The Starbound Legacy

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Tyrie’s shoulders slumped as she stood before her current master. In turn, he watched her with a passive gave that felt, to her, like he was cold and harsh. He spoke in an even and calm tone. “You knew it would happen eventually, Padawan. Your ability to create these bonds is something that you must learn to control. Just like your feelings. You allow them to fester. Remember: There is no emotion, there is peace.”

Tyrie bit her tongue at the reciting of the Code, frustration, and anger bubbling in her gut. Master Derrin raised an eyebrow as is to say ‘see?’. In response, she takes a deep, centering breath, slowly releasing in, and tries to let the emotions release into the force. “I know it is a fault I have, Master. I am trying. I don’t know how to stop the bonds from forming so strongly.”

“Perhaps you should be apprenticed to a Miralukan, or Mirialan Master then. They see the force in a different way than most. Perhaps it will aid you. I will speak to the council about it.” Tyrie simply nods in agreement to Master Derrin’s musings, but he continues without acknowledging it. “You still will be moving enclaves in the meantime. I can feel our training bond growing and deepening too rapidly. You should use this time to pack and say your goodbyes.”

With that final statement, he stays and watches her for a moment. Tyrie tries desperately not any emotion spill through their bond. Master Derrin nods sharply and turns to walk away and out of her room.

Tears prickle in her eyes once she was finally alone. It wasn’t fair! She didn’t know how to control the bonds from forming, even after so many years of trying. ‘Besides,’ she glumly thinks to herself, ‘it has been almost three years here. That’s the longest I’ve been able to hold it back.’ But she got no praise for that, did she?

“Starbound again. I wonder where I’m going now.” Tyrie murmurs to herself as she stands from her seated position on the bed. She begins piling her few belongings onto the bed to later fold and pack. Almost all she owned was clothes and a small handful of trinkets and old toys. Most of her possessions were flung onto the bed without care, save for two items. One of those was an old lightsaber crystal. Hairline fractures ran through it, causing the light to reflect oddly over its gray-green surface. The other was a Holocron that was nearly as old.

Those two items were the only things she had that she truly cared for. Taking another deep breath, both items floated out of her hands and began to spin and rotate over her bed (hovering just over the pile of clothes in case she lost concentration). It always seemed odd to her, but splitting her focus in such a way always made it so much easier to accomplish a goal that did not involve movement like combat training.

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The harsh sun or Korriban bled over the red dusty land, though the ever-present chill stays. She can feel the prickle of the cold despite the physical training she has been swinging over and over. She grits her teeth, still not being able to do the maneuver properly, despite having been working on it since the previous day.

“Again, Feyaash.” Her father calls out from his perch under the awning. Breakfast was set out in front of him, and he slowly eats and sips his tea as he watched her. The smell of the steaming hot blood sausage cuts through the dusty air, and her stomach rumbles.

Taking the stance again, Feyaash brings the single training sword in a harsh arc in front of her, letting out a harsh “AH!” as she does so. The momentum brings her stumbling forward- like it was supposed to. The end of her shout pitches into a half shriek as she missteps and rolls onto her ankle. She hits the ground with a heavy thud, red Korriban dust puffing into the air around her. Her head and face connect with the ground with a thwack that echoes through her skull and immediately brings a dull headache as her teeth snap together from the impact.

Feyaash lets out a soft groan in pain, but even through that the soft chink of her father setting his stoneware cup on the table cuts through the otherwise silent morning. His burning orange-yellow eyes bore into her from where he sits, as he watches to see what she will do. His right chin-tendril softly curls around the left. Slowly, Feyaash pulls herself to her knees and she gently rotates her ankle. Her eyes water slightly from the pain and pushes her hands to either side of her, pushing off the ground to stand again.

Her ashy, dark red skin was deeper in color than even the Korribani dust. Her own chin spurs burn with pain, and looking down shows her the red-black blood of her people staining the dust even darker. Keeping the momentum to get off the ground, she staggers a little as her weight rests on the sore ankle, but stepping forward as a test reveals that it is nothing she hasn’t felt before- and the pain is of no serious injury. She stands there for a moment, head bowed in embarrassment. Her father says nothing. Taking several deep breaths, she allows the pain, anger, and humiliation to burn through her thoughts, even as she latches onto them and twists them into stubborn determination.

She leans down to pick up her training blade again. Still no words from either her or her father are spoken, but she corrects her stance. There is a soft scraping noise of stone on stone as her father resumes drinking his tea. Feyaash lunches into the attack again, pulling on the pain to stand strong as she correctly finishes the slash. A sparking ripple pushes out from her blade in an arc as she slices through the air. Sweat beads on her skin at the effort, and makes the scrapes on her face burn. After no comments were forthcoming, she relaxes her stance and finally fully looks at her father.

He beckons her forward, and she complies. Kneeling in front of him, sword across her knees, she looks up at his face. “Good.” he compliments, “You have done well, daughter. That drive, making your emotions into a driving passion, but not succumbing to them. Through passion…”

“I gain strength. I understand now, Father.” She followed up on his drawn out silence, and he inclines his head in agreement. Taking another drink, he gestures to the table in front of him.

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An awkward silence hung over the entire table as the final member that Darth Marr had called for council stepped towards them all.

The Barsen’thor had half rushed forward the moment the other woman was halfway into the clearing. “Xevsiar?” Her soft voice was raised in shock. “I..I thought you died. Mother and Father ..the slavers...”

Marr’s masked face whipped between the two women, and even Satele stepped forward towards the new Sith.

“I am Darth Occlus, Barsen’thor.” Xevsiar’s normally dry tone was tinged in rage. There was a slowly growing smell of ozone that sharply cut through the damp air. “And, am I supposed to thank you for dredging up that particular set of unpleasant memories?”

The older Imperial man at the Sith’s side lets out a small “Oh dear” and goes to gently touch Darth Oculus' elbow so as to not startle her, and takes the small stack of datapads that the apparent-Miralukan carried. Oculus made no move to resist. He quickly steps away and off towards the Chiss, Tzaord, who stood near Marr. No one else was able to take their eyes off the pair of Miraluka.

Dazeth pulled back sharply at the tone. “I.. see. Apologies, Darth Occlus.” The Sith nodded sharply, and the smell of ozone retreated. Now ignoring Dazeth, Occlus sidestepped around her still-immobile form, and took her place at Marr’s side, standing next to the Red Sith who was staring down at her with an eye ridge raised in question.

Dazeth stood still, head tilted down for a minute before quickly moving back towards Satele and Tyrie.

Occlus turns to Marr and lets out an angry sigh. Even through the regulated voice of the bone mask, the sarcasm and frustration shine through, the tone somehow managing to still be dry. “I suppose now is not a good time to tell you that I am related to the Barsen’thor?”

The area continued to be deathly silent. Occlus apparently was having none of it, and pulled one of the data pads that was taken from her, and began to scroll through it. Lana was gaping at the two, unable to control her reactions. Theron just barely manages to turn his laugh into an odd sounding wheeze. 

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Andronikos had just climbed on board the Fury class ship, but Xevsiar hesitated on the ramp. Under her bone helm, the bandages chaffed from sweat, and she desperately wanted to be rid of the mask, and be in the cool air of the ship. There was just a single problem with that, though.

Khem, of course, knew she was neither Human or Red Sith. But Andronikos didn’t. Stars, he probably didn’t even know her name. No one on the hell-baked planet said it, simply called her My Lord.

Fearing any more hesitation on her end would seem like a weakness, she makes her way onto the ship. ‘Besides,’ she thinks to herself, ‘it’s best he knows before we get into space. Just in case.’

“Wondered if you were ever coming on board, Sith.” The pirate’s gravelly voice echoed in the entrance corridor, and cut through her internal musings in an instant.

The ramp thudded shut behind her. The hair on the back of Xevsiar’s neck rose the instant she realized the position she found herself in. She felt trapped; penned in, with Andronikos blocking the only door by leaning on its frame. Memories tickled the back of her mind, and she rapidly blocked them out. Sparks wanted to dance across her fingers in response to her fear, but she swallowed down the sudden bile that was rising in her throat, and kept the electricity tamped down.

“Just saying a not-fond farewell to this dust ball.” Her mouth was dry and she felt the phantom feeling of a hand on her throat and electricity crackling over her face. Panic surged through her as she brushed past the pirate as she made a b-line to the large and open space of the common area. The terror died down a manageable level. Andronikos laughed at her quip and followed her. She barely caught her flinch as he passed her and flopped onto the couch.

Khem entered the room quickly, likely sensing her abrupt fear. He let out a wordless, rumbling growl, but Xevsiar waved at him to be at ease and to stand down. His beady eyes narrowed, but he complied. He placed himself at the edge of the door leading to the crew quarters, standing as her ever-present bulwark, with his arms crossed.

Her unused hand flitted to the mask she wore, but didn’t touch it. She was worried, and it was stupid. She hated that she felt like this. Andronikos made a questioning sound, and she realized she looked like she had no control over herself. With a small shake of her head, and with a slightly shaking hand, she snapped the release clasp open. The skull that served as the mask fell forward, and she caught it with practiced ease. The silence was all consuming when it revealed her entire face was wrapped, eyes and all. She slowly began to partially unwind the black-gray cloth, leaving it bunched at her neck. 

Through her force sight, she saw the pirate’s shock at realizing she was Miralukan. She kept the worn, soft bandages she almost always wore on. She did not want to feel his disgust and revulsion at the vestigial eye sockets her kind had.

A few minutes passed as she stood before him, face bared. “Gotta say, Sith, I didn’t expect this.” Andronikos leaned back farther on the couch, kicking his feet out, and laying his arms across the back. The perfect picture of someone who was not going anywhere. She appreciated the visual gesture, despite the spiking nerves and surprise she could feel.

“No.” Good, her voice was steady. “I didn’t expect you would have.” Her voice sounded bland and almost wry outside the voice modulator. She jutted her chin out in a small show of defiance. “Will that be a problem?”

He let out a brief pfft noise. “ ‘course not Sith. Just surprised.”

“Good.” her aura winced, while her face stayed expressionless, at her own clipped tone. Scrambling to fix the blunder, she blurts out “Make yourself at home.” Then she spun, not willing to let her embarrassment show. Either way, she could feel the pirate’s amusement. 

“Got a name, Sith?”

Her mouth pursed at the question, thinking. She wanted to tell him Kallig. But, if he said it around Zash, it would cause too many problems. She must have been lost in thought again for too long, as she suddenly felt his frustration build. “Xevsiar.” She almost regretted it as the name left her mouth. She hadn’t used that name for herself in a very long time.

Andronikos made a sound of agreement, and let the matter drop.

//I can still eat him, Master.// Khem’s rumbling in Dashadi cut through the tense silence.

It catches her off guard. So much so that it startles a small laugh out of her. 

“No Khem. I don’t think that is needed just yet.” A quick smirk flits across her face before it falls into the mostly neutral façade she has. “I will let you know if that changes.”

//As you say.// Khem shifts his stance, clearly agitated. Likely due to her whiplashing emotions.

Andronikos practically oozed confusion. “Sith? What did he say?”

Khem chuffed out what passed for his laugh.