Confrontation Litanies of the Dark Side: Oval Carved Incision [DC vs TOC & TSS]

[Darth Fauste]

@Desmundor Alcademon
@Hyara Hemstagon​

Darth Fauste watched the commlink slip from Desmundor’s fingers, the silent motion underscoring the pact they had made—a gesture neither surrender nor dominance but a recognition of equals. For now, they would set aside the clash of wills and steel, bound by an unspoken understanding that their true confrontation was one neither wished to tarnish with circumstance.

The offer he presented was dangerous, tempting, and Fauste appreciated the subtle test it posed. Trust was a foreign currency among Sith, but she sensed something different here—a mutual acknowledgment, as though they were shadowed reflections of each other. There was an understanding, perhaps even respect, woven into his words.

“I accept,” she replied, her gaze steady on him. “And in return, you have my word.” The pact was not spoken lightly. She would join him in Roon and take her leave, reuniting with her own fleet to resume her place within the Starborn Sect. As her mind drifted briefly to her people, her voice softened, thoughtful. “It may seem paradoxical, but the Sect holds a single, unbreakable truth—knowledge is freedom. To know one’s path, one’s destiny, is the only power that matters.”

Her words lingered in the air like a distant echo, carrying the weight of her belief. “Freedom isn’t an absence of chains. It’s understanding the ones we wear and choosing how they bind us. Knowledge is the bridge; it’s not true freedom, but it’s the closest most will ever know. Every truth, every secret, it sharpens us, giving us the clarity to act. That is our purpose—to bring understanding to the void.”

Just as she finished, they both felt it—the faint tremor in the Force, the hum of power in the distance, warning of their escort’s approach. Desmundor would have sensed it just as acutely, and together they turned, listening as the engines grew from a distant thrum to a roaring chorus that broke the stillness of the wreckage. The sound reached them then, carrying with it a reminder of the alliance they had struck in this desolate place.

Fauste inclined her head slightly, glancing sidelong at Desmundor. “They are your people,” she said, her voice edged with dry amusement. “I trust your faith in them is well-placed.” Her words held a note of challenge, as if daring him to trust his followers as he had extended his trust to her.

It was, in some ways, an acceptance that she was bound to this path for now, just as he was to his own. They would part as allies—an allegiance precarious and unsteady, but something in her felt it was exactly as it should be.

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

The pact was sealed. The offer once accepted, could no longer be unmade. After all, it was such the plan for the both of them, Desmundor reasoned. They were after the insight they could otherwise never attain, in a balance kept thin and volatile between arch-rivals. And yet, a voice within him urged him to maintain it. Tempted him, like Death's own whispers, to pursue. A study on levels beyond Desmundor's own comperhension, yet he accepted the path as it was paved for him by those above and below.

"At the Edge of the Universe is where knowledge ends..." The Hegemon muttered with narrowed eyes to Fauste's statement. A verse seemingly too familiar to him, masked behind her belief as it was laid out for him. Could it be? he wondered. Was she...? No... it couldn't be. Then again, it was his very patrons themselves who emerged from masks of Sith and foul beyond, for her to have been entangled in their maze of mind and corruption was no surprise, at the end.

His mind stopped delving into the matter when the loud noise of the Buzzards came close. The salvage team.

"Them, I know for less, Lyanna-Fauste" he admitted. "They are nothing." he continued, his gaze turning to the narrow cracks of the upper decks, where momentary glimpses of the Buzzards could be seen as they flew past. "What I have faith in are the hands that guide them. And them... Them, they fear more than any...."

The cruel Athysian civilization was built on fear of the divine. Something visible much easier, with little ideal or belief to cover the reality of the dread ways of these archaic peoples, on the employ of cutthroats and pirate elements to bolster their otherwise limited numbers. Alien, xenic lives, meaning nothing to the Athysians.

Desmundor inhaled the ever decreasing reserve of oxygen from his rebreather, as steps echoed in the broken narrow paths inbetween the wreckage, heralded by bright light.

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

@Darth Fauste​

The Buzzards circled over the wreckage, perhaps in search of any other lifesign discovered in the labyrinth of dead engines and charred cadavers laid bare on the surface of the desolate moon. Some hundred meters above the rocky soil, the Imvonvol levitated in the airless surrounding of the Rogue celestial body, her weapons powered down. Some of the shuttles had made fall to the wreckage, scavenging materiel still usable by the crew to repair the ship. Imvonvol's hull sparked of light from the multiple points on her the external armour was blackened, deformed, or even punctured by the Migrant Fleet's relentless rage. Some lesser repairs, mainly on the shield generators and life support systems had already begun. Droids, as well as corsairs onboard hanged from wires or used exoatmospheric gear to reach damaged sites and perform quick welding operations and repairs. The Mechnics hard at work with barely hours having been since they were all manning weaponry.
Inside the wreckage, the alien corsairs led the way, lighting the path with flashlights mounted on their blasters, or held at hand. Their route charted by the Hegemon's dark will, almost magnetizing to the search party sent. Lifesign scanners confirmed the presence of the two survivors.

Behind the corsairs, came the tapping noise of the rod assisting the limping Witch-Captain, hunched over it as her weight felt too much for her bones to carry. Her long pale braided hair hanging like chains, dancing in the rhythm of her disordered pacing, while the Weequay on her side held her by the shoulder, assisting her to keep up.

Her one-eyed gaze now hollow, with the spark of her yellow dark eye fading as time progressed. Two thin tubes mounted on the portable life support system hanging on her back made their way over her shoulders and into her nostrils, made secure by metal clips and a thread around her head, holding them in place. An antiquate, primitive form of life support, perhaps too unstable and untrustworthy to be employed by most advanced civilizations...

The With-Captain and her party finally made their way closer to the two survivors. From under the pale chains of hair, her one-eyed gaze met with the Hegemon's.

"Empor dhevas kav ghey ber vali, Alcademon"
"Empor must have been with you, Alcademon."

The One-Eyed Vulture hissed to the Hegemon. Her voice indicative of her weakened state. Her talons blackened by the exposure to Force Lightning, far too much for her pale flesh to endure. Her words spoken in tongue long forgotten, a strange corrupt Proto-Basic dialect that must still be the spoken language in the isolated world of Athysia. The absense of recognition of Desmundor's title clear.

"Le kyoe ghey gioo Ghilang- playd ghylif? Sikn drofi? Ygi vl par sikn monae bunoe hakayae bard."

"And who's that White-skinned life? A trophy? She would make a fine prow."

The Witch-Captain then formed a grin, turning her one-eyed attention towards the Sith.

 

[Darth Fauste]

@Desmundor Alcademon
@Hyara Hemstagon​

Darth Fauste stood firm as the Witch-Captain approached, her knowing gaze fixed on the haggard, limping figure. The woman’s scarred hands and beautiful face told the story of a life steeped in pain and power, and the strain in her steps spoke of the depths she was willing to endure to cling to that power. When the Witch-Captain spoke, Fauste didn’t flinch. The guttural Proto-Basic was no mystery to her.

“Empor dhevas kav ghey ber vali, Alcademon,” the Witch-Captain hissed.

The words held an ancient reverence, a reverence Fauste understood and respected but did not share. Empor may have been the guardian of Desmundor, the Athysian’s protector, but Fauste had only ever relied on herself. She gave Desmundor a brief, respectful glance before meeting the Witch-Captain’s one-eyed gaze with an expression as calm as it was unyielding.

The crone’s eye turned to her, a twisted grin pulling at her cracked lips as she sneered, “Le kyoe ghey gioo Ghilang—playd ghylif? Sikn drofi? Ygi vl par sikn monae bunoe hakayae bard.”

‘And who’s that White-skinned life?’ Fauste translated in her mind as she listened. ‘A trophy? She would make a fine prow.’

Fauste allowed herself a small smile. A fine prow. The idea was almost amusing. But she sensed the intent beneath it—the Witch-Captain’s need to remind her of her place, to reduce her to a mere trophy, a prize that Athysian hands could claim.

Calmly, she stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. “Vali ghey ghonvoli hal ben, imnuld wonoo. Sl ni hakn men surbris gae vali ghey gurvae suber mae ghenuoe heki wokel hakenc,” she replied in clear, unaccented Proto-Basic, letting the crone feel the weight of each word. “If I grace a prow, it will be on my terms, not as some plaything.”

She cast a look toward Desmundor, her voice steady, conveying her understanding of the pact they’d forged. “I am here by agreement, bound by knowledge and understanding—not chains. So long as that pact holds, I remain among you.”

Her gaze returned to the Witch-Captain, unflinching. “Perhaps one day, you will come to understand that knowledge is not a chain but a liberation. And perhaps then you’ll see that my freedom,” she added with a subtle, pointed smile, “is not yours to take.”

The silence that followed seemed to echo across the wreckage, and in that silence, Fauste’s eyes burned with the same conviction that had carried her across countless battlefields and distant stars. Her presence demanded respect; whether the Witch-Captain granted it or not was no longer her concern.

Though…

Fauste leered at the woman.

“Hevl Minni dhogu sinskrui vali sikn sioe hay dhoo. Dioo ghey dae larleg manlighr gioo vali ghardi vae kar heki.”

Translations; (1) “You are welcome to try, little one. Do not find yourself surprised when you are bent over my knee in the attempt.”

(2) “Perhaps I can teach you a thing or two. Those are such lovely handlebars that you keep your hair in.”

 

[Sith Master Veraxis]

Veraxis’s gaze sharpened as Tzar spoke, revealing their purpose—vengeance in the name of the so-called King Eosfor. The mention of Eosfor’s betrayal and retreat, however, seemed to cast doubt even among the Kuonjan warriors, prompting murmurs of retreat among their ranks.

Sensing an opportunity, Veraxis straightened, stepping forward as he addressed Tzar with calculated authority. “You have been betrayed by a false king, your cause squandered in his cowardice. But I see strength in you, Tzar, strength that deserves a far greater purpose than dying for a traitor.”

His tone softened, the temptation woven into every word. “Lord Malvus is no pretender to power. Stand with us, and you shall not only be paid handsomely but also find the means to exact your revenge against Eosfor. The war to come will need warriors like you—fierce, unyielding, and hungry for justice.”

Veraxis let the offer linger in the icy air, watching for Tzar’s reaction. Behind him, Malvus loomed silently, his presence a dark beacon of inevitability, as if daring Tzar to make his choice.

Tag: @Tzar Arakx

 

[Darth Malvus]

As Veraxis extended his offer, Darth Malvus reached out with the Force, his presence descending upon Tzar’s mind like a shadow. His voice, cold and commanding, echoed telepathically, laced with the power of the dark side.

“Tzar… your mastery of the cold is remarkable, a rare gift from the dark side. But gifts such as yours are wasted under the banner of a coward like Eosfor. He fled the moment the tide turned, abandoning his pawns to destruction. Do you not see? Your talents deserve a greater cause.”

The weight of Malvus’s words pressed heavily, his tone now sharpened by subtle temptation. “Serve me, and I will give you the means to become a legend. I will channel your vengeance, your hatred, into something far greater—a weapon that will carve the galaxy in our name. Together, we will burn Eosfor’s legacy to ash and reshape this war.”

Malvus allowed the cold tendrils of his telepathic voice to coil deeper, his dark presence entwining with Tzar’s simmering rage. “The choice is yours: to vanish into obscurity or to wield your power and fulfill your true destiny under my banner.”

As his telepathic reach faded, Malvus’s physical stance remained unyielding, his burning gaze locked on Tzar as he awaited the warrior’s response.

Tag: @Tzar Arakx

 

[Tzar Arakx]

​

Tzar's gaze remained fixed on Veraxis as the Sith emissary spoke, his insectoid visage unreadable, though the flick of his mandibles betrayed a simmering disdain. The murmurs among his warriors subsided into silence, their attention now fully captured by the weight of the exchange. As Veraxis finished, Tzar's focus shifted subtly, his cold, calculating gaze locking onto Darth Malvus, the presence of the Dark Lord seeping into his mind like a venomous fog.

But where others might buckle beneath the oppressive will of the Sith, Tzar’s resolve only hardened. He stood tall, his towering form exuding defiance as he spoke, his voice sharp and deliberate, each word cutting through the air like the swing of a blade.

"You speak of vengeance and purpose, Sith, as though you understand the nature of my people yes," Tzar began, his tone steady but laced with quiet fury. "Yet you, who claim strength, come to me with offers of servitude yes indeed, dressed in gilded words but reeking of chains yes. You believe the Kuonjan would bow to another master, yes? That I would trade one false king for another who whispers promises of power yes?"

Tzar took a deliberate step forward, the cold emanating from him intensifying, frost creeping across the ground at his feet. His warriors shifted uneasily, their murmurs silenced not by fear, but by the awe of their leader's commanding presence.

"Eosfor is a coward yes, I do not deny. But my people do not fight for the scraps of fallen lords yes. We fight for survival, for glory, for the blood and marrow of those who dare stand before us yes. You would have me forsake that purpose, to spill Kuonjan blood in a war that is not ours, for promises of coin and vengeance? No, Veraxis. No, Malvus. We do not serve yes."

He leaned forward slightly, mandibles flaring as his voice dropped to a venomous growl. "If you seek tools, find them elsewhere yes. The galaxy is full of scavengers eager to sell their souls yes. But if you seek a reckoning if you wish to test your strength against those who will never yield then step forward yes. Face the cold fury of the Kuonjan. But do not mistake us for pawns to be moved by your whims yes."

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of Tzar's defiance hanging heavy in the air. His warriors, emboldened by his words, gripped their weapons tighter, their murmurs now replaced with the guttural hum of battle-readiness. Tzar turned his back on Veraxis and Malvus, a deliberate show of contempt, his voice echoing one last time over his shoulder.

"If you wish to see the strength of the Kuonjan, you need only follow yes. But do not mistake our war cries for allegiance. We will feast upon this galaxy, as is our right. And if you stand in our way, we will feast upon you as well yes."

As Tzar's final words echoed across the battlefield, a sudden, violent howl of wind erupted, carrying with it an icy chill that bit to the bone. The blizzard he had conjured intensified, swirling with relentless ferocity. Snow and ice danced in the air, forming a shimmering wall of frost that seemed almost alive, a manifestation of the cold fury that defined the Kuonjan warlord.

The storm spread outward, its power almost unmatched, swallowing the battlefield and obscuring the view of Tzar and his warriors. Figures became silhouettes, then shadows, and finally nothing at all, as if the very ground beneath them had been consumed by the freezing tempest. The Kuonjan army did not flee it vanished into the snowstorm with the deliberate precision of predators withdrawing to hunt another day.

Above, their ships stirred, silent predators, emerging from the storm's edge as if summoned by Tzar’s will. The howling gale seemed to guide them, a glacial vanguard leading the Kuonjan fleet away from the broken confrontation. The faint glow of their engines shimmered briefly in the whiteout before disappearing into the abyss of space.

Tzar’s silhouette lingered for a moment longer, his towering form barely visible against the swirling frost. His glowing eyes burned with the intensity of a frozen sun, locked on Veraxis and Darth Malvus. Then, with a final gust of wind that howled like the cry of a thousand storm-wrought spirits, he too faded into the blizzard, leaving only the echo of his defiant words and the biting cold in his wake.

As the storm began to dissipate, nothing of the Kuonjan remained on the battlefield. Where once they stood, only the frozen earth bore witness to their presence, etched with jagged patterns of frost like the scars of a feral beast. It was not a retreat; it was a warning. The Kuonjan had left, but the cold they brought lingered, an icy promise of their return.

@Darth Malvus @Sith Master Veraxis

 

[Darth Malvus]

Darth Malvus straightened, his dark robes billowing slightly as he took a single step forward, his presence emanating a suffocating weight of the dark side. His voice was filled with venom, yet carried a chilling calm as he replied to Tzar, his words dripping with disdain and latent fury.

“Feast upon the galaxy?” Malvus’s tone mocked, a faint sneer curling his lips. “You may dream of conquest, Tzar, but dreams alone do not make rulers. I, too, seek to feast upon this galaxy—but as its sovereign, as the architect of a new empire. I do not raid like some feral beast, only to scatter when faced with true power. Those who stand with me will share in its spoils. Those who oppose me will kneel… or be cast into the void, forgotten by all but the abyss itself.”

Malvus’s glowing eyes narrowed, his voice hardening. “You come to my world, attack my citadel, and fail, only to speak as though you are my equal. You think your war cries are something more than the howls of a wounded animal. Laughable.” His disdain deepened into a grim smile.

“If you wish to test your mettle, I welcome the challenge. I will follow you, if only to see what pathetic resistance the Kuonjan can muster. Know this, Tzar: you are marked. You will find no respite, no sanctuary. The galaxy does not belong to the arrogant or the reckless. It belongs to the strong—and I am far stronger than you can comprehend.”

Malvus’s hand rested on the hilt of his lightsaber as he continued. “Run to whatever corner of the galaxy you choose. Gather your forces. Savor your delusions of glory. When the time comes, I will bring my empire to you, and you will see what it means to face the wrath of a true Sith Lord.”

With that, Malvus turned on his heel, his presence withdrawing like a storm on the verge of eruption. For now, Tzar would live. But Malvus’s mind churned with strategies, already plotting the eventual destruction of the Kuonjan warrior who dared to challenge him.