The Assassin: Final Amends

[Soverin]

[Note: This roleplay is a continuation of a previous entry.]
@Vashiir @Darles Chickens

[Ziost : The Blooding Pit]
[Morning : Still Weather]

​

One final stop, Ziost. The stage that would set the scene for their last confrontation. It was a mission to eliminate whoever'd hired the Bounty Hunter, Vashiir, to collect the life of Mors Soverin. A transaction he intended to punish the buyer for. Ziost's harsh dry air tore open as the Sith transport vessel soared down to the planet's surface, making a slow descent to arrive at one of the planet's premiere sparring grounds for newly blooded Sith. Inside the transport a small troupe of armed soldiers, alongside the wronged Sith in question and his allies, took to their posts.

​

Mors stood across from Vashiir, keeping a close stare on him, like he was deep in consideration. The reverberating rumble from the planet's atmosphere ineffectually rejecting them was no obstruction to the focused gaze that tended to remain between the two. They had both taken their resupply time to reflect on what they learned in the freezing tundra. Judging by Mors' subtle shift in choice of fashion, it appeared he'd certainly learned his lesson.

​

"I need to know you won't turn against me on this, Bounty Hunter." Mors shouted out through the noise, trembling against the metallic frame of his station. The entirety of the transport shook from turbulence as most ships did when trying to penetrate Ziost's vicious ether. The planet had developed it's own defenses, unarguably worthy of the praise it garnered among the Sith. Regardless, it wouldn't be enough to drown Mors out in making his terms clear. "The credits will be yours as soon as this mistake has been corrected. Betray me and I will have no choice but to kill you together."

​

The Sith looked to Maro for an instant, standing a few soldiers away, before turning his gaze back. "It would be unwise, but I offer you the decision."

​

His eyes were hemorrhaged with rage, just swirling within him. It was docile, like a flame enclosed in a bottle --- It simply awaited the right reaction to burst. Vashiir was only secondary in his thoughts to the inescapable suspense of vengeance.

 

[Vashiir]

"I limit myself to one betrayal per contract, Sith." The Farghul called out over the noise with the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the right corner of his mouth, before quickly banishing the emotional display.
"But first and foremost I run a business." he said curtly, crossing his arms over his chest as his gaze fell hard on Mors, the pupils of his eyes narrowing into thin slits. The Farghul's tail would give a quick flick as he shifted his weight to rely on his right leg, his steadily swinging tail occasionally altering its tempo to help the man to keep his balance when the ship shook.

"I have policies that we need to agree on before I accept."

 

[Soverin]

Another glance Maro's way, giving him a cursory inspection that was absent words. Something deep within him still didn't trust his newfound ally, but it was commonplace when he met other Sith. When he looked back to Vashiir he straightened himself up a bit, readjusting his grip on the frame of his station. "An unfortunate time to start making demands." He was surrounded by Sith and Sith reinforcements, after all.

"Speak." He nodded, albeit after a long pause to consider if he were even going to hear the Farghul out.

 

[Vashiir]

Vashiir would have lofted a clawed index finger on his right hand as he began to speak, never once breaking Mors' gaze, as if he were initiating a silent duel of wills.
"I reserve the right to deny an order to kill if it is not your designated target, unless specified during the establishment of our agreement."
Vashiir would then loft his middle finger to stand beside his initially raised digit.
"If it comes down to it, I'll save myself over anyone else, unless you designate the mission as a protection contract."
And finally, his ring finger would raise.
"If I complete a contract but die at completion or shortly after, you are still to wire the credits to my account."
With a sigh, he'd drop his hand back down to meet the forearm of his other which still sat crossed over his chest, refolding his arms to rest there. Vashiir simply stared at Mors expectantly, awaiting his response to the terms presented.

 

[Soverin]

The slightest twitch pulled at his lips; a nefarious specter of a smirk that crossed his face as he turned his eyes forward and away from Vashiir. The expression was short lived and half as prevalent as the gesture might've been if produced by any other life form.

"Fine." His arm was high over his head, gripping a caution-painted handle as the metallic structure of the ship rattled against the otherwise lifeless climate of Ziost. A quick squirming motion was made under his crimson cloak before the garb was shifted further behind him, allowing for greater mobility. It's ragged fur cascaded against his uniform, giving him a ferocious, bestial quality. Mors clutched his saber, tearing it from it's belt ring.

"We'll discuss this more later."

 

[Vashiir]

The Farghul gave a light nod, then lofting his right arm and beginning to rapidly type into an input pad hidden under a plated panel on the underside of his right forearm. After a few moments of rapid tapping, he'd flip the panel over the keypad and look back up to Mors.

"Archived. I look forward to working with you." He said plainly, before looking off and to the right, allowing a few long moments of silence before awkwardly clearing his throat and speaking up.

"Vashiir, by the way."

 

[Soverin]

Mors mulled over the name, how it sounded in his head. Names were important things, they held life of their own. The phrase buzzed in his mind, forcing him to recall the philosophies of lessons learned in the past.

"Mors." Something forced him to respond in kind, betraying the fierce demeanor he'd held so far against the Farghul.

 

[Darles Chickens]

Go to Ziost.
Find the others.
They will make themselves known.​

"Ziost. 'The Gateway to the Empire' they used to call it...now a crucible where the weak become strong, and the strong become stronger. We bleed here. The days remain unending, and the nights are brief and unforgiving. A strong planet for a strong people. My superior sent me here with the others to seek out an unspecified group of i̡n̵̪̲̬͍ͅd̫̻͕i͕͠v̴i͚̰̱̲͚̬ͅd̺u͇̠̝̱͈a̺l̫͈̜͚̪̖͟ͅs͏̫͎͕ ͇̳̺r̘̙̫̣̘̬e̘̲̳fé̮̱̫̹̙ͅr͍͖͚̫r̹̖̲̟̫͟é̩̮͖̲͇͙ͅd̗̳͖͈̣ͅ ̬͕͠t̤̥̫͇̺̳͘ͅo͡ a̰͈̘̗͇s̞͎̥̯ͅ ̮̪̺͚'̗̯̱̟̬̙̗t̢͙he͏̙̟͕͍̳ͅ ͇͍o̢̟ț̱̝̝̗he͍͜r̙s̕ I'm not positive on what that means, but I suppose I'll find out. Coincidentally, Acolyte Soverin was headed there himself to seek out another Sith that had put credits on his head. A weak, and foolish move...that cowardice will not go unpunished. I've agreed to help him if only to strengthen our alliance. As for the Fargul. He dosen't say much, but he hasn't brought that blaster of his to my face. We're on good terms. Though, I can't help but feel that this mission will be more difficult than anticipated, and I'll have a headache by the time it's over. Call it my Sith intuition...o̬̻͞r̠ ̖̳̫̟̫͉a̱̜̞̟͖̼͝ ͈̫ẖ̯́u͈͕͜n̡̤͍̘̖̤c̷͔̜ḩ̬̮̪̝̞̙.̢ ̩ ̴̗͎͔"



He'd lean over towards the two pilots of the landing craft, his lips twitched with anticipation as he leaned over, casually adjusting the course of their descent. He'd give an affirmed nod to himself as the command was entered. He'd recoil, pulling his hands tightly behind his back. The Sith looked to the camera feed that showed the troop compartment where the Fargul, and Mors spoke. Among them were four soldiers, marked by the fragmented order of the Sith, a small crowd of loyalists who had all but lost their cause, though they watched the newcomers from behind their breathing masks, throughout the entire excursion, they remained silent; Simply prepared to perform their purpose.
He'd look back towards the pilots again.
"Status?"
He'd reach up to quickly grab one of the bars that hung over head to brace himself against a brash whip of turbulence.
"Final approach imminent, Acolyte."
Pulling on the bar, he'd whip himself around, walking down the line of soldiers to stand before the other two.
"Do not forget our true purpose here. We're looking for 'the others'. We will seek the fool that has wronged you."
He'd casually toss his cloak aside, revealing his saber, his fingers patting on the cold hilt.
"And after the coward has been eliminated, we'll proceed with the mission."
The lights would flicker in the transport as another gust of wind enveloped the ship in a thick series of rough vibrations. He'd look between the two, his features darkened as he looked down upon them.
"We're clear?"​

 

[Soverin]

That drone-like stare remained on Maro for the length of his dialogue, only breaking when his words finally ceased. He turned to Vashiir, nodding his head to the Farghul as the ship's interior lighting flushed black and the tranport's massive hatch-doors unsealed. Mors bobbed in place as the ship finally touched down to it's landed position. His Sith corrupted eyes cut a dull gaze through the dark until the red glow of Ziost's sunlight flooded the ship. The Sith loyalists made a brash path to exit and began securing the area around the vessel.

Mors tipped his head, gesturing for Vashiir to follow. The landing zone was rocky and arid, with no visible or audible wind. The ground layer of the planet was quiet as death, only echoing with the occasional stray crack or caw. In the distance was the Blooding Pit, a place where many Sith gathered. It held a cult following --- a right of passage of sorts, that any good Sith had killed one of their peers within the arena there. Mors had been at some point, though he never cared for it's reputation. He remembered the particular smell of cold metal and smoke.

He was the first to step out, making immediate note of the Pits. "Vashiir." Mors spoke it aloud, it tasted odd in his mouth. "Lead on. I want to be on with this."

 

[Vashiir]

Vashiir would have lingered for a moment and checked his person for all of his belongings before following after Mors, keeping a hand near his blaster which rested at his hip as he scanned his vernal gaze over the horizon, drinking in the visuals of the surface of Ziost. Vashiir hadn't spent much time on Ziost before, and particularly he'd never visited the Blooding Pit. With a squinted gaze to the landmark in the distance, he'd begin walking toward it as Mors asked him to move first, giving a curt nod to no one in particular.

"Keep your wits, Mors. The Sith who hired me is-.." He'd give pause for a moment, giving a short sigh as he'd stopped walking to look over his shoulder, his tail giving a quick flick.

"Just don't underestimate them."

He'd then set off once more, his footfalls echoing in muffled collisions through the sound bare area around them, the Farghul's ears twitching toward the few sounds which presented themselves nearby.

 

[Darles Chickens]

His eyes lingered down towards the datapad wrapped around his wrist as the sliding door of the dropship eased closed. The HUD would flash green, signifying the ship was connected to his remote commands. He'd mutter into it.

​

"Circle the pit above the clouds. If things get ugly, be prepared for extraction."


The ship would rise up from its spot, the wings folding into place. Maro pulled his hood up, his own diseased eyes scanning the horizon. In the distance his ears adjusted to hear the pounding of drums. The Blooding Pit.
He'd flick the device off and follow behind the two, bringing both of his arms over his shoulders to pull the thick black hood over his head.

 

[Soverin]

A short walk later...

The Pit stood before them, imposing and tall. It's Sith architecture jutting out to forewarn of the grim nature of the place. Acolytes and Warriors congregated near the building's entrance, passing stories of their triumphs and training. The intoxicating sensation of a massive force presence was immediately distinguishable as they approached. Hundreds upon hundreds of Sith adherents, force sensitive or no, amassed to this place like many others on Ziost to practice their teachings safely in hiding.

They were greeted first by the roar of those in audience of the fights, and then the crackle of flame and clanging of steel. A symphony of sharp, hostile sounds filled their ears. A gaping pit made up the majority of the crucible's interior. Exotic aliens marched around and kept to their foreign devices, paying little attention to the affairs of those around them. The place was unwelcoming and cold, first and foremost.

Mors made his path clear. The dark side would guide him. When he made his way into the coliseum he beckoned Vashiir forth.

 

[Vashiir]

Upon entering the enclosure, Vashiir would find himself overwhelmed with the sudden presence of such loud and sharp noises, a stark contrast to the near lifeless calm just outside of those walls they'd entered. He'd take a moment to gain his bearings, finding his ears twitching frantically in many directions as they took in the symphony around him. After just a few moments though, both of his ears would train to a particular group of congregating and arguing spectators standing in a circle to the right of the entrance they'd proceeded through.

"I'm going to take a look around." He said with a look to Mors before he'd saunter off toward the group with a smooth swish of his tail, the Farghul putting on a wide smile as he approached, members of the group subtly moving to guard their pockets out of suspicion, given his races' reputation.

 

[Darles Chickens]

Maro's sickly glare locked on the structure as he wandered inside. The Blooding Pit was something not entirely foreign to him, infact there was a brief period of time where it was all he knew. He'd visibly twitch under his hood as he moved passed the varied aliens and lesser Sith, he'd approach Mors as Vashiir joined the crowd of spectators.


"Take a look around. I'm going to follow the midi-chlorians. See if I can't find these others...or the Coward. If you need me, make some noise."


He wouldn't wait for a response, moving onward into the crowd disappearing into the foreign faces.
​

 

[Soverin]

To his left, Maro had walked off into the crowd. To his right, Vashiir had dispersed to indulge in the affairs of some distant party.

A loud uproar caused the crowds to leap from their seats and call out like animals. Something had happened in the ring. Mors looked around as the spectators once again calmed, now intently focused on the happenings within the pit. He approached one side and stood just inches away from the jagged bars that lined the pit. Two figures, hugged with black cloth, were tearing each other apart --- one moreso than the others.

 

[Chosen]

Fresh blood had been spilled, satisfying the ground and audience that no doubt craved it.

One of the men, a human, was clutching a newly-gotten wound and had fallen back to the wall for fear of being stuck down by the other. The audience would have none of it; hands reached out and shoved the wounded back towards his opponent. It was enough to knock him off his feet and onto his stomach where he would linger for a moment before his head turned and his eyes looked upwards, just in time to meet those of the man that wounded him. It was the human's second mistake, and for a brief moment those eyes filled to the brim with terror.

Then the sword fell upon him, an honor-less death had been secured.

The audience roared in approval and all eyes were on the victor. A brute of a zabrak, terrifying in all forms, wrenched his blade from the pile of flesh and bone that remained of the man he had just cut down and looked back at those he'd appeased, throwing his own victorious shout in with their own. A gauntleted hand pounded against his black and brown chest, bared for all to see and sullied with blood and sand, though free of wounds.

This kill had been a testament to all those who might doubt him or his prowess in the ring; this was a full-blooded combatant, and another had fallen in his wake.

 

[Vashiir]

Vashiir would have glanced over to the arena as the crowd roared, casually slipping a hand into one of the nearby gamblers' pockets as they was distracted, nabbing a few credit chips and quickly slipping them into his own pocket. After the crowd had settled down, the Farghul would begin chatting with the alien, before eventually offering him some credits for information on where the Sith had employed him might be. After a bit of haggling and description of whom he sought, Vashiir set back to find Mors with his free information, getting his attention by waving a hand as he jogged over.

As he reached Mors, he'd turn to look down into the arena at the celebrating combatant as he spoke to the Sith.
"I know where they are. Whenever you are ready." he said in an even tone as he turned from the arena to train his eyes to Mors' own, the din of the crowd having settled down enough to speak at a normal volume since the arena was being cleaned of the fresh body that now lay within it during the brief intermission in the carnage.

 

[Soverin]

Mors watched the Zabrak in his victory. He was almost rendered numb by the chilling screams that arose when he called out in triumph, simultaneously joining in on his own roar. The alien was truthfully a beast in the pit. When the Zabrak silenced, so did his onlookers.

A thought crossed his mind, but he wasn't afforded the luxury of thinking further on it. He nodded to Vashiir as he approached and rolled one shoulder, preparing for the debacle that was obviously imminent. "Lets destroy this pathetic creature and go. We still have to find these others." One last glance was cast down at the Zabrak, who was attending to preparations for the next battle. "Though I don't think we'll need to do too much finding."

 

[Vashiir]

With a nod, Vashiir would begin to lead Mors through the crowds of strange aliens exchanging credits after the results of the conflict which had recently ensued down in the pit. After wending through the undulating masses, they'd find themselves walking down a narrow corridor, which opened up into a mess hall. Tables intersected the room in rows, various sith warriors and spectators alike exchanging conversation and eating their fill throughout the room. Vashiir would have looked to Mors and pointed to a far corner where a small congregation had gathered.
"They are most likely seated back there. They frequent that spot."
Vashiir would pause for a moment, before crossing his arms and giving a short sigh.
"It's best if they think i'm dead for now, since I would no longer have a head if they saw me approach with you. I'll be out near the arena."
with a short nod, Vashiir would have left Mors to approach the person who'd wanted him dead on his own.

 

[Genisi]

Ajak stood at the edge of her chosen perimeter, gazing sullenly upon the Blooding Pits. The zabrak was formidable; enough to be taken into account.
"Anyone and everyone is a threat," the Rattataki hissed under her breath. Her critical eyes made a cursory scan around the area; the hundredth, it must have been.
Not unlike much of the rest of the crowd, Ajak was clad in all black, pleats and robes cascading onto the floor; the vain creature was decorated, testament to her own distorted ego, even underneath her guise and hood. A small, discreet blaster hung holstered at the base of her spine, beside it the oblong hilt of her delicately modified lightstaff.
"The Farghul is present, mistress," rasped the voice of a servant -- one of few. "The Anzati as well. And others; they are wary."
The two had become objects of interest. The mercenary, she fancied no more than a tool, a decoy; the fledgling Sith, a nuisance. In the warped reality that was Ajak Genisi's mind, both were as grave a threat as any army. Anyone was.

Everyone was.

"Thank you, Sunjata. That is all." Monotonous, dismissive, the reply came curtly with a wave of the hand. A curl of the fingers.
"As you say, my lady--"
From the corner where they stood, none of the spectators would hear the choking. They'd not see the servant, now one less, fall in a slump against the wall. It wouldn't be until his corpse began to foul that anyone would be the wiser.

"Anyone and everyone is a threat."