Tag: sith

Thinky thought inspired by others, and by me poking at fic.

I use cold in my imagery of the Dark Side of the Force, but never as apathy*. Maybe because for me, cold is rage at its most dangerous, the all-consuming hateful rage that promises that everything in its path will be dust, no matter how long it takes, and is willing to wait a lifetime to achieve that utter and complete destruction.

The rage of blood feuds and endless cycles of revenge and war and bloodshed. The sort of rage that tears apart reputations, friends, family.

Cold hands, cold laughter, cold spaces. Hate and rage and cultivated arrogance that holds itself above everything. Sidious is cold. Manipulative, horrible, controlling ice.

Cold is terror, too. Terror that never ends, that becomes the core of a person, that can never be soothed. Jorus’etan is that kind of cold. Terror of his past, the terror he inflicts on those he chooses as victims. Pain and neglect and abuse and a refusal to ever be powerless before another.

Not all the Dark Side is cold. Maul is fire burning out of control and reveling in his passion, his anger. Barely and only sometimes tempered by a personal code of honor, like a barely-adequate fire break or a fire burned toward the wildfire to redirect it.

Anakin is fire born of fear, that will burn all around it to ash. That burns him to ash, twice over. Once to leave the ember that hides under the ashes of Vader, and a second time to shatter the ice and chains that are his Master.

And yet, even with them, I’ll use the tactile idea of cold hands, cold skin. Cold that burns, that destroys what it touches.

*I honesty do not get how people could use cold in the sense of apathy or lack of emotion or smothered passions for the Sith. It boggles me. It boggles me lots.

hamelin-born:

fireflyfish:

jerseytigermoth:

Another lesbian Sith Obi-Wan, but this time more realistic and traditional, because Lord knows a consistent drawing style just isn’t what I’m into! 乁༼☯‿☯✿༽ㄏ

For her namesake @lesbiankenobi and also @imaginaryanon because, let’s be real, Wicked Thing is what got me drawing all this SW art in the first place, and boy has it just continued to escalate. Dog bless you both.

As a purveyor of Lady Obi-Wans (sadly none of the Sith Variety inspite of Darth Arulas’s best attempts) I heartily approve of this!

@deadcatwithaflamethrower @darthrevaan @morgynleri

Meta Post 1: Fool of a Sith

sanerontheinside:

devilangel657
replied to your post “Revenge of the Fifth”

Question! If the trade feds were technically on sidious command and they killed qui gon originally by association, why does dooku join them if they killed his former padawan?

Solid question, 10/10

Confused me for a moment there, I wasn’t sure whether you were asking about canon or the fic or the au I currently live in. This isn’t 100% meta, even, just my interpretation, or character notes for future use. 
@obaewankenope, @deadcatwithaflamethrower, @aidava, look at this mess. if you want. I meta’d again. Second meta post is on the Trade Federation, coming soon. 
uuum. also tagging @kyberpunk, @poplitealqueen, @lilyrose225writes, @maawi, @eclipsemidnight, and @stonefreeak. 

(tl;dr: because he thought that would be the best way to destroy them.) 

Dooku trained the most accomplished lineage of diplomats the Jedi Order had. He was often assigned missions that kept him away from the Temple for long periods of time, the same way we later see the Jinn-Kenobi team frequently away from the Temple. That must have been incredibly isolating for Padawan Qui, but on the other hand he was also apprenticed to one of the most skilled diplomats in the Order—his training was without fault.

The Council did what it would do with any skilled team: it passed them the most difficult assignments. Now, consider: the Senate provides the Order with information about some planet or other needing help. That message is relayed through at least two stopping points: locally, to the planet’s representative, and from there to the sector’s Senator or one of their aides. Each person involved in this chain has their own political agenda, and the Council can never rely on them for accurate intel. Basically, some of the most difficult cases are the ones where the team is, effectively, going in blind.

Other cases include, but are not limited to: points of conflict, brewing revolutions, coups, etc. Some of these missions are better handled by at least three teams, but the Order doesn’t have the manpower to spare. Basically, it’s all a mess.

I could almost bet Dooku was jaded even before he took his first Padawan. Consider: we know him to be from a noble family, and that is often seen as the reasoning behind his focus on networking among the powerful. Personally, I imagine Qui-Gon’s easy friendships with local pirates and questionable types stood them in good stead very often; but Dooku believed that the way to create a lasting change was to convince the powerful that such a change would be in their interest.

This is double-edged, of course, because while Dooku is not necessarily wrong, he is relatively blind to the full extent of the strife of lower classes. Meanwhile Qui-Gon accidentally blunders into revolutions wherever he goes; it’s a byproduct of the Order being poorly-informed of the local sociopolitical climate, and Qui-Gon’s own curiosity and drive to see justice done.

Keep reading

Obi-Wan ends up in a world where he died on Naboo, and it sent Qui-Gon over the edge into darkness, and is hunted by sith lord!Qui-Gon and sith apprentice!Vaderkin.

poplitealqueen:

This is the kind of prompt I could write an entire series for, but since I’m busy (yes I am brain shut up shhhh) we’ll have to settle for a snippet.

***

What was once the Jedi Temple of Coruscant was engulfed in flame.

Obi-Wan stood where the Hall of a Thousand Fountains had once been (replaced now by dust and dead things), the lightsaber in his hand shaking, ever so slightly.

He can sense them coming.

This universe’s Ahsoka had already abandoned him, and Obi-Wan couldn’t blame her. She was the leader of a group of children fighting a guerilla war – she couldn’t risk herself for a man she didn’t know, a man hunted relentlessly by Sith.

Obi-Wan was glad she’d gone, but he wished he wasn’t alone. Force, he wished he wasn’t alone.

He can sense them, drawing closer.

Part of a wall was pulled apart by a wave of the Force, and from the rubble, Anakin appeared.

He was still as bright in the Force here as he had been in Obi-Wan’s universe, but the brightness was tainted. It was flame and heat. It burned.

Anakin looked at him with dark yellow eyes, his face twisted into a mask of hatred. This Anakin detested him, Obi-Wan knew it. He detested their unwelcome connection, and he detested how much his Master thought of Obi-Wan.

He’s here.

Obi-Wan tightened his grip on his lightsaber, and raised it slowly in a defensive stance as Qui-Gon appeared behind Anakin.

His eyes were cold amber, and the Living Force around him was as dead as the room they stood in.

But he smiled. He held up his hand to command Anakin to stand down. He looked *relieved*.

“You really are Obi-Wan, aren’t you?” Qui-Gon said, softly.

For the send a number thing #2, Bail and Padme.

7. “Please, just stop talking.”

Random AU, I have no idea why, just. Brain is so utterly being weird today. But hey, plot bunny! 

“Please. Just stop talking.” Padmé closes her eyes, leaning back in her chair. This is very nearly a disaster, but she thinks she can salvage it. She hopes she can salvage it, or this is going to be a very short Senate term for both of them. “Let me talk to Anakin. He’s more loyal to people than ideals.”

“I could…”

“Do nothing, Bail, please. Your desire to talk got us into this mess. Let mine get us out of it before we have half of the Jedi Council show up on your doorstep looking to arrest a Sith lord.”

Star Wars: In the Silence and the Dark: Descent

It has a title!

@poplitealqueen – more for you! 🙂

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Holding Pattern | Escalation

Warnings: referencing ongoing torture, psychological torture/induced hallucinations

He doesn’t know how long he is in chains, in a room where the light never falters, never changes. The only measure of time is when his captor meditates, when he feeds Qui-Gon, when he allows him water, when he allows him to relieve himself into a chamberpot.

When he allows Qui-Gon to stand, muscles cramping and struggling to hold him upright. Never to lay down, never to have that much comfort. Barely allowed to sleep, and even when he is, he can never sleep well, crouched as he is, with every joint and muscle aching at best.

Sometimes he would activate some mechanism that Qui-Gon can’t see, sending electricity darting along his nerves, leaving him twitching and unable to keep his emotions under as much control as he would prefer. Uncertainty is a constant companion, and fear rarely far away.

When he slips into sleep swiftly after eating – he doesn’t bother trying to fight it, preferring to save his strength for when he’s given a chance to stand – Qui-Gon wonders where he will wake this time.

He’s not sure if it is an improvement on his captivity to be once more in the first room, in the dark and the damp and the chill, or not. At least here he can move freely.

Qui-Gon tries to speak, hoping perhaps this move also means he is given his voice back, but still nothing emerges. No voice until and unless his captor allows him to speak.

After that, time begins to blur. Back and forth between the lack of sensation in one room, and the overabundance of it in the other. Never allowed to speak, never addressed by his name – he is only Jedi. Sometimes he forgets he has any other name, and it takes him longer to remind himself that he does have a name. To remind himself that there is something beyond this endless captivity, that someone must be searching for him, will find him.

When he wakes on a cot, instead of stone or crouched in chains, he startles, trying to roll off and away. He can’t move, though, and he hears a quiet laugh. The twi’lek again, the master of this place.

“I had you washed, pet. You were filthy. Rest.”

Darkness washes over his vision, and though he fights not to fall back into sleep, it drags him under. He’s still on the cot when he wakes later, though now he can move. Something feels different, though it takes him a while to realize what it is.

His skin feels tight in places, itching like it’s healing, and tender. And he can move, can roll off the bed, and stand on the stone floor. It’s cold, almost icy under his feet, and the air holds a chill not entirely unlike the dark room. There is light here, though. A door, that he doesn’t even bother to try to open – it will be locked.

There is nothing in the room beyond the cot, with its thin mattress and no blankets, and a light panel that is seamlessly integrated into the wall, fused to the stone to prevent access. No access to water or food, even the pellets or goop he’d come to expect.

He sits on the cot, watching the door, and waiting for any sign of the twi’lek. How long he waits, he doesn’t know – the light never dims, never brightens, never changes, and nothing else in the room does either. All he can do is wait and count his breaths, his heartbeats. Eventually, he begins to pace, just for something to do, counting his steps from wall to wall. It doesn’t soothe the agitation, the niggling maybe-fear that claws at the back of his mind.

Nothing changes before he passes out, curled up on the cot and facing the door, and nothing has changed when he wakes again. He repeats the same cycle three times before he tries the door even though he’s certain it will be locked. Except it isn’t, and he stares a moment at it, and the bit it’s shifted.

When he pulls it open fully, there is nothing outside but yawning darkness. Even the light from the room doesn’t go beyond the door frame more than a few inches. A draft comes through it, icy cold that makes him shiver before he closes the door again. Without knowing how far it is through the cold, he can’t go out there.

Yet, if he stays, he will starve, or die of dehydration. Perhaps should have already.

He paces the room until he passes out once more, hoping perhaps there will be something different when he wakes this time.

Luck is not with him.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door again, looking out into the darkness. Trying to decide which direction to go. He leaves the door open behind him, to be a light to guide him back if he can’t find anything out there.

There’s nothing to see, even once his eyes adjust to the dark, and all he can do is slowly shuffle his way forward, looking over his shoulder periodically to make sure he can still see the light of the room. He’s not sure what it is he’s walking on, other than something cold. Not sure if he’ll find anything.

No time, nothing but the darkness and the dwindling point of light, and the cold. He’s not even sure how far he goes before he stops, turning back to look at the light. Trying to decide if he’d rather go back to the warmth and the light and starve there, or die faster out here, from the cold.

Dropping to his knees, he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Staring at the light, his hands resting on his thighs, for a long moment before he closes them. Trying to listen for anything from the Force. Any sign that he should go back or remain where he is.

Silence.

He takes another shuddering breath, splaying his fingers out over his knees a moment, and opens his eyes. Staring at the light in the distance without moving. What does it matter if he dies here or there when he cannot even reach the Force?

Closing his eyes again, he waits for the cold to do its work.

Smiling to himself, Joru steps away from the couch, feeling the despair and resignation that radiates from the Jedi. No. Not a Jedi, not any longer. His Apprentice.

Next Story

Star Wars: In the Silence and the Dark: Descent

Still haven’t thought of a title for this. Should, at some point.

@poplitealqueen

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Holding Pattern | Escalation

Warnings: torture – force feeding, depersonalization, denial of voice

This is probably the last part where any of this is laid out. It’s going to get repetitive otherwise. After this there will probably be a bit of a time jump.

The first thing he notices when he wakes this time is that it’s no longer cold. It is, even, almost uncomfortably warm. The next thing he notices is he’s restrained, and uncomfortably so.

“You do not choose when you eat, and when you do not, Jedi.” The voice of his captor is closer than it had been before, and it takes a moment after Qui-Gon opens his eyes to focus on the other person.

A twi’lek, pale blue with sharp-spiked tattoos in a lurid and painful red, and coldly pale eyes that don’t seem to have much color at all. Lounging comfortably on a low couch, watching Qui-Gon.

“It got me out of that room.” It is a small victory, for all that it’s brought him a different sort of hardship. How long it will be before the chains go from uncomfortable to painful, he’s uncertain, though Qui-Gon has few doubts the twi’lek will keep him in them long past that point.

“For only as long as I want you to remain out of it.” The twi’lek bares his teeth, filed to sharp points, though there is amusement lurking in his eyes. “You eat when I give you food, you live where I keep you.”

There are myriad ways to ensure someone cannot starve themselves to death, and Qui-Gon has a bad feeling his captor does not intend to use the kinder means to do so. He cannot let himself merely submit, though. “You cannot force me to eat.”

“I can do what I wish, Jedi.” The twi’lek stands, moving with a fluid ease that makes Qui-Gon think he has had some of the same training Jedi do. “No one will stop me here, not even you.”

He moves to a table, just the right height for him to work at, picking up a small bowl, stone that looks much like the stone of the walls around them. The same stone as the room he’d been in before.

When he comes to stand in front of Qui-Gon, he smiles again, looking down. “You may call me Master.”

“I will not.” Qui-Gon meets his captor’s gaze steadily.

“You will, Jedi. Perhaps not now, but one day you will.” The twi’lek lifts his hand, and Qui-Gon can feel icy fingers wrapping around his jaw, pressing painfully into his flesh until he opens his mouth. The contents of the bowl are poured in, and the same icy fingers of Force hold his jaw shut and stop up his nose. “Swallow it, Jedi.”

It is the same tasteless, gritty goop as before, and Qui-Gon finds it hard to swallow even though he knows he must. His vision is starting to grey at the edges before he clears his mouth, and he’s allowed air once more. Gasping and coughing as his captor takes the bowl back to the table.

When he can control his breathing once more, his captor has returned to the low couch, sitting as if he is settling in to meditate. Not a Jedi, but someone clearly trained in use of the Force. Perhaps once a Jedi, and now lost.

“What is your name?” He will not call his captor master. “I am—”

“You are no one, Jedi. You have no name here unless I grant you one.” The twi’lek doesn’t open his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply. “You will call me Master. You have not earned the right to call me anything else.”

“I have a name.”

“You had a name. It is no longer yours.”

“Qu—”

Fingers of Force wrap around his throat, cutting him off before he can finish even a single syllable. They seem to burrow beneath his skin, thin threads of ice that work their way through him, leaving him breath, but when he tries to speak, no sound comes from his throat.

“You will speak only when I command you to, Jedi. I do not desire your pointless and idle chatter.”

Qui-Gon tries to reach for the Force, even though he has not been able to reach it since he was taken. Even the first niggling aches from how he is crouched in his bonds doesn’t worry him as much as the ability of his captor to steal his voice. There is no technique in the Force that Qui-Gon has heard of to do this. Perhaps something a Healer might know, but there is none here to ask.

Only his captor, and he cannot do that if he cannot speak.

The rising threads of fear that come from the Jedi make Joru smile, basking in them. The longer the Jedi is voiceless, the more he will fear. The longer he feels the pain of his crouching where he has been left, the less he will be able to withstand any other pain Joru desires to inflict on him.

It is invigorating. He has been too long without a project of this sort to hold his attention, and Joru makes a note to perhaps find another when he has properly broken this one to his hand.