing the anger he was surprised had risen up in his chest, he spoke again.

"Your summation is correct, for the most part. You have power, and you know how to use it, but only in its most basic sense." Tharrow's hand gestured at the dead man lying behind him, the blood still bright on the boy's tunic. "If you are content to live out the rest of your existence as a noble that is your choice, but if you wish to harness your potential... your powers could be boundless."

Grey smoke could still be made out in the night sky, originating from the luxurious buildings of the northern part of the city. "Even now your past burns around you. Your posh upbringing is in flames. The dark side is a tool, and with my help I can hand you the keys to that strength you described, and I know that you crave."

 

[Toska]

"My past," Mikelus echoed. A slow, sardonic grin made its way onto his face. "Burning... yes, that it is." The metaphor was apt for the situation. While the planet was not in actuality his origin, nor the city his homeland, it was appropriate enough. The shadows of the past danced in the fires of rebirth. He could live with that.

"Power, you say?" After a pause, he continued, "That is appealing. I have yet to be satisfied as a siphon of society. Boundless power..." he trailed off. The concept intrigued him. He imagined himself cloaked in the same pennon of strength worn by the specter, and it suited him. With a widening smile, he nodded unnecessarily.

"Upon careful contemplation," he began, "I have reached the consensus that your tutelage would be indispensable. I shall hearken to you quite faithfully indeed."

End Prelude​