New Venture Journal Entry I

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Pfllamr Mharro
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New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Pfllamr Mharro » Thu Sep 03, 2020 6:59 pm

New Venture Journal Entry I - Pf'llamr Mharro

I am Pf'llamr Mharro, a Nautolan ‘kelp farmer’ from Glee Anselm, until recently. My father was informed by the local Sith Acolytes that I had a talent called, ‘force sensitivity. I have heard of this Jedi and Sith business from rumors circulated by fools, but now… perhaps I judged too quickly. One detail that escapes me though, is that I had thought they took new hopefuls when they are younger. I’m not an old pad, but I would think I disqualify, being 21.

Of course I didn’t have much choice but to accompany the ‘entourage’ that came to escort me to be judged as a ‘Hopeful.’ To put it bluntly, I don’t think the Initiate in charge and I would get along, if ‘the force’ wasn’t a factor. I did get a bit of satisfaction seeing him taken aback by my size. I stand, probably a good 3 feet over him. I suspect he was expecting a tiny swimmer of a man! Regardless, I followed what I sensed is their hierarchy. Last thing I need to is to make problems between me and what will probably lead to the rest of my life in a strange cult.

I didn’t notice a lot of others of my kind among the entourage. I’m starting to think I might be a very unique case with the Sith. I guess I’ll just have to keep my head even lower. It wouldn’t be the first time my unique appearance has gotten my unwanted attention. Well, worst case scenario, I’ve brought along a couple of souvenirs from my ‘harvesting’ days in my carry-ons.

I will keep this journal updated with events as they transpire. I don’t even know if I’ll make it through training, so if you stop seeing updates, you’ll know why.

Good Hunting,

Pf’ll

Jacobi Wylcott
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Jacobi Wylcott » Thu Sep 03, 2020 8:58 pm

---MORABAND
---SITH ACADEMY GROUNDS

“This is all I have to work with this season?” Spat the instructor, a dry skinned zabrak snarled. “I’d be better off with slave conscripts.” The robes of the instructor whipped in the wind as the last shuttle to arrive with fresh would-be Acolytes touched down. Beside the instructor stood a tall man with a rifle, bedecked in steel gray Mandalorian Armor covered in a thin layer of dust thanks to the constant and course winds. The Mandalorian said nothing in response to the instructor, he simply observed the recruits in silence.

Without further hesitation the instructor stepped up to the twenty recruits and snarled down on them. He was robed in black layers and a lightsaber hung from his belt - obviously a Lord of the Sith in some manner, “I am Sk’har and I will be your task master for this initial portion of your training.” He frowned and turned up his nose, “Most of you will undoubtedly die in this process, the rest of you will be sent to the Army.” Pausing for dramatic effect, he continued, “But just maybe there is one among you who has what it takes to become a true Sith Warrior.”

He turned and began walking away, “I doubt that however, now come this way.”

The silent Mandalorian kept vigil over the recruits as they all followed the Instructor into the depths of the academy grounds. No sooner had they proceeded within the gates could the training all around them be both seen and heard. From the whips of the task master’s disciplinarian ways to the crack of training swords against one another to the echo of verbal instruction. This was where the legendary Sith were birthed and taught to harness the ways of the Sith Warrior. Each and every one of these beings sought to capture the attention of a Sith Lord wherein their journey along the path of power would truly begin.

Winding their way through the academy, led by the Task Master and followed by the Mandalorian, they finally arrived at the quartermaster’s office where each trainee was given a single set of training fatigues and an old worn out sword that had seen it’s fair share of prior owners.

Once equipped with the basics, it was time to weed out the chaff.

The Instructor led then further into the grounds and into a sparring hall where a circle was drawn into the floor. Once everyone was within the Instructor got their attention by pointing first to a young human female and then to a male gran. “Both of you, get in the circle. It is time for each and every one of you to prove you are worth my time. We will accept none but the strongest, the most determined, the most clever. Those that fail - you are not worth going any further.”

“Into the ring.” He commanded.

Reluctantly and possibly even afraid, the two selected trainees entered the chalked circle and held their swords at the ready. “Commence.” Commanded Sk’har and so they were to fight to determine if they were worthy to set foot into greatness.

The woman had never held a sword before but neither had the gran and when they both attacked the motion was sloppy and they clashed in an awkward display. The woman lost her grip and her sword hit the dust, the gran advanced and swung into a terrified target but in her desperation she half leapt half tumbled to the side. On the ground she was easy prey and the gran swung wildly to finish his opponent. A miss and miss and another miss came while the terrified woman grabbed a handful of sand and threw it in the gran’s three eyes.

Pain robbed the gran of his senses and he fell face first into the hard ground. She scrambled on the ground to her sword - retrieved it - and swung at the gran. The blow hit the alien in the back though it was not effectively placed and the blow cut - but nothing that would slay the foe. The gran screamed and recoiled, his flail frightened the woman who swung again and again, each time stabbing the prone gran, each time failing to kill. Blood covered the sandy ground and caked it into a thickened mud of red stained grime.

Still she stabbed, still he wailed until both combatants were covered in blood and only the woman was left standing. Her eyes wide and desperate.

“Pathetic form. Though the results speak for themselves. Welcome to the Sith Academy my dear.”

Sk’har looked back to the trainees as a droid escorted the woman away to the dorms where she could get settled in. The Task Master then pointed to a spry looking rodian who seemed to be well at home with his sword. Then he pointed next to an interesting looking Nautolan. “You two. Into the ring.”

“Commence!”
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Emic Lai
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Emic Lai » Thu Sep 03, 2020 10:22 pm

It was part of the routine duties of the Aurek-112 task force that they found promising recruits from the Sith Academy of Moraband. Any Sith hopeful might be a promising soldier, but a poor fit for the Sith Order, and that's where they would recruit from. Emic found the whole ordeal to be dreary. She would watch the abducted hopefuls desperately cling to their lives, surviving not out of the willpower to crush the enemy, but a mere attachment to their own hide. She had very little interest in the discarded refuse of the Academy, but it was simply the way things were in her line of work. And so she endured the boredom.

The Zabrak and her senior training officer, Slag Moore, as well as the Sith Order liaison Luce Dunwich gathered outside on the shuttle pad, their uniforms buttoned tight to keep out the dust floating on the Moraband winds.

The instructor addressed the hopefuls, giving voice to the sentiment that Emic had long held about the majority of Sith Order recruits. She popped a piece of chewstim into her mouth, and gestured for her three-piece unit to follow the hopefuls into the Academy. They would see if any of these cravens could make a half-decent soldier. Somehow, she felt as though they would be walking away empty-handed once again.
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Kell Sangros
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Kell Sangros » Thu Sep 03, 2020 11:18 pm

OOC: Welcome hope you dont mind me jumping in here

Warvanus had roamed the halls of the Moraband training grounds more times than he could count. The Magnetar had business here delivering supplies. This gave Warvanus an excuse to scope out the new talent. He stood at the doorway of the room that had the ring and where the class was in session. The smell of fear, sweat and blood hung in the air. He not only watched the recruits but the instructors. Standards had to be kept and Warvanus was a big believer in the highest standards for when it came to the Order of the Sith Lords. He watched almost with nostalgia as these acolytes, these new recruits gave it their all to garner prestige and the attention of the Masters. While the introductory stages of his training were not on a ship but with the Emperor himself. The predecessor of Darth Blood. He was the product of 2 Emperor’s teachings. He wondered if any of these raw recruits had a future among the order.

He listened to the taskmaster’s words they rang true. Those who did not die would have what it took to go into the Military but there could be one maybe even two among them who would be shown the path to power. Warvanus was eager to find out, so he watched. He was recognizable here even without his armor on. This place had memories. Some good some bad. He snapped out of his thoughts and watched with anticipation.
===========================================
Darth Warvanus
=Lord of War=
-=Emperor's Hand=
=The War Bringer=-
-=Master of the Warhound Battlegroup=-
===========================================

Pfllamr Mharro
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Pfllamr Mharro » Fri Sep 04, 2020 5:20 am

Jacobi Wylcott wrote:
Thu Sep 03, 2020 8:58 pm


Sk’har looked back to the trainees as a droid escorted the woman away to the dorms where she could get settled in. The Task Master then pointed to a spry looking rodian who seemed to be well at home with his sword. Then he pointed next to an interesting looking Nautolan. “You two. Into the ring.”

“Commence!”
Pf’llamr closed his datapad journal down as he approached the ring with his sword. It was a lot longer and clumsier than what he had gotten used to during his time as a ‘kelp farmer.’ Still, he can make use of something so archaic.

Toe to toe, Pf’llamr squared off with the Rodian swordsman, he with a two-handed grip, the other with a loose one handed grip. He was used to towering over most everyone by now. Pf’llamr assumed that he would have not only a physical advantage, but also a psychological advantage when it came do these antiquated duels.

He was wrong.

As soon as the fight started, Pf’llamr’s tactic was to quickly overcome the opponent with brute strength. The Rodian was not only almost half his size, he was also more than twice as fast, quickly dodging and making two quick stabs towards Pf’llamr’s neck, forcing him to react unconventionally.

Pf’llamr surmised that brute strength was not going to win today. He changed his grip to a backward grip.
The Rodian flourished his sword, taunting the Nautolan to attack. Pf’llamr had seen such arrogance many times in his life. Some before harvest, other times… He rather not think of those times, actually. There was one way to deal with this kind of arrogance, and it was sometimes a risk wagered with one’s life.

Pf’llamr went for a horizontal slash, before moving into a feint. The Rodian fell into it, but was too quick to suffer the consequences.

Pf’llamr pursued with windmill sweeps regardless, feeling somewhat frustrated his opponent was soundly outmaneuvering him. Of course, the Rodian seemingly danced through the swings, just enough to bring himself into distance for him to stick Pf’llamr in the chest with the tip of his sword, and pull. Pf’llamr was brought to one knee, as the Rodian grandstanded to his classmates.

The resulting cut was quick and clean. It wasn’t to kill Pf’llamr. It was to say, “You are my prey, and I will end you when I wish.” This thought, ended the facade of the traditional ‘hopeful’ for Pf’llamr. He got back to his feet, his blood starting to soak the rest of his shirt.

The Rodian brought his eyes back to his opponent, ready to end the fight. The two began to circle. Pf’llamr’s eyes intensified. He can see his target now. Not as he was, but as he REALLY is.

The Nautolan sliced his shirt open, creating strips of cloth from the inside seams. The Rodian had been biding his time, but now watched in sheer puzzlement. He kept his sword at the ready, while Pf’llamr wraps a few pieces of cloth on his arm. Then, he took his sword and snapped it in two, leaving the blade as the bigger piece, and dropping the hilt to the ground.

Their audience was stunned. Pf’llamr could swear he had heard the Mandalorian chuckle softly, but he wasn’t sure. In their dazed disbelief, he began to wrap the blade around his already covered arm, as if this was part of dressing for the day. The Rodian snapped back to reality before Pf’llamr had completely secured the blade, making two lunging thrusts. Naturally, Pf’llamr deflected the thrusts.

“It was enough for harvesting,” thought Pf’llamr.

The circling of sweeps and blows were exchanged for half a minute, before Pf’llamr noticed something. The Rodian was starting to speed up faster. Something interesting was starting to take place. Some sort of hidden ‘talent.’ Pf’llamr, was okay with this, he had his own hidden talent. The longer the fight was taking, the more he was ‘focusing.’ He couldn’t match his opponent’s speed, but he can accurately guess where he’ll be next.

The barrage stopped, and both opponents were heavily breathing, and both starting to bleed from new flesh wounds. Now, it was the Rodian’s turn to grow frustrated. Good. Pf’llamr wanted him frustrated. Frustration means you made mistakes, a lesson Pf’llamr had just taken.

The Rodian approached, and with him came a storm of flurries that Pf’llamr had never seen a natural creature make. Pf’llamr deflected and blocked what he could, but many nicked, scratched, even cut into his flesh all over. It was worth the pain just to see such a feat in his lifetime. The Nautolan was on the defensive. He kept his distance from the swordsman as fury danced across the Rodian’s face.

Suddenly, Pf’llamr’s opponent pulled back to lunge. Pf’llamr’s focus was starting to pick up every detail in the chamber now. One that had escaped him before now jumped to him at just the opportune time. He side stepped, and kicked the sword hilt on the ground right underneath his opponent’s foot, forcing his speed and fury to cause his perfect balance to come crashing down. Pf’llamr, of course, used this momentum to his advantage by sweeping his blade in such a way as to slit his opponent’s throat.

His opponent was dead before he hit the ground. Pf’llamr took a sigh of relief as he acknowledged the fight was done. The ‘harvest,’ however, had not been taken. He walked over to the corpse and grasped the eye stalk of his now deceased opponent. With a quick jerk and a pull from his bladed arm, the head was free in his hand.

He presented the head to Sk’har, placing it on the floor before him, and presenting him with a bow. He waited patiently for the Sith to acknowledge his victory, and dismiss him.

Jacobi Wylcott
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Jacobi Wylcott » Fri Sep 04, 2020 4:32 pm

The Mandalorian was a being who knew combat all his life and he could read the movements and motions of these two combatants - almost instantly as the Nautolan began to move the Mando crooked his head ever so slightly. It wasn’t the finesse he was watching, it was the thought process within him. He was analyzing his foe up and down. Assessing and originating a strategy. This bulky Nautolan was not just a hulking mass - he also had a brain and knew how to use it.

As the fight progressed the murmurs among the ‘audience’ turned to jeers and shouts as the rodian seemed to hold every advantage and he was cutting his foe down with arrogance. The Mandalorian witnessed this and while he saw promise in the rodian - footwork, swordsmanship, ability and natural talent - there was something he lacked and the Mando waited patiently for the duel to accelerate rather than terminate for he was fully anticipating the intensity to take an uptick.

The strength and determination of the brute Nautolan was nothing short of impressive. The rodian was precise and he had a lot of potential. Both of these fighters seemed to be worthy candidates. Though as chosen - there could only be one victor. While both of these men were far better than the previous two fighters, the lesson here was the value of one’s tenacity.

Through cuts and injury the nautolan fought on and where it seemed he was going to suffer from a slow and painful fight against this wiry rodian - his mind came to balance with his physical strength as he used the broken hilt to find victory.

Sk’har was surprised without a doubt - he’d thought and perhaps even he was banking on the rodian to win. Though as the conditions of the bout, the Task Master acknowledged the nautolan as the victor. “Well executed.” It was all the praise given and a droid came forward to fetch the corpse and drag it away. “You have managed to find yourself a welcome slot in this season’s proceedings. Welcome to the Sith Academy.”

As with the last victor, a droid also came to escort Pf’llamr deeper into the grounds where a tiny cell would be assigned as his room for the duration of his stay - be it his life or his tenure that ends first. Within the room was naught but a bed and a footlocker. To the side was an empty weapon rack and armor stand. All of which he’d have to earn as he survived each stage of the training.

---EIGHT HOURS LATER

The surviving trainees were called to the courtyard. Ten of twenty remained. These ten had only eight hours of rest and a few were worse for wear be it injuries or mental trauma. To the Task Master Sk’har, it mattered little for from these few would come forth the promise of potential - hopefully.

Again the silent Mandalorian stood by the doorway to observe these proceedings. No doubt the Warbringer and the Special Forces Soldier were here to witness as well. “Now that we have hewn the chaff and only the exceptional stand before me, now we will discover your worth. To be a Warrior among the Sith Order you must also be sensitive to the Force. If you are not then your journey shall end here.” Once more this was basically a trial of initiation, even so it was a very valuable one.

Sk’har pointed to a human male, “You.” At once the male approached and bowed respectfully. “Your task is simple recruit. Have a seat.” Once the male had taken up a kneeling and relaxed stance the Task Master continued. “Close your eyes and focus yourself. Clear your mind of your questions and concerns. This is not a competition among your peers. This is simply a test to see how well you register the presence of the Force.”

“Are you a simpleton that cannot here the call? Or are you capable of the most basic feat and able to recognize when the Force is around you?”

The Mandalorian in that moment looked right to the nautolan. During the initiation duel the aquatic being had displayed a hidden talent. He began to see the opponent with intensity and something else. The Mandalorian suspected that it had been the Force guiding him in that moment. The question was, did the nautolan know it or not? Likely not - but now was the time for enlightenment. It was time to realize his potential.

After several moments the male kneeling had spoken that he could sense the air around him and that he was able to hear the whispers on the wind. In turn the Task Master could sense the man’s thoughts and he could feel the connection between he and the Force. Indeed, the male was sensitive and thus a worthwhile pursuit.

“Rise.” Instructed the Task Master. “No longer are you a recruit or trainee. Henceforth you shall be recognized as a Hopeful among the Sith.” The human male was then dismissed to stand among those that were once his peers, he was no longer equal to them but his worth now set him apart. While he had no authority over them, his worth was currently beyond them.

Sk’har looked across the remaining nine recruits. His eyes traveled across the assembled faces until he selected again second, the nautolan. “You’re a long way from Glee Anselm. Let us see if your trip was worth it. Come.”

“Focus your mind. Clear your thoughts and listen. Tell me - what do you hear?”
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Emic Lai
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Emic Lai » Fri Sep 04, 2020 6:11 pm

The clash of sword filled the air and the Rodian and the Nautolan were at each others throats. This time, Emic felt as though they were more equipped to be warriors. They acted as though they had interests beyond mere survival, they seemed dedicated to the death of their opponent. And when the fatal cut was thrown, and the Rodian's head was torn free, she knew that this giant man was one she needed to keep her eyes on.

Of course, she noticed Jacobi there. He was hard to miss, but now that he was an important Sith Lord, he would no doubt be embarrassed should she, for example, regale her comrades with stories of how he was once so drunk that he became convinced he was the Duke of Nar Shaddaa and demanded to be carried on a litter. She chuckled to herself and decided she'd keep her reminiscing to herself for the moment.

--EIGHT HOURS LATER

The ensuing fights had not been as interesting as the one between that giant Nautolan and the Rodian. Frightened farm boys and girls or overconfident local militia. Ten fell in the ring, and the Aurek-112 was no closer to a new recruit.Up next was the test of Force-sensitivity. Those who did not possess the use of the Force would be turned over to the Army, but the three spec-ops soldiers did not see anything notable in any of the rabble that fought in the arena, save the one, and if he turned out to be Force-sensitive, they would likely not get him in their unit. Those who were sent to the Army may distinguish themselves, but until that day came for them, they would not be in the Aurek-112.

She scoffed as the instructor referred to those who could not use the Force as "simpletons." Sith arrogance. Quite rich, coming from someone as low on the food chain as an Academy instructor. How foolish he was to present his back to Emic.

When the first recruit successfully bore witness to the Force, Emic could see in the boy's face an unearned pride growing. The Sith were full of themselves, and every Sith realized just how disposable they were far too late, when they're staring down a crimson lightsaber. How she wished she could carve that smirk from his face and hang it from a string on the dashboard of the Core Predator. A grim reminder that you must earn your pride; otherwise, you're just flapping your lips.

Emic watched with interest as the Nautolan was sat into the chair. If he could feel the Force, he may go far. But if he didn't, he could go a much different, much more fun path.
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Kell Sangros
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Kell Sangros » Fri Sep 04, 2020 6:38 pm

Warvanus remained silent as he watched the fight. The Nautilan possessed not only brute strength and a sharp mind but also a killer instinct. In the right hands he would make a formidable weapon for the Sith. In the right hands he could be a Force unto himself. It was right for the War-Bringer to think that he saw a bit of himself in the raw recruit and when he presented the head to the Instructor confirmed it. The War-Bringer was pleased in what he saw, he would be keeping an eye on this one.

Eight Hours had passed since that fight. Warvanus knew what was next and like before he was there He noticed he was not the only one who was observing. Through the Force he was an inferno, his aura of a caged animal yearning to be unleashed on the enemies of the Sith. He gave a brief nod to the Instructor when he had entered the room and he also recognized someone from the Special Forces community, he remembered the brief encounter he had with her along with Lord Imatari, it was shortly before he had gone missing. When that happened Warvanus had tried to follow the trail but it had gone cold. One day he would pick back up on it. He turned his attention to the happenings, he watched attenatively on how the Nautilan would do. If he had passed this, it would elevate him in the echelons of the Sith.

The first one the human male whose name he did not know had passed but just barely, it reminded Warvanus on the first time he touched the Force those beginnings physically and mentally wore him out but it did get easier and Warvanus did get stronger and formidable. Once more he came back to himself and watched and kept himself open to the will of the Dark Side.
===========================================
Darth Warvanus
=Lord of War=
-=Emperor's Hand=
=The War Bringer=-
-=Master of the Warhound Battlegroup=-
===========================================

Pfllamr Mharro
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Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Pfllamr Mharro » Sat Sep 05, 2020 5:40 am

(OOC: Sorry for the lengthy reply! I got busy, but I also wanted to set some stuff up, and find a way to interact with some of you. I think this might work... EDIT: Formatting)

Pf’llamr followed the protocol droid to his would be chambers. There was no other way to say it. Everything hurt. The moment he knew there was no eyes on him, he allowed himself to limp, sucking in air. The pain washed over him, drowning his focus completely. Everything had become less saturated to the Nautolan suddenly. He was used to this, having experienced this in past excursions, with his fellow… ‘farmers.’ He allowed himself a whimper, but only one. He and the droid were fast encroaching on their destination.

The protocol droid opened the door to the small chamber where Pf’llamr would stay for the duration of his training. For a normal sized person, this room would have been smaller. He had stayed in prisons higher class than this, surely! The bed was only a mattress of low quality synthetic down, stained with actual blood, sweat, tears… and probably something else. The blanket was a microfiber blend he couldn’t be sure of. It seemed decent enough, though, he suspected with the way the mattress appeared, he would be using it for other means. The walls were bare, save for an armor stand and a weapons rack, which were also empty. In the corner of the room sat a footlocker that might have made for a funny shoe for Pf’llamr. What would he even keep in there? Then, the thought occurred to him.

“Droid.” Pf’llamr began, in a low rumble of a voice. “I arrived here with a few items of personal value. Where are they right this moment?”

The protocol droid turned back from the doorway and seemed to peer into Pf’llamr’s soul with his narrow slit, yellow eyes. It unsettled Pf’llamr. It was almost like the droid had a soul.

“Statement:” declared the protocol droid. “All Sith potential hopefuls are not permitted their belongings unless permission is granted by an authorized taskmaster.”

Pf’llamr winced. “This will be a lot harder than I thought,” he thought aloud to himself.

“Appeal:” the droid followed up, signally to the bed. “I would suggest you find sleep for tonight. The trials continue tomorrow bright and early.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, thanks pops. You’ve been a super help! ” Pf’llamr critiqued with sour rancor. Much to his surprise, the droid narrowed his ‘eyes’ further.

“Sarcasm: Your gratitude is recognized, and treasured. Please take this gift as a token of our meeting today! ” With that, the protocol droid produced a bacta vial from a secret compartment in its arm, and showed it to Pf’llamr. It then rotated it arm in such a way as to drop the bacta vial on the floor, shattering it and splattering the contents upon the floor. He was too stunned to notice the droid walk away. Eventually, he found himself laughing at the absurdity he found himself in.

“Oh well,” Pf’llamr thought. “What can be expected from the most brutal force in the known galaxy?”

After he unstrapping his blade, he took some more of his torn shirt, and dabbed the floor where the bacta had splattered. Taking careful precautions to not get any glass stuck to his makeshift rag, he began to dab his wounds with the healing substance. It must have been immensely powerful, for his wounds began to scab over more quickly than they otherwise would. Despite the utter rudeness, he found he liked the protocol droid.

Before Pf’llamr knew it, the rest of the bacta had evaporated. He laid down atop his blanket which covered the repulsive mattress, and pulled out what he now considered his ‘contraband’ journal data pad. He noticed a new nick in the casing, among the collections of other dents, scratches and scrapes. He would have made the Rodian pay, but that seemed a little pointless now.

New Venture Journal Entry II

Well, it’s been one day, and I’m not dead. I came close, but I still breathe.

I’ve been privileged to ‘sow’ many seasons, as well as ‘harvest’ them in my life so far. Never, have I ever, had the pleasure of tending to the crop I was tasked to reap yesterday. Despite his shorter stature, he moved with a predatory grace that forced me to rethink much of my strategy. I even feared for my own life a few times! He was good. Fantastic, even. It was a shame to remove such talent before learning his ‘secret.’

My own secret manifested yesterday, as well. It’s never been as powerful as it was during our scrimmage, come to think of it. I will keep notes on its manifestation while I am here, since it seems this planet is amplifying my talent exponentially, for whatever reason. Is this truly the force? I am I really a Sith?

I wonder what Luth would say to such a ridiculous thing? She’d probably shoot me again.

I miss her so much.

My accommodations are lackluster, especially given that I am a potential for the title of, ‘Sith Lord.’ I think the room is barely ten by ten feet, minus the foot locker and weapons rack. Perhaps as I gain ‘prestige,’ they’ll throw in a canopy.

Lastly, I learned from a protocol droid that my belongings were held by the sith taskmasters. That’s going to make getting my personal effects a little troublesome. I might need to make do with a ripped shirt, and a broken blade.

-Pf’ll

6 HOURS LATER

The smell of cooking meat woke Pf’llamr from a rather uncomfortable sleeping position, followed by the sudden realization of pain in several spots of his body. He meant to move quickly to react, but found he couldn’t! His nerves had been shut off by some neuroblocker.

“Assurance: Relax, ‘grateful’ master. You had a series of cuts I needed to attend to, but am now only able to address,” a familiar voice chimed.

Pf’llamr panicked. “What time is it?!” If he was late, he was good as dead.

“Warning: Be still ‘impatient’ master. You will reopen many of these wounds if you try to move. You will make it to your appointment in time,” the protocol droid relayed, as he continued to cauterize the cuts closed.

The Nautolan sighed in frustration and relief. After some time, Pf’llamr murmured softly, “Thank you, for the bacta last night. I shouldn’t have been short tempered.”

The cauterizing stopped for a moment, then continued again.

“Observation: Well, would you look at that. A sith lord with a heart of gold. Now I’ve seen everything”

Pf’llamr laughed, despite the pain and smell of his own flesh being laser together. “I’m Pf’llamr, but most just call me Pf’ll.”

“Introduction: My designation is C0L-745. My functions are to administer the lodging for new prospectives, and to apply healing when necessary. We wouldn’t want a future war bringer dead from an infection, would we?” C0L-745 continued to work for a few minutes more, as Ph’llamr began to feel his temperature rise.

Finally, he was done. “Status Report: It would appear my endeavors were successful. By now, you should feel the effects from the stitching laser mending your body, as the dosage of neurotoxin leaves your body. Within the hour, you should start to feel like your old self. Your temperature will drop eventually, but it’s my recommendation that you don’t get thoroughly thrashed again.”

Pf’llamr was able to move his head again, albeit stiffly. He nodded to the droid, who did something of a primitive bow before leaving.

1 HOUR LATER

Pf’llamr was dressed in fresh clothes, fed, and lost in his own world when the task master brought him back to reality. Today’s test was a lot more… “Boring,” he thought. “Well, what harm can be done from sitting in a chair? If I notice anything, I’ll tell them.”

Pf’llamr sat in the chair he was instructed to, and immediately regretted it.

If his eyes had been squinting through dusk during the fight with the Rodian, he was now wide eyed during noon. He could see the very heat pouring out the pours of those around him. He could smell the sweat working its way through the body to flush the toxic synthetics in the food and medicines out of the students’ bodies. He even hear the arrhythmia of a particular savage girl who pummeled a Gran just the day before. The light in this otherwise dim lit chamber was without equal now. The dark colored robes of the sith lords and ladies, were now fluorescent reds and blues, some even neon pinks and purples. He looked at his own skin, and it even appeared to glow to him. He could take no more!

With both the sickness and pleasure one has from pursing the sweetness of honey mixed with aged grease, Pf’llamr let go of the force. As he let go, he stumbled to one knee, and proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

“W-w-what was that?! What did you do to me?” He managed to murmur, before searching for more in his stomach to show and tell.

Jacobi Wylcott
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Posts: 269
Joined: Thu Sep 28, 2017 8:41 pm

Re: New Venture Journal Entry I

Post by Jacobi Wylcott » Tue Sep 08, 2020 7:18 pm

OOC: Beautiful reply. Loved it. Never apologize for length, you have given yourself so much flavor and character development. Excellent work.

IC:

Sk’har looked at his next pupil and he was nothing short of impressed with his raw level of connection. Little did the nautolan know it - but his first opening of his senses to the Force hadn’t taken a moment - it had taken thirty-seven standard minutes! During this display Pf’llamr had shown the Sith Taskmaster a roller coaster of emotion and potential alike. Whilst of course there had only been one who had gone before, but the difference was night and day. Sk’har contemplated ending the trials then and there but he withheld. A superlative connection to the Force did not make one a Sith Lord. There was still much to be tested and considered before a trainee was to be given leave of this place.

That said - the nautolan impressed Sk’har greatly. When the tested youth came out of his trace and fell to his knee to spill the contents of his stomach the Task Master was almost relieved for he did not relish the concept of delivering to much praise to a Day One student. A smile cracked across his face and he looked down upon the massive form of Pf’llamr, “I did nothing to you. Everything you’ve just seen was what the Force had desired to show you.”

He didn’t let on that he’d seen everything, the nautolan was already in an overload of new and fresh information - to learn that Sk’har had also been able to see these things likely would have passed beyond his early stage of understanding and applied too much confusion. So for now, Sk’har simply acknowledged Pf’llamr’s ability.

“Stand and be recognized as a Hopeful. To the Sith Order your worth has now increased dramatically. But there can be only one, and you’ve got a long way to go still.” Sk’har moved on to the next trainee and the test began anew. The next trainees were mostly successful, only one of their number failing the exam and leaving the remaining Sith Hopefuls standing at nine remaining candidates. The wash out was not of a significance that the Aurek would want him and so he was swiftly shuffled to a shuttle where he’d be shipped off to the nearby Sith Army Post and sent to the Basic Training Regimen.

Together now the Hopefuls were lined up abreast to stand before the Task Master. “You nine among twenty have accomplished the bare minimum. It is time to truly set you apart.” He turned away and began walking, “Come with me.”

Leading the Hopefuls through the gloomy corridors they arrived at a spartan office of sorts and Sk’har sat behind his desk where he engaged the holoprojector. “Knowledge is half the battle if not more. To know your opponent, his tactics, assets, capabilities - or perhaps even the knowledge of new and powerful skills or weapons - it is an advantage we cannot overlook. For your next task you will all have the same goal. One of our vaults of knowledge has been infested by a feral pack of Tuk’ata. The alpha predator among them is a giant of a beast. I want its head.”

“Normally I’d send word to the Army Post and have them clear the area with a platoon of soldiers - but I feel this a fitting task for our Hopefuls. Where sixty soldiers with full armor and rifles are required, I say nine Hopefuls can do the job with more efficiency.” A sly grin passed over the Task Master, “However I’d not desire for this task to be too easy. Therefore you will be separated into groups of three.” He then wasted no time in selecting Pf’llamr, the wild woman from before and a tiny looking Sullustan that had somehow wormed his way into the ranks of the Hopefuls. No doubt these two would weigh the massive Nautolan down but this was what these tasks and tests were for - to overcome the difficulties and shine where others may surely fail.

“The team to bring me the Alpha’s head wins. The two teams that fail, if there is anyone left alive among them, will choose one of their number by lot - the two chosen will have to once again enter the dueling ring and eliminate their opponent in order to remain here.” On the holographic image it had shown the Hopefuls where they needed to go - it was among the tombs within the Valley of the Dark Lords. In addition it had shown a picture of a tuk’ata. Large lupine predators with six inch claws, red glowing eyes and spines of poisonous barbs. What wasn’t in that information was that the tuk’ata were Force sensitive and would be able to sense and feel things through the Dark Side of the Force. For that information either the Hopefuls would have to discover it on their own, or perhaps even research it before they left the Academy Grounds which in turn would make them more prepared at the cost of time.

“How you go about this mission is of your own volition. How you are equipped is also up to you though nothing is free and you’ll have to procure your own weapons and armor on your own.” Sk’har added one more thing. “You are not to openly murder a fellow Hopeful unless you are given leave to do so such as in the dueling ring.”

Moving back around to the front of the desk he finally addressed the students one last time. “Go and do this task. I do not expect all of you to return yet I command you all not to sell your lives pointlessly. You are of no use to the Order dead.” With that they were dismissed.

As natural with the Sith, the order not to murder another student had been in place since the beginning. Though so long as you weren’t caught doing the deed then who would be there to say you had done so? Such was the life of the Sith. Only the strongest, most skilled and sharpest of mind were left to rule over the weak.
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