Coruscant's Open Terrain

The umbaran just smiled down at the little human thing and crossed his arms over his chest. Good luck with that, pipsqueak. "Oh? So if I don't put it on then you're just going to stand in here until they break through the door and kill you? Suit yourself." Then he took the fez from the small being's hand, very pointedly not putting it on, and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor of the lift. "Guess I've got nowhere else to be. I wonder if I'll get overtime or hazard pay for this..." He wondered to himself as he sat there, idly turning the fez over in his hands.

Her words pleased him. There was no questioning of his claims or protestation of his plans, just simply 'show me'. Would that all those who served him be so wisely spoken. They'd live much longer as a result. In any event, show her he would.

The reflective mirror like quality of the Famine Lord's scales began to change, dulling until they became a rusty red, like dried blood. The air, real or not, became cold and choked with dust. For miles all round there was not but desolation, a world starved of life and corrupted at its root, much like Pzob though far from offering the same degree of adaptation. Prakith was a dead world, more or less. The image shifted, as it continually seemed to do, a movie reel playing in the mind of Dragus. It displayed a familiar star destroyer in orbit, a tector-class with a jagged hull, midnight hued. It radiated an aura of terror and torment, the crew as much damned as the people the dreaded warship's cannons would soon be turned upon. This was the Night Lord, one of two mighty vessels in the Famine Lord's Sith armada. It rained down fire upon the planet, vaporizing great swaths of land, crushing what few settlements the decaying planet possessed. Shortly later it was joined by more ships, a vast fleet of the Order's finest, turning the terrible gaze of the Eye upon Prakith and finding amusement in its suffering.

"You may find this interesting, my pet. The destruction we will wrought, it was sanctioned by the highest echelons of the Imperial Remnant, by their head of state and the leader of their shining guardians. I offered terms and they accepted them, agreeing to put on a play for the whole galaxy to witness. The Eye would invade Prakith, the Remnant would arrive and save the day, seemingly destroying us. The Order enters into hiding, the Remnant looks like the galaxy's greatest hope, and everyone goes home happy. Win, win."

These images had not yet come to pass. So far this was all in the Sith's mind, a vision of the future, plucked from the strings of destiny's skein. It was as close an approximation as would happen, if not for the tweaking of some minor details. Arriving after the Order's fleet had set fire to the planet, Imperial Remnant ships began to show up, outnumbering the sizable Sith force. The two engaged and as Dragus had claimed, the Order's starships were destroyed, including the ruinous Night Lord. As the horrid wreck detonated it released the souls trapped in its very framework, their screams echoing out into space as their spirits were drawn into Chaos for an eternity of torment. Among the Imperials, one stood out, a crimson clad knight with a gleaming silver lightsaber. Xeonon Solomon, the Grandmaster of the Order of Imperial Knights. Opposite him stood a vision of Dragus as Major saw him now, all scales and bad manner, wielding a screeching red blade that thrummed with barely contained power. The duo began to engage in combat.

"As I said, for our plans to come to fruition the leader of their knights must either join us or die. On the Imperial homeworld of Aargua, I offered their ruling class a ring, a thing of me that had been crafted in the hell forges beneath the black obelisk on the Eye's Cradle." In front of the Fallanassi an object materialized. A simple gold band engraved with the Order's sigil, pitted with a single dragite stone. Dark whispers emanated from the ornate piece, a corrupting force possessing the smallest sliver of the Famine Lord's soul. "The Knight Commander's eyes lingered on the device, coveting it greedily, which was when I knew he could be turned. So I will engage him in combat, the surest way of testing his resolve before shattering it completely. And though I know I can be quite convincing with saber in hand, nothing is for certain. That is why I require your assistance yet again, my dear sweet Major."

If she looked at her hands, she would find that they were no longer hers. They were far hammier and wrapped in crimson gauntlets. If she touched her face she would find not her own, but that of a man, scarred and blind in one eye. Xeonon, the Crimson Knight, an instrument to be wielded in the Famine Lord's path to envisioned perfection.

"Though there is little doubting my natural charisma and charm, it would be unwise to assume I could command the Order of Knights after slaying their master. They are champions of the Light, more so than any Jedi hypocrite, sworn to defend the galaxy against the terrors of Old Night. I am born of darkness, no matter what face I wear they will know me for what I am, an anathema. You however, can be anyone you want to be. More importantly, you can be anyone I want you to be. In the event that their leader does not bow to my will, you will replace him, for as brief a period as is required for the purpose of executing Order 99."

Order 99, that was the name he gave to this next stage in his plan. It seemed fitting given that a rather well known Sith executed Order 66 to overthrow and destroy the Jedi, demolishing the self proclaimed galactic guardians for a time. As they were going to be destroying the Sith, it seemed appropriate to turn the numbers on their back. Really it was either that or call this Project Terror: Phase 17 or something along those lines.

Hovering over Major, the daemonic head of Dragus lowered, maw looming near as though he might swallow her whole. Those blazing star like eyes flashed with a brilliant light, then dimmed, each revealing a figure locked beneath the surface and swathed in ethereal flames. On the right was the Cycloptic Nightmare, Bacca, the personification of War. Held in the left was the Great Necromancer, Mortale, the very embodiment of Death. Each was assailed by a host of enemies, overwhelmed and eventually slaughtered.

"Kaan and Havok are not of concern. One is easily appeased, I need only offer him Pzob after I have ascended, a world I shall no longer have need of. The other is currently beyond my reach and ability to detect, not a threat as of yet. Bacca and Mortale, however, will need to be dealt with if I am to rise. Though I would relish swatting Death from existence, War must be the first to fall, for of the two he poses the greater danger. Should he become wise to my plans before they can be put into action, the Order would fracture, erupting in a civil war that would set my plans back immeasurably. Many of the lower lords would flock to his banner, for beyond the beast he appears to be, he is also a natural leader. As well, his raw strength is beyond even my considerable skill to manage. I have learned, much to my own suffering, that the best way to slay a monster is with a sword wielded by the righteous. I will throw the Imperial Knights against him, wear him down, and eventually overwhelm even his near-endless reserve of strength. It matters not how many of the Knights die in the attempt, they will not be needed after Bacca is brought down."

In Dragus' vision, many knights did die. Yet his brother was eventually defeated, speared over a thousand times by way of lightsaber. His massive singular orb exploding in a gush of steaming blood as a silver blade was driven through the back of his skull and erupted out of his horrifying face. The Famine Lord appeared, amidst the corpses of the fallen, grinning sinisterly as he turned his attention towards the last threat. Figures began to materialize behind him, taking the form of Sith, some Major knew and some she did not.

"Without Bacca, the lower lords will turn to me. Mortale lacks the necessary qualities to appease them, let alone lead them, and it was I who brought many of them into the Order. In their time of desperation, they will flock to me, like sheep to a shepherd. Some will be easier than others, for I have betrayed many of them in my rise to power. Viox will join me, of that I have no doubt. Gaiscioch will resist, but at heart he is an opportunist and will seek to join whoever he sees as the winning side. Even the Wolf will bow to the Dragon, for as much as the damned Inquisitor hates me, he will do whatever is required to continue his galactic genocide. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than bringing the hound to heel. As for Mortale, even if the knights are dead to a man, I am confident that the two of us can overpower him if we attack together. Your illusion magics combined with my strategic savagery, we would be unmatched. Or perhaps I will expend the others of the Order, pit them against my fellow High Lord. Kill two gamorreans with one rancor, as they say."

Around them the world began to collapse. The walls twisted and warped as reality reset itself and the Fallanassi was expelled from Dragus' thoughts. Chairs, tables, the umbrella under which they stood and two steaming cups of caf that had been brought to them whilst dreaming. They were back in the cafe, with the black scaled Barabel sitting across from the four eyed woman of the reich. Famine's claws tapped on the table, click clacking as he finished explaining the details of his plan, now speaking from his actual mouth.

"After that, when all our obstacles are removed, we will turn our attention to the rest of the galaxy. The Imperial Remnant has many opportunities, especially given how progressive it has become in its newest iteration. A female and alien pair of moffs could do quite well for themselves. I hear the political arena has dangers all its own." Sinister smile.

Scaled brow furrowed as slitted pupils sunk deeper in their orbs, observing the cylinder on the table between them, picking out the finer details. From the information available he could assume a few things. First the dents and scratches. The device had seen some use, though not in the typical way one would expect. If Major had been using it like a saber-rake, she would have addressed the damage to the casing. Appearance is important and casual maintenance would be less tedious than constantly casting an illusion. More so, if she had been using it for sword play, fixing the case would have been a priority since an indent could have an adverse affect on the delicate components inside. No, most of those dents and scratches occurred during battle, but most likely not by use. She had kept it as a sentimental item, which is probably why the casing was so worn. She wouldn't want to take it apart for fear of rendering it irreparable. It was her only link to Dragus. It almost meant she still didn't know how it worked, although in today's day and age that information was easy enough to come by. Then there was the issue of the black powder. Besides the visual, he could smell it, though that may have been why he hadn't noticed it before. Gunpowder and the Fallanassi came hand in hand. It was as much a part of her aroma as steamed broccoli. The staining on her hands could have easily transferred the material onto the hilt, but the pattern started strong and faded towards one end of the cylinder. One end was more exposed than the other. What was she stroking one end? No, this amount had to be from constant exposure. She had equipped it to the end of her rifle like some sort of maniacal energy bayonet. It was the most logical scenario, especially given that he had seen her do it before.

Casually he withdrew his left hand from the stim-cup in front of him and dropped it to his side, rummaging around for a few seconds in his robe. When his hand returned to the table it was occupied with a cylinder much like the one he had gifted to the Fallanassi, though this one was about a half hilt longer and slightly wider around. The bottom of the hilt ended in a short hook and the emitter end was surrounded by a sea of sharp edges. Appearance wise the hilt alone could have been used to gouge and tear, though by design, this weapon was used to keep people at length. He deposited the hilt on the table next to Major's lightsaber, grinning as to say, 'mine is bigger'.

"You want to learn to use a lightsaber? It's humorous..." His hiss with almost more of a chiding coo. "...all the time we spent together, I never once instructed you on its use. Typically this is where I'd start with a new apprentice or acolyte, to hone their body before their mind. I'd rather not allow the latter to develop without the proper controls in place. But you are far from typical, aren't you, my Fallanassi. Who could ever think to control you?"

Coruscant, small cafe on the east side of wherever, was probably not the best place for a lesson. However, the danger intrigued him. No, wait, not intrigued. He was lying again. Enticed was the better word. A childish need to test limits and endure risk. So what if the Jedi made this world their home? Had he not walked up to their very doors on Corellia and demanded submission? Granted he had barely escaped with his life from that incident, but he had as always survived, there was nothing here to make him think a public sparring session would end at all differently. If anything it might prove all the more entertaining. He could lead them down and deeper, into the darkest parts of the planet, a place unsuitable for any and all...which meant it was just right for him. That decided it. Throw caution to the wind.

"Very well. Take up your lightsaber." He said, even as he plucked his own from the table and stood up. "I won't bore you with the weapons history, there are more than enough talkative Jedi and Sith who would love to share as much with you, nor will I argue for one moral standpoint on its use. We both know such a stance is meaningless. It's a series of mechanical components that can kill with one end, not unlike your rifle. Other than what you already know about its capacity to cut and sear, it is utterly unremarkable. Or so I was led to believe for a time. Attack, defense...yes it can do these things, but I have found it is much better applied for the purpose of distraction."

Standing, saber unlit in his left hand, the saurian Sith stared down at the girl. There was a brief flash of movement, followed by the table between them careening away as though swatted. Dragus' tail now lingered in front of him, the obvious clue as to what had happened. The fifth limb wasn't just good from constriction, it could just as conveniently be used to clear debris. It slithered back behind him, rising like a cobra preparing to strike, then stopped just behind his head. There it began to flicker, back and forth like a pendulum, in perfect rhythm. It was hypnotic almost, a distraction. He hissed.

"Turn it on."

As the scene unfolded around them, Dragus looked on with mild amusement. He often found the illusions his Fallanassi so enjoyed to cast to be visually pleasing, today being no exception to that rule, though he didn't care to be pulled into her warped skew on reality without first giving his consent. Per usual his accomplice-in-genocide sought to molest the minds of others. His own, she would find however, was far from unused to such violation. He tapped a clawed finger on the hilt in his hand, matching the rhythm of his tail, which still swished back and forth behind him. His grin, more a sneer really, deepened as he watched Major activate her blade.

Still as crimson as the day he had gifted it to her, though he supposed she could have made it any colour she wanted with but a tweak of that unique mind of hers. That she chose red, or at the very least chose to portray it, was a good sign. Like a moral stance on a lightsabers use, colour was meaningless. Red, blue, emerald green, acid yellow, purple...meaningless, all of it. Yet there was something about a red blade that struck a cord with Dragus. He cared not for tradition, rather he delighted in the bold claim a crimson saber made simply by existing. It said, 'I am wicked, I crave power, I will show no mercy'. Most of all, it said...I am Sith.

Any improvement of mood was soon to be soured, however, as Major took on a Makashi stance. His sneer trembled, razor edged teeth gritting, slitted nostrils flaring wide. While his left hand was occupied, his right balled, clenching tightly into a fist.

Did she seek to impress him? He lacked any trace of humility himself, but between the illusion taking place around them and her attempt to express that she already had some skill with a blade, he was beginning to think she was showing off. Humility, he cared for it not nor did he seek it in those around him, but pride? He could hardly tolerate pride in any other save himself. While Major might be beyond the capacity to know true fear, he'd settle for bringing her arrogance down a peg, starting off by tearing away at that self esteem.

"You think you know how to use that?" His words were thick with rasp, growled from deep in his throat. "Good." He stated with a pleasurable hiss, some of his arrogance bleeding into his tone. "I won't need to go easy on you." He had never intended to.

Though the battle around them was hot, the air began to grow cold, the very real imagery taking place around them fading ever so slightly to a duller grey. Invisible to the naked eye, dark tendrils began to expand from the dreaded lord of Famine, hungrily feasting on whatever was available, in this case the illusion. Yet as the essence of even the oxygen molecules around was sapped and feasted upon greedily, the saurian Sith began to grow hot, the Darkside of the Force swelling in his breast like a cancerous growth out of control. His breath steamed, eyes like pools of molten rock, scales turning to obsidian. The barabel's left arm swung up from his side and out in front of his chest, met by his right as both hands clasped at the longer silver hilt, taking the lightsaber in a two handed grip. Dragging a clawed thumb up the hilt, he tapped the activation stud, igniting the fell weapon. Lancing forth from the emitter was a wailing crimson blade, stretching to two meters in length, hissing and fizzling as it seared the very air. Dragus took in a deep breath, savoring the stench of burnt ozone that the blade produced. Unlike the Fallanassi's, Dragus' blade was loud, very loud in fact. To say the blade was wailing was not an exaggeration. It practicality bordered on screaming. It was the combination of crystals inside, the first of which shared a similarity to the Sith's own name. A dragite crystal, used to generate a blade that resonated, capable of unleashing violent sound waves when directed properly. Dragus emphasized this by sweeping the blade down and up several times, merely tapping the ground with the tip of the energy weapon. Each millisecond of contact was like a gunshot going off, painfully stabbing at the ear. The point of contact was turned into a pool of glowing orange slag, partly due to the typical characteristics of a lightsaber, but more caustic than usual. This was caused by the second crystal in Famine's blade, the one he had so modestly named after himself, referring to it as 'Dragus' Vanity'. It also...

Muahaha. Mocking laughter was directed at the Fallanassi through the Force.

...increased the user's telepathic abilities. Dun Moch taken to the next level. Dragus' very presence had become oppressive. A further tactic to disorient and compel fear. He doubted the Fallanassi was capable of succumbing to such a base human emotion, but human she was. If he could not frighten her, he'd do his best to annoy her. Darkside knows it worked well enough on him.

Raising his saber up over his head so that the blade was completely vertical, classic Shii-Cho horse stance, Dragus advanced...rapidly. Forwards he moved, and down swung his blade, all two meters of potent plasma. The five meters between them was nothing. A single step forwards and he was inside striking range. In a powerful vertical slash reliant only on the Sith's brute strength, the clone attacked, seeking to split his favourite verbal sparring partner into two halves.