SithLore

This is after Kita Ikari's introduction to The Harbinger, Tormentous' personal ship.

Blood had rested only as much as the ride had lasted. Surprisingly, the Dark Lord's vessel was not that far from the shuttle the Echani had decided to take them in, and after their boarding of the Ruination, the Harbinger was seemingly a stone's throw from them. Though it seemed that way, Blood was actually off with his time. It was quite a rush for him, as his time was distorted, pulled between meditating to repair his very existence, attempting to figure out what was what or what should have been in his predicament, and who all could have totally been involved. Where was Dastan? Kroxata? Mnami? Everyone and everything was a thread tied to someone or something, and Blood was searching for answers.
In truth, the parasite was trying to avoid the thought of ceasing to be.

His obedience was saved and monitored through Silas' sorcery, but the Dark Sider wasn't so base as to see he wasn't wanted in this body. Silas had teased him, his grip slipping with every tickle of pull as the Echani 'disciplined' him whenever his urges got too great. It subdued the Wicked Messiah, forcing the bastard to comply with the deadly ultimatum of 'Do or Die'. Blood was even paranoid Silas knew what he was doing. He wasn't getting any obvious leads that this long term mental therapy, but he surely wasn't doing anything to prevent the entity from fading, completely. What what happen when Blood no longer had the strength to even exist?

His mind was completely consumed by these passages of thought, so much that he walked like some common dredge behind the Sorcerer and his newly acquired treat for Tormentous. He was silent, providing nothing lest he was spoken to, and even then the answers were basic, tasteless. Blood was quiet for everything else.

With their arrival at Moraband the Sovereign bid Blood to follow onward to take a shuttle from the Ruination planet-side. The time had finally arrived for the conditioning of the dragon king to be completed. Without offering much resistance to the priest’s instruction the pair arrived within an hour standard time at the outskirts of the still unfinished spire. The already impressive tower, which would serve as the Sovereign’s sanctum and base of operations, still required a successful replenishment of slaves to properly finish.

Despite this setback the first 100 meters had been erected and already was given proper utilities to many of the lower levels. As the shuttle set down and the ramp lowered to allow the pair to depart Sovereign exited first and then waited for Blood. As the beast began to follow the priest spoke, “No, not yet. You have a task to accomplish. While I have secured two of the famed Star Maps, both of which are prepped to be installed at the completion of this tower, there are to my estimation at least five ‘Fragments’ that would have remained in your possession.”

As Blood halted his advance and attempted to grasp at what the High Priest spoke the serpentine voice of the Sovereign continued. “I’ll have you know that it was mercy that allowed your reign to begin with. Silas had both possession and control over one of those fragments as you postured to depose him from the Order. Had it not been for the lives of his kin I believe your complete destruction would have followed.” A few moments passed as the Sovereign allowed Blood to digest what was said.

“Whatever has been made of you none within the Sith believe you to be a fool. Those artifacts yet remain. Gather them before me and I will complete the task necessary to free you from my service.” Removing his helmet yet allowing the naturally corrupted features of his flesh to remain the Sovereign breathed deeply of the arid climate. The natural darkness of the planet already seeping into his body, the priest departed Blood enroute to his temporary sanctum. There was no need to see Blood comply. So close to the Dark Lord’s domain there were none that would defy the Left Hand of Tormentous.

If there was a world as set back in time as it had begun, it was Moraband. There was no planet Blood had walked on that bore so much Dark Side energy as this hot and sand scaled place. It even felt homely to this entity, resonating with him on such a frequency that he could understand what those dark whispers of slumbering and restless dark siders said as he walked over where legions fought and fell. The hot sands rove over his scaled feet, and only found so much resistance as they sunk into the world's outer flesh, lightly.
Or that's what he had wanted to expect. His leash strained only as far as the top half of the ramp as his current taskmaster stopped his gait. Confusion and irritance quickly met to rise to this situation, the parasite wanting to feel those memories rush back through what little senses he had left in this body. But something so minute was held back from him, and even that wasn't worth him emotionally pursuing. He had to save what he had. Something dark loomed in his future, and by the Force, he couldn't understand the forebode. He was alive, settled, and able to still walk amongst the captor, rather than bound and gagged, manually laboring.

"I’ll have you know that it was mercy that allowed your reign to begin with. Silas had both possession and control over one of those fragments as you postured to depose him from the Order. Had it not been for the lives of his kin I believe your complete destruction would have followed." His eyes widened, the functioning eye focusing intensely on the echani lord with such a strict curiosity, he dared another step forward. Why did he speak as though-...was he...not Silas?...Was the Ghost a completely different entity, as himself was? Be damned everything else, this had put a completely new outlook on the callous pomp. It was...relatable.

"Whatever has been made of you none within the Sith believe you to be a fool. Those artifacts yet remain. Gather them before me and I will complete the task necessary to free you from my service." Something hostile rang in those words, and it caused the draconian to almost riskily defy. To move onto the next mission, to save this task for last, to merely pass this off until everything else had been done. Something about that final sentence,...wasn't right. And Blood did not want to leave from Silas' service, now that he had come to learn this was not Silas.

But the echani marveled in the dry heat, brandishing his face to the dust stoked air, and began his trek off to his own holdings. Blood watched, one golden eye locked on the slowly retreating as the other dully kept with it.
Without much more left to him than the task, he unhinged his living cape, shook them free with a stretch, and leapt into the hot skies of his Father's personal home.

As he caught his current of wind, he aligned with it and coasted, every once in a while regaining and lost altitude with an occasional flap of the powerful limbs. Ebony mane blew through the gritty skies, trailing past as some banner of his, while his mind opened and focused on finding these fragments. There was something else Blood had to return to Tormentous, and he hoped to do it before Silas had decreed him finished, however should he not be able to, Tormentous would find it eventually. A maker was never far removed from his creations.

'Then what's your excuse?' that chuckle broke the concentration his mind barely had left to offer. "There is none. He does not understand what I have done, or if he does, perhaps that is why my flesh has not been rended from my bones." Or his head cleanly polished and added to the Throne.

That was where he had to go, after all. The fragments could not have been that scattered.

Returned to his temporary sanctum the Sovereign took a moment to gather his thoughts. Meeting this…Kita had brought to surface aspects of who he was that the entity did not fully comprehend. In truth when Silas had inflicted the mental partition upon his self it was an irreversible act. A forbidden technique passed down in hushed tones amidst of the most elite of Echani Battlemasters.

For a people whose lives count the long cycles in batches of centuries rather than the decades of common man, it had been deemed necessary to keep the technique alive even with the dire implications. Normally any battlemaster that elected to use the art would simply recover with their normal personality removed from the joys or pains of their former life. It could purge immense mental trauma, reverse mental conditioning, or at times undo physical handicaps, and that is why it was formulated in its origin.

However, thanks to Silas’s indoctrination into the darkside of the Force the result had been far more impactful. Upon enacting the technique an entity, not wholly unlike Tormentous’s own, was born within the flesh of the once proud Echani. Maintaining all of its hosts memories this ‘Sovereign’ became Silas even as those memories where viewed and known to not simply be its own. The disparity of this art lay in the fact that unlike Tormentous there was no existence that could vie for control.

Undoing the technique would require another battlemaster and a willing host, an almost impossibility of probability even in the vastness of the galaxy. Regardless dwelling on the actualization of the ‘WHO’ of what Sovereign was now lingered in the mind of the priest. Despite this the Sovereign sat down in meditation not in regards to his self but the preparation for Blood’s return.

It had been some time during the flight from Silas' - or what he had initially perceived as Silas' - and the draconian had kept his mind as clear as he could without the repeated mocking from the Slade that was intent on watching him crash and burn. Heated discussions littered the air where only dust clouds and sand scalded him, skating over his orbalisk infested skin with a grating crackle within his flight. He coasted easily, for the most part, but the winds were horrid, as they should be on such a treachery infested planet.

Eventually, Blood managed to get to the palace, a marvel of archaic architect which granted all a ominous sight to see. Massive statues erected, a few left wounded by sands and time, and others left almost impeccable. Blood immediately recognized himself, or well, his host's body, standing there in a familiar armor, as well as his latest adversary, the vanished Kroxata. Neither stood in his way as he landed, and made himself walk up the multitude of steps it would to take to reach the grand mastery of his Master's kingdom.
But they did serve bitter reminders of the history he had survived against, and remained.

It was almost imperceptible to sense the difference between Tormentous' signature and the rest of the Dark Side that permanently existed on these grounds, however he searched hard enough and could mentally pinpoint where he needed to go in the massive monumental place. There, his journey would begin once he had made it up every single one of these stairs.

Upon the final step, the sight he was greeted with was familiar. From the several scattered bones of several passed slaves, left for scavengers or passerbys to shiver at, macabre souls passed as regalia for the recrowned emperor. Memories threatened to pull his attention from the goal at hand, but it wasn't stronger than the pull of the Force, a tamperering that was a repeated hum in a place of absolute silence. To the Parasite, as he walked the haunted and homely halls of the grand building, he could feel the vibrations, and there were quite a few. It was completely unnecessary to close his eyes, to dwell on it any longer, because he was forced to feel the frequency from merely being so close to -

Something drastically sickening wrenched him to his knees, and thousands...horns...his ears-
It sounded as though someone had blown an entire stockade of horns in his ear, announcing the presence of some kind of...presence. There was no one here! There could not have been. However, his mind betrayed him, and swore there was a regal man among them, and Blood knew it certainly could not have been him. And just as loud as they had been, they were absent. Silence as deafening as the horns had supposedly been clutched close to him, and he shivered in the absolution of it.
Absolute indeed, as he turned his face up, before a familiar pair of massive wooden doors...doors of the throne room.

Time had not altered anything other than organic material and color. Rust colored smears blanketed the floor, the sand carved statues facing the great throne, everything, as though a bloodbath had taken place here. Because it had. Blood recalled the day, the time, the ruthlessness of it all, details that were much more faint on him as his feet shuffled to pass through the gigantic room which had seen so much only a few years ago.

He recalled where the Ghost had stood, fighting the momentum of the orbs as they raced for the interlopers. How they had been split from a central orb, only for the orbs to defuse shortly after. Their residue however, their essence, had caked varied elements in this cursed room. One had been for Silas, Another for Warvanus, another for himself, one for the Jedi's helper, and another for the Jedi Master. The other one had supposedly been left idle as the other helper of the Jedi, the corrupted one, had been reduced to a catalyst thrall. If the Ghost supposedly had one already, and the other five..they had to be here, left where their supposed takers should have been. Silas had forced the small orbs to collapse upon themselves, and Blood and Warvanus had attempted to aid by withdrawing some of the energy from the orbs to bolster the sorcerers attempts.

Blood walked further in, and bypassed the multitude of skeletons that had littered the room. It was rife with them, humans, massassi, dragons, all kinds.
But amongst the rubble, lay treasure.

They, 3 years later, gleamed with an unnatural and pearlescent metallicy in the helms of shadows, and it was made painfully obvious where they all were supposed to be mentally ripped asunder from their own bodies, that day. Blood fought to not think of that battle, to not dwell on what had happened, and reminded himself that there was a mission he had to complete. Utilizing his remaining ability, basic telekinesis, he levitated the special hearts of the orbs, still growing, from their dusty coffins. These were not fragments of anything,..they were the very hearts of the Thought Bombs.
And Blood had to bring them to the Sith Lord who was attempted to cleave Tormentous' head from his bloodied shoulders the day they were summoned.

'What are you planning, Ghost.' he had to pose this question as he trailed the bomb cores behind him after he had launched himself back into the sky. He definitely had to start putting the pieces together.

Upon the highest level of the still unfinished tower the High Priest made preparations to receive his guest. Dismissing the vast array of slaves working on the spire the Sovereign began to inscribe runes on the marble floor beneath his feet (Sith Sorcery). Conveniently just two floors below resided the chamber meant for the fragments Blood was in the process of collecting. Six pedestals with sensors for energy and radiation emission alongside proper shielding once stored to protect from the possible physical detonation of the fragments themselves.

This precaution was taken despite the reality of the relics having remained inert and intact for cycles. The preliminary work completed the Sovereign rested in the middle of the runes he had set. Darkness took him as his eyes grew heavy. The task he had willingly accepted required, in his own mindset, the erasure of the conflict that brewed ever greater within Blood the longer the deposed lord was in the priest’s presence. To facilitate this the High Priest took to deep meditation in order to achieve the clarity necessary to maintain his peak for what could last several hours if the worst should occur.

It was in this moment the deepest recesses of the former Imperial Center flickered within the depths of the Sovereign’s consciousness. At the core of the world, shrouded in secrecy and protected by the throne. The unsettling domain touched only by those of royal blood. Two acolytes bathed in sapphire and ruby light respectively almost mirror images of each other. Pale white and glorious pearlescent skin all so close yet remaining divergent in nature.

The Sovereign’s eyes snapped open as the realization that the images were memories of his flesh drew the priest’s ire. Calling upon his near-peerless connection to the Force the Sovereign slammed his hands together and drew open the ‘gate’ to the domain of the Sith’s pool of ancestral knowledge and power. Allowing the darkness to saturate his core the Sovereign awaited Blood’s return. It would be then that the former Dark Lord’s fate would be sealed.

Blood had between the time of his leaving Tormentous' Fortress until he had reached the Ghostly Priest's own growing rising pillars and mounds. Blood hadn't had much to witness with it, as he was dismissed through the Left Hand to complete a bespoken task, and meet him back at it. The Sithian kept his hold on the orbs, occasionally peeking his gaze over a shoulder to ensure their status. And during, he wondered.
Was the Priest attempting to forge his own makeshift Thought Bomb? Was this an assassination attempt? What of Tormentous? Was he involved? Blood recalled Silas attempting to slay Tormentous, Blood recalled that saber being flung as easily as though it were a poison tipped dagger with just as much accuracy. Launching right into Tormentous' neck, as Kenobi was trying to heal the lethal wounds the former Dark Lord had sustained.
Was Silas attempting another attempt to murder Tormentous? Was he a snake as much as suspected? And Warvanus; did any of this involve him? He had pledged loyalty to Blood, only to return as Tormentous after his return. That bastard was off the table as far as trustworthiness. He was a liar-
'He is a Sith.' the voice corrected him.

The Draconian managed to make it back to the Sovereign's Spire, his mind stacking and undoing theories as he managed a relatively crisp landing. Dust scattered around him on the worksite, and he looked upon the growing build of the Sithian Priest. It was going to be the base of operations for the Ghost, it seemed. On the same planet as Tormentous, it seemed. An attempt to overthrow?
Everything seemed to link back to Silas' possible betrayal, and Blood began his trek up the stairs as he attempted to figure out the rest.

Upon his return Blood seemed wary of the Sovereign or perhaps unsure as to the fulfillment of the task he had been given. Paying no heed to such reservations the High Priest relieved the beast from the fragments with an unseen hand far greater in magnitude to the deposed lord’s own (Telekinesis). With a flap of his cape the priest departed for the chamber he had designated to encase his new acquisitions.

Once the fragments had been properly aligned in their new homes the Sovereign returned to properly address Blood. “It is here, upon this stone, that you have finally reached the crossroads of your existence.” In such a Silas manner of speech the Sovereign had immediately grabbed the dragon’s attention. Extending his hands outward toward Blood the High Priest cast out a web of ethereal tethers and bond the flesh of the once proud dragon king in luminous crimson chains (Sith Sorcery).

“The appointed hour is nigh. The conflict within you will be quelled in its entirety. Once I am finished the victor will remain unchallenged, in far greater capacity than even Tormentous!” Likely a shock to Blood at least in part was the degree to which the Sovereign had gauged his mental state. Perhaps an overshot of the meaning of which the priest believed Tormentous would have been ended properly were it not for such conflict.

However though the serpent was always at the ready should the Dark Lord fall to leap into the vacuum of power that would ensue, Sovereign could see the need for Tormentous as a bulwark so long as the ‘Thorn’ remained in the side of the Sith. Having allowed a moment for Blood to come to the frightful realization that they may cease to be the Sovereign snapped his fingers and the stone that he had embedded in the beast’s throat reformed. A gemstone wrought from the life-force of another sentient being now acted as a focus as the High Priest latched hold of the dragon’s consciousness (Mind Control).

With the weeks of prodding and delving within the mind of the drake it was a simple matter for the Sovereign as he inflicting his will upon Blood and diminished his hold over what the dragon had perceived to be its own flesh. This act was in order to draw forth the conflicting entity within Blood. To bring about a final contest for the mind of the man. If both existence’s were equivalent what aspect truly was the more dominant to greater ‘self’?

They had been led only partially further into the massively growing build, and Silas had brought them to a flattened sect of it a few turns of the passages within. Eventually the halls and pleasantries ended, and the detailed carvings into the walls began to speak more sinister things. Incantations almost seem to scream at Blood from the walls, and though he was uncomfortable with the Sithian he followed now, once the pair had come to stand inside of a chamberesque room, his sense of foreboding immediately spiked. There was nothing good about this place.

No longer in command of the cores, Blood was almost completely vulnerable, and Silas capitalized on it. “It is here, upon this stone, that you have finally reached the crossroads of your existence.” his words echoed almost ethereal in his domain, and Blood took an instinctual step back from the Ghost, however it was his last. His limbs were locked, bound, and held in place by vibrant garnet chains held into the air by nothing more than desire of the Priest. “The appointed hour is nigh. The conflict within you will be quelled in its entirety. Once I am finished the victor will remain unchallenged, in far greater capacity than even Tormentous!” Everything clicked into place, right then, and right there.

"You are fascinated by nothing more than a dog, Sorcerer!" His rage was near laughable as he fought against unmoving chains. His wings flexed in wild disbelief. Had Tormentous authorized this? Did he know what was taking place? 'Do you genuinely think he cares? Idiot.' Slade mocked the Parasite. And how spoke...so near bothered the Dark Side's entity. "You are the forge of betrayal, Sovereign," he cursed the platinum maned serpent before his voice was engorged completely by a sharp lump within his throat. The wretched stone had returned, remade in the same place Blood had assumed it no longer dwelled. No, it was still there, and his snarls had become null. Heavy breathing from the fighting Sith, now a dying creature who knew how near destruction loomed.

The grasp to his mental existence rattled him completely, and almost as if he was being pulled under by forces unknown, but the grip tightened and yanked harder and harder with every day that passed. Days turned into weeks as he struggled to fight the tide, unable to exert himself, to express himself, or cry out in release of frustrations. The wicked messiah was in need of saving as he was losing a desperate battle, his own power being consumed by another. Whatever it was, it was a painful and grotesque thing, a ruthless thing, and had no let up.

As he fought for dominion, his last screech of consciousness was being ravaged by thoughts that began to surface. 'Is he...allied with Slade? What is his filthy interest in the whelp for? What potential is there for a useless being to regain harbor? Were there plans I was not made aware?' There was no way. Everything Blood had witnessed, Slade had, and Vice versa. There was no way. His groans were unable to even plead to the hells beyond, his throat being Forcibly constricted by the boa of Silas' ability. His agonized breathing was growing to a steadier rhythm, nothing of the pained havoc it was before. It was calming, and Blood couldn't accredit it to his doing. His feeling was growing more numb as days bled into weeks, and he tired. Everything was growing colder, and he loathed the cold. His shivers were internal, and internal alone. Frostbite nipped at the bastard, and he had to withdraw his influence just to remain functioning.
The snides the snarks, the remarks of who was foolish and who was not had ceased. Blood felt shriveled, small, as he had finally collapsed, a starved and weakened thing that was cut off from his ability to touch his cesspool of power. He was unable to even fend for himself, at this point, and his last thoughts were of his Mother, the pale skinned Nightmare which had birthed him into this mortal. He was merely energy, he scantily considered his existence as he was wilting. Her crimson eyes, her inken influence. It was disaster, misguided energy bound into mortal flesh and wrung with hatred and misunderstanding.

The word, misunderstanding...
It was the last thought he could touch upon, slipping a minor wisp of thoughtfulness on Tormentous, his Sire who had molded him into what he cold be so far. It was only so much, but it was a foundation. The rest, he had to figure out on his own. His own wit and connivery was all he had. Was he too, misunderstood?
He needed answers, but he was too weak. He couldn't feel anything, anymore, nor did he know what day it was, nor the hour, the cycle. He had to-

'No.' Slade's voice rose above the shivering parasite, a voice that belied humble intent behind a frigid callousness of baritones.
The Hunter stared down at the predator that had exhausted his energy, and compared the thing to something much more brilliant, a star which had been born from something greater, burned hot and bright so soon and so fast, and lost itself in it's own glow. No predator ever considers itself to be prey, but when the grand scheme appears and robs the food from you, the shelter, the warmth-

Blood shook, unable to even hiss or spit his hate at Slade. His teeth chattered, the Hunter peering down at the pathetic thing with little more than pity on his chiseled essence.

'- then where will you go?' he asked. 'When everything seems to be perfectly robbed from you, and it is something you no longer have control over, what can you do, Kraujas'ari?' his rumble asked so deceivingly soft, almost on the tip of condescending. Blood had no answers, not able to process the concept anymore than a sickly patient in a final hospice. Slade only seemed patient, almost fatherly as he gripped what was left of Blood, and dragged him to the miserable cage he had been in all these years. Those rusted bars hung open, hungrily waiting for the next prisoner. A crate for a dog. 'You submit.'

And with that, Slade kicked the malnourished Dark Sider into the maw of the box, and the hinged creaked as the door slammed shut. Blood did not protest, staring silently out of the bars with malice from his deadly stare. But he was removed, the ties removed as the box metaphorically clipped them as it had shut. Slade now was free from his internal prison, and free to experience air in lungs for the first time in 5 years, sights to behold as his own instead of anothers, to feel pain on his own, again. To do, say, be. To look upon his Master with his own gaze.

And all of it had come to be due to that wonderful property Blood and Slade knew well enough.
Betrayal.

Slade's body collapsed, dead weight in the chains, as Slade made effort to relearn how to exist on his own. A minute had passed,
and a marvelously golden eye awoke next to a milken pearl.
Hello, world.

The Hunter, returns.