RavenDaas
Vylinius of Varathia
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This post is searching for a GM for a creative retelling of the events of the Sith Warrior – emphasis on creative. Knowledge of KOTOR 2 is not necessary, but deeply appreciated. If anybody is interested in me playing the part of GM for a retelling of KOTOR 2, please look in my profile for that thread or request it from me. There's writing samples in my profile that I'm going to ask that interested people read.
"She said there was a war coming. That it was waiting out in the Unknown Regions. In the dark. Waiting for us to destroy each other."
"A war? This war?"
"No, not this one. Another one. More terrible. Against an evil we couldn't begin to comprehend… a war of belief, that had been fought for thousands of years.
- Mandalore the Preserver & Visas Marr.
Meetra Surik had entered the tombs of the Jedi Temple centuries ago, taking her warnings of darkness to her grave. For three long centuries the Republic followed their saviors' message, maintaining listening outposts across the Outer Rim with legions of tested Jedi Knights standing side-by-side their Republican allies to meet whatever horrors came screaming out of the void, prepared to finally bring an end to to the monsters that had haunted their dreams for so long.
Neither horrors nor monsters came.
Any swordarm will grow weary with time, Senators die or lose their office to young and often forgetful newcomers; oftentimes promising to voters that they will bring an end to the unsustainable military budget that has for so long kept them from building their bridges and schools. Listening posts become a cold, lonely place, and one can only put up with lecturing from Jedi for so long. The Republic would, in time, celebrate the disassembly of the next series of garrisons, of the imposed downsizing of the militant branches of the Order and their warhawks. Darth Nihilus and Sion's defeats were put on display on every screen with HoloNet capability; the Sith had been defeated centuries ago, laid to waste as so many had before them.
Only, the Sith were not dust. They were only patient.
Coruscant. It was the dream of every Sith. A poisoned heart so close to rupturing, so close to giving out, if only they could reach out and tear it from the chest of their most hated enemy.
They had come so close.
Coruscant and its people screamed, and the Sith reveled in it.
For over a decade the Sith Empire has reigned supreme, acting with impunity at every opportunity as the Galactic Senate limped from one incident to the next, paralyzed by collaborators planted within their ranks that seemed so eager to give in to the latest extortion by the Dark Council. Bankruptcy looms over the head of the Senate, but it is all they can do but promise donatives to the planets still calling themselves Republican worlds to keep them from willingly throwing their lot in with the Sith.
As dark a century as it may be for the Republic, all is not well in the Empire.
Sycophants, capitalists, Republican partisans, alien guerrillas, Sith and Human supremacists – they froth at the mouth to hold the hand of the authoritarian fist of the Empire. Or rip it off. The Emperor is silent, and his Council has long ruled in his stead, but all too often wages war amongst themselves when they ought to be preparing for the death kneel of the Republic, for as many building blocks they had burned, no matter how many lives they had reaped…
Coruscant, the Republic's heart, beats still. The Republic lives.
And, yet, the Lords of the Sith continue their depravity as if they already rule the galaxy. Alchemists and sorcerers dance their way through the lives of thousands of slaves a day, conducting experiments on the unwilling masses of aliens that found themselves under the thumb of inhuman racists who found it more palpable to play with the flesh of species they disfavored. Warriors and Juggernauts and Assassins and Inquisitors played their games of war, dueling and murdering one another to cull their ranks without any help from the Jedi. Each day that passes the newly minted citizens of the Empire come to be more aware that they've been sold to madmen that will turn on them once the thralls have run out. The Sith are no farmers or bureaucrats, and their negligence has set them on a path where the next Great War may see them sent into yet more millennias of exile.
Not that any of this is our concern.
After all, our story begins with one of the galaxy's least impressive acolytes, the latest slave fed into the meat grinder of Korriban, strong enough only to be the first blood of her betters.
She won't make it off this planet alive.
/////
Yup. It's an untalented Sith Warrior prompt; there's more details to spare if my partner(s) want to hear them, but the gist goes that we explore the POV of an enslaved femme Sith Warrior as they attempt to circumvent their weakness through clever thinking, diplomacy, and all those other things that the Sith hate.
"She said there was a war coming. That it was waiting out in the Unknown Regions. In the dark. Waiting for us to destroy each other."
"A war? This war?"
"No, not this one. Another one. More terrible. Against an evil we couldn't begin to comprehend… a war of belief, that had been fought for thousands of years.
- Mandalore the Preserver & Visas Marr.
Meetra Surik had entered the tombs of the Jedi Temple centuries ago, taking her warnings of darkness to her grave. For three long centuries the Republic followed their saviors' message, maintaining listening outposts across the Outer Rim with legions of tested Jedi Knights standing side-by-side their Republican allies to meet whatever horrors came screaming out of the void, prepared to finally bring an end to to the monsters that had haunted their dreams for so long.
Neither horrors nor monsters came.
Any swordarm will grow weary with time, Senators die or lose their office to young and often forgetful newcomers; oftentimes promising to voters that they will bring an end to the unsustainable military budget that has for so long kept them from building their bridges and schools. Listening posts become a cold, lonely place, and one can only put up with lecturing from Jedi for so long. The Republic would, in time, celebrate the disassembly of the next series of garrisons, of the imposed downsizing of the militant branches of the Order and their warhawks. Darth Nihilus and Sion's defeats were put on display on every screen with HoloNet capability; the Sith had been defeated centuries ago, laid to waste as so many had before them.
Only, the Sith were not dust. They were only patient.
Coruscant. It was the dream of every Sith. A poisoned heart so close to rupturing, so close to giving out, if only they could reach out and tear it from the chest of their most hated enemy.
They had come so close.
Coruscant and its people screamed, and the Sith reveled in it.
For over a decade the Sith Empire has reigned supreme, acting with impunity at every opportunity as the Galactic Senate limped from one incident to the next, paralyzed by collaborators planted within their ranks that seemed so eager to give in to the latest extortion by the Dark Council. Bankruptcy looms over the head of the Senate, but it is all they can do but promise donatives to the planets still calling themselves Republican worlds to keep them from willingly throwing their lot in with the Sith.
As dark a century as it may be for the Republic, all is not well in the Empire.
Sycophants, capitalists, Republican partisans, alien guerrillas, Sith and Human supremacists – they froth at the mouth to hold the hand of the authoritarian fist of the Empire. Or rip it off. The Emperor is silent, and his Council has long ruled in his stead, but all too often wages war amongst themselves when they ought to be preparing for the death kneel of the Republic, for as many building blocks they had burned, no matter how many lives they had reaped…
Coruscant, the Republic's heart, beats still. The Republic lives.
And, yet, the Lords of the Sith continue their depravity as if they already rule the galaxy. Alchemists and sorcerers dance their way through the lives of thousands of slaves a day, conducting experiments on the unwilling masses of aliens that found themselves under the thumb of inhuman racists who found it more palpable to play with the flesh of species they disfavored. Warriors and Juggernauts and Assassins and Inquisitors played their games of war, dueling and murdering one another to cull their ranks without any help from the Jedi. Each day that passes the newly minted citizens of the Empire come to be more aware that they've been sold to madmen that will turn on them once the thralls have run out. The Sith are no farmers or bureaucrats, and their negligence has set them on a path where the next Great War may see them sent into yet more millennias of exile.
Not that any of this is our concern.
After all, our story begins with one of the galaxy's least impressive acolytes, the latest slave fed into the meat grinder of Korriban, strong enough only to be the first blood of her betters.
She won't make it off this planet alive.
/////
Yup. It's an untalented Sith Warrior prompt; there's more details to spare if my partner(s) want to hear them, but the gist goes that we explore the POV of an enslaved femme Sith Warrior as they attempt to circumvent their weakness through clever thinking, diplomacy, and all those other things that the Sith hate.
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