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29-04-2023, 10:58 AM
The Cold Birth
In the long, dark, room there was a brittle silence. It seemed to almost manifest itself as a solid with the imposing works of art subconsciously intimidating all who were forced to wait upon its hallowed stone floors. Alcoves cut in the black granite walls provided the only illumination in the room in the form of sombre, deeply set, ever burning torches. An orange flicker then danced across the archaic looking runes and hieroglyphics that adorned the floor and walls. A cursory glance would tell any passes by that these were wards for good luck and prosperity, yet also that they suggested uncertainty. Long fingers tipped with straw gold softly caressed the edges of one such relief. With the tenderness one might reserve for a lover, his fingers seemed to take in more about the artwork than eyes ever could. Then, against the wall there were intermittent statues of the greats of the past. Naga Sadow’s crowned face seemed to glare at all who walked through his gaze, even as a stone bust.
“If perhaps you had ensnared the Kressh supporters we wouldn’t be where we are now.” A voice mused, originating from the mouth of the one whom had been entranced with the carvings. His attentions were shifting around the room in search of distraction as he continued his sagely monologue to the crowd of himself. “Maybe if all of you had been more perfect, things would be so different.” He laughed, seemingly at the misery of the failings in the Sith of old. “Instead, we try and emulate you, time and time again, emulate failures who were the best among us. But, still failed. What hope have we, when we can barely tread the paths you did?” The man's voice, accented and soft, filled the room. The heresy he spoke against the paragons of Sith virtue seemed to fall on deaf ears, the busts remaining entirely in place and unresponsive to his jabs. A soft inhale suggested he might have continued, but a click and a hiss caused the figure to turn, his robes of black billowing beneath him.
In the doorway a doctor stood. His overalls were a crimson red, far more so than there should have been. His eyes, furrowed and tired as they stared into the unreadable and emotionless face plate of the individual who held the clinician's life in the balance. The doctor, to his credit, seemed unfazed as he gave his verdict. “There was a complication, it's why this took far longer th-” Before the doctor could continue the figure raised a hand. No words were said, no powers cast, yet the message and intention was clear. “They are in a stable state, you may view them, but it is unwise to actually visit for fear of infection.” The figure laughed for a moment and the doctor couldn't stop himself from gulping. The bristles on his neck from where he had missed a spot shaving seemed to stand on end.
“Fear, doctor? Nothing in that room could possibly bring me fear.” The doctor nodded his head.
“Of course, my Lord, I was speaking of their fear.”
“And if either of them wallow in fear then neither is of use to me anymore.” This response was more courteous, less mocking, but still filled with command and made with the authority of a person who was not to be argued with. The doctor really had no response and nodded his head, before gesturing to the door. Leading the Darth of the Sith down a far more clinical looking hallway. Here, septic white light blindingly reflected off well maintained walls and flooring. The transition was jarring, even for the medical professional who had made the change more times than he could count. Yet, as always the Darth who followed seemed totally unfazed. The tap of the gold tipped boots on tile was swiftly cut out by the beeping of medical equipment and the sound or orderlies hurrying to and fro. Coming to a long window, the pair came to a halt, peering in.
For a flickering of a moment, the doctor swore that the figure beside him was holding his breath. But, that moment passed and a seeming wave of indifference radiated as an aura. The doctor pointed to the medical bed on one side of the room. “Sutmua lost a lot of blood, she needs to rest. We did a blood transfusion, blood from the family stock as instructed. There was no impurity.” The doctor decided no more needed to be said. Inside the room, a thin pureblood female lay sleeping. Her hair, neat and tied back before, lay splayed out under her head as a black halo. Her hands and arms lay limply at her side, the pale blankets pulled up to her defined collar. The soft voice of the Darth spoke again.
“And?” This time the doctor pointed to the other side of the room, where a metallic casing with glass panels sat, hissing and beeping. The incubator allowed the two onlookers a look at a pale red writhing mass. Although the thing itself was silent, it’s mouth moved and bubbled whilst his fingers curled and uncurled. He was asleep, but it was not a serene time.
“It is a miracle he did not kill Sutmua. And a miracle really he lived long enough for us to perform surgery. Though, the wound in his heart will be a permanent weakness unless fixed with Sith Sorc-”
“Silence, doctor.” The doctor stopped at once. His eyes turning from the Darth to the wriggling pureblood. The pair just watched, waiting. Though for what the human medical personage was looking for, he was unsure. Even as the seconds passed, he was convinced he should go. The child was slowing now, his movements becoming more laboured, maybe he was finally tiring. The child’s father was totally unmoved, his arms folded across his stomach as though he were judging bantha on Tatooine. “If it starts to fade, do not resuscitate. I have no use for weak things.” The doctor was about to confirm, when there was a thud and cracking sound. The child had woken, with a start, the shock of which had caused him to send a wave of energy into the container, cracking it.
“My lord, we may wish to change his incubator, is that allowed?” Looking over he realised the Sith was already walking away. “Darth Vipion?”
“Do as you please, doctor, the glass didn't break. Yutal has already failed me.”
In the long, dark, room there was a brittle silence. It seemed to almost manifest itself as a solid with the imposing works of art subconsciously intimidating all who were forced to wait upon its hallowed stone floors. Alcoves cut in the black granite walls provided the only illumination in the room in the form of sombre, deeply set, ever burning torches. An orange flicker then danced across the archaic looking runes and hieroglyphics that adorned the floor and walls. A cursory glance would tell any passes by that these were wards for good luck and prosperity, yet also that they suggested uncertainty. Long fingers tipped with straw gold softly caressed the edges of one such relief. With the tenderness one might reserve for a lover, his fingers seemed to take in more about the artwork than eyes ever could. Then, against the wall there were intermittent statues of the greats of the past. Naga Sadow’s crowned face seemed to glare at all who walked through his gaze, even as a stone bust.
“If perhaps you had ensnared the Kressh supporters we wouldn’t be where we are now.” A voice mused, originating from the mouth of the one whom had been entranced with the carvings. His attentions were shifting around the room in search of distraction as he continued his sagely monologue to the crowd of himself. “Maybe if all of you had been more perfect, things would be so different.” He laughed, seemingly at the misery of the failings in the Sith of old. “Instead, we try and emulate you, time and time again, emulate failures who were the best among us. But, still failed. What hope have we, when we can barely tread the paths you did?” The man's voice, accented and soft, filled the room. The heresy he spoke against the paragons of Sith virtue seemed to fall on deaf ears, the busts remaining entirely in place and unresponsive to his jabs. A soft inhale suggested he might have continued, but a click and a hiss caused the figure to turn, his robes of black billowing beneath him.
In the doorway a doctor stood. His overalls were a crimson red, far more so than there should have been. His eyes, furrowed and tired as they stared into the unreadable and emotionless face plate of the individual who held the clinician's life in the balance. The doctor, to his credit, seemed unfazed as he gave his verdict. “There was a complication, it's why this took far longer th-” Before the doctor could continue the figure raised a hand. No words were said, no powers cast, yet the message and intention was clear. “They are in a stable state, you may view them, but it is unwise to actually visit for fear of infection.” The figure laughed for a moment and the doctor couldn't stop himself from gulping. The bristles on his neck from where he had missed a spot shaving seemed to stand on end.
“Fear, doctor? Nothing in that room could possibly bring me fear.” The doctor nodded his head.
“Of course, my Lord, I was speaking of their fear.”
“And if either of them wallow in fear then neither is of use to me anymore.” This response was more courteous, less mocking, but still filled with command and made with the authority of a person who was not to be argued with. The doctor really had no response and nodded his head, before gesturing to the door. Leading the Darth of the Sith down a far more clinical looking hallway. Here, septic white light blindingly reflected off well maintained walls and flooring. The transition was jarring, even for the medical professional who had made the change more times than he could count. Yet, as always the Darth who followed seemed totally unfazed. The tap of the gold tipped boots on tile was swiftly cut out by the beeping of medical equipment and the sound or orderlies hurrying to and fro. Coming to a long window, the pair came to a halt, peering in.
For a flickering of a moment, the doctor swore that the figure beside him was holding his breath. But, that moment passed and a seeming wave of indifference radiated as an aura. The doctor pointed to the medical bed on one side of the room. “Sutmua lost a lot of blood, she needs to rest. We did a blood transfusion, blood from the family stock as instructed. There was no impurity.” The doctor decided no more needed to be said. Inside the room, a thin pureblood female lay sleeping. Her hair, neat and tied back before, lay splayed out under her head as a black halo. Her hands and arms lay limply at her side, the pale blankets pulled up to her defined collar. The soft voice of the Darth spoke again.
“And?” This time the doctor pointed to the other side of the room, where a metallic casing with glass panels sat, hissing and beeping. The incubator allowed the two onlookers a look at a pale red writhing mass. Although the thing itself was silent, it’s mouth moved and bubbled whilst his fingers curled and uncurled. He was asleep, but it was not a serene time.
“It is a miracle he did not kill Sutmua. And a miracle really he lived long enough for us to perform surgery. Though, the wound in his heart will be a permanent weakness unless fixed with Sith Sorc-”
“Silence, doctor.” The doctor stopped at once. His eyes turning from the Darth to the wriggling pureblood. The pair just watched, waiting. Though for what the human medical personage was looking for, he was unsure. Even as the seconds passed, he was convinced he should go. The child was slowing now, his movements becoming more laboured, maybe he was finally tiring. The child’s father was totally unmoved, his arms folded across his stomach as though he were judging bantha on Tatooine. “If it starts to fade, do not resuscitate. I have no use for weak things.” The doctor was about to confirm, when there was a thud and cracking sound. The child had woken, with a start, the shock of which had caused him to send a wave of energy into the container, cracking it.
“My lord, we may wish to change his incubator, is that allowed?” Looking over he realised the Sith was already walking away. “Darth Vipion?”
“Do as you please, doctor, the glass didn't break. Yutal has already failed me.”
Discord:
lord_saltaeon
