Unmoving inside a custom meditation chamber meant solely for their own use, Irirangi began his process. They floated in a cross-legged pose within a room filled with water taken from a certain area of the Wrean Depths. It swirled languidly around them in response to their delving into the Force. Sensory deprivation bafflers removed ambient sound and light from the immediate environment, leaving only Nakoa and his thoughts, the water, and the beating sound of blood in his veins.
Searching inward was a vital, core skill for a shaman of Nakoa's kind. Every aspect of it was taught from a very young age. Understanding the self, at its deepest and most intimate. No stone unturned, no waters unrevealed to senses turned inward. He had to understand each muscle fiber, every solitary nerve, and vein, what thought and action stimulated and stifled the beat of his heart. Such techniques formed the center of everything, serving as the foundation by which Nakoa built ever broader and climbed endlessly higher.
Earth to heaven, horizon to horizon. So to speak. Many Sith, uncomplicated contrarians as they often could be, commonly believed 'balance' was a concept of the Jedi and had no place in their own methods. What possible purpose could rumination serve? What of understanding or patience? Just take what one wants, take what one pleases. It's tradition! Surely it can't be wrong?
Ideas communicated unironically from beneath the cold, dead ashes of ten thousand failures. Echoes from millennia of self-inflicted destruction. Their own stale, rotting blood in the water was cut quickly from stagnant bodies as if to bleed away the mistakes that made them who they are. They were, all of them, drowning in it. Choking on pride they force-fed one another until there was nothing left but bloated corpses. Only to start anew all over again.
Yet it was the cunning, the intelligent, the adaptive who thrived. Patience was the key, thrown in the face of the 'traditional' Sith. "Evolve or Die", the Shadow decreed. Most seemed content with the latter. Nakoa's thoughts turned more specifically to Sith- and former Sith- of recent times.
Some thrive with patience and cunning to match their might, spreading mayhem no doubt in service to some grander plan. Some a torrent of feeling and violence, a storm, ripping forward until at last they found an end against a greater source of violence. Still others blazed with passion, warming some and burning others away, entirely unpredictable until the very moment that flame went out and they themselves fell to ash. And yet more, the young and the new, who yet still walked paths of their own as of yet undetermined. Quick bloomers with power like an explosion, the might and will to move the galaxy. Deep-rooted trees none would notice until the shade of their branches covered them all.
Pieces of inspiration for Nakoa's constantly evolving philosophy and understanding of the Force, though certainly not the only source. The Wrean wondered if Raze was the type for philosophical debate. Most Sith gave immensely boring answers. He imagined what that odd situation might look like. The Wraith Lord, seated at a wooden table, politely sipping tea served by some abomination with seven arms and teeth like daggers and discussing with some mercenary scholar the nature of a Sith. Somehow he suspected the Dark Lord wouldn't appreciate Nakoa's more tongue-in-cheek views on it all. Singh chuckled dryly to himself at that line of thought before dragging his things back into order. He'd be more than happy to discuss these subjects with Arla next they met in their busy schedules.
Irirangi, now refocused, slipped down further into the cold waters of the Current.