The Devil Takes The Hindmost, Tython, Jedi Stronghold

Tristanian’s first thought upon awakening was that he hadn’t expected Hell to be painted in a particularly dull tone of white – he’d be sure to share his opinion with the local administration. A second later, upon realization that he was not, in fact, tasting his first moments of fiery damnation, he wondered why in the Void he was still alive and settled comfortably in a bed. The last thing he remembered from that sordid affair on Korriban was the Sage Master’s eyes and then darkness. How peculiar, Tristan mused, the man had knocked him out instead of finishing him off. Clearly Councilman Stone hadn’t quite grasped the concept of a battle to the death.

Pleasantly surprised that his wounds had been tended - he could feel some sort of salve in the gash his opponent had left on his arm – the Champion experimentally hardened his muscles in a series of exercises he’d been taught to warm-up before lightsaber sparring. He noted with a degree of satisfaction that while his arm was still slightly agonizing, he was mostly untouched as for the rest of the body. A few cuts, but nothing that would hinder his mobility. Curious as to where exactly he’d ended up, the Dolomarian tried to extend his mind and probe his surroundings when he realized with a start he could not feel the Force. It was a credit to Tristanian’s control over his facial expressions that the realization only brought a slight widening of his eyes as a visible reaction. Raising himself upright in the bed, the assassin cleared his mind of all unnecessary thoughts – surprise, shock and apprehension were discarded like so many useless trinkets. Focusing enough, he could still feel the Force, it was like there was a… wall, for lack of a better term, where he could before grasp freely.

Tristan’s disciplined mind whirled through possibilities at an insane pace, running through everything he knew about cutting individuals from the Force or preventing their access to it. He hadn’t been severed, he realized with a small dose of relief: if it had been the case, he wouldn’t have been able to feel the Force at all. There were very few things that could restrain a Force-sensitive, however, and since he wasn’t drugged or wearing any kind of collar or bracelet it left very little options. His mind eventually stopped to the last alternative – Ah, ysalamiri. So he was in a bubble where he couldn’t influence the Force, fair enough – the Jedi were better prepared to house prisoners of his kind than he’d thought. Taking the time to properly take in his surroundings, the assassin let his eyes wander. He was in a small room with a bed and a table flanked by two chairs. Everything was brazenly white, a fact that drew a sardonic twist of the lips from Venalis – did the Jedi hope that surrounding him with the colour of peace and purity would sweeten his disposition? They would be unpleasantly surprised by reality. The blueish energy field that constituted the door to his humble abode left little illusion that it was a cell he currently inhabited.

It said a lot about both organisations, Tristanian mused, that the cell the Jedi had put him in was about as comfortable as his quarters back on Korriban.

The assassin fluidly rose from his bed, taking the time to straighten his sheets after doing so. Looking at the white sleeve that covered his arm with mild surprise, Tristan realized that his clothes had been changed while he was unconscious. Sincerely hoping he hadn’t been molested while unable to fend off the advances – Nathalie had torn off a suspicious amount of his clothing during their duel, after all – the Dolomarian shook off the slight creepiness and studied what he was now wearing. His feet were bare and he now wore loose white pants that matched nicely with the long-sleeved with shirt of similar colouring. Everything was immaculate –Tristan wryly thought they had gone a bit overboard about reinforcing the pattern there. Pushing aside the issue of his clothes for the moment, Venalis inspected the table, noticing what looked like an electronic device inlaid into it. Stroking it softly with a finger, the assassin was agreeably surprised when a terminal of hologames lit up on the previously empty table. Nonchalantly leafing through the games offered to him, the Champion finally settled on dejarik – it had always been a personal favourite of his – and settled gracefully into one of the chairs facing the board. He was about to initiate a match against the artificial intelligence when his finely honed ears picked up the sound of someone approaching. Choosing to remain seated, he merely inclined his head and watched with fatalistic amusement as a familiar silhouette filled the doorway of his cell.

“Councilman Stone,” he greeted the broad-shouldered Sage in his usual pleasant tone. There was a sardonic spark of amusement in his eyes, however, when he invited the man to be seated in the cynical parody of the gesture a host would have showed to a prized guest.

There had been a lot of debate as to what to do with the imprisoned Cultist called Venalis. Some that had been asked had been inclined to just kill him off, or--belying that--at least remove him from the Force pool entirely and dump him off on some deserted planet. Others, like Nathaniel, had seen the benefit of interrogation and opted to do what was now happening--imprison and use the Cultist. It was hard to say exactly what they would be able to get out of their prisoner, but any information was valuable.

That, and Nathaniel just didn’t feel that killing him was the right idea. Certainly it would have been easier, but easier was rarely best. For anyone involved, and not just the victim.

Figuring out exactly where to house him and how to keep him from escaping had also been another matter of debate. Eventually it had been decided that Tython was the most secure. It wasn’t exactly a secret location, but it wasn’t so outside of the usual Jedi existence that it wouldn’t be secure. Even if Nathaniel and his fellow Council members that were here for the time being had to leave, there would still be plenty strong enough present to keep the Darksider in line. And frankly, that was all that was needed. Especially with the ysalamiri to keep a damper on things.

Ysalamiri. Nathaniel wasn’t fond of having to have one around--he would have preferred to keep his own connection to the Force quite tangible while in the Cultist’s presence--but they had to keep Venalis under wraps somehow. Frankly, a Force User who was still connected to that power was utterly dangerous, no matter how otherwise restrained.

Despite his misgivings about the Force-dampening aura within the room, he didn’t pause as he made his way to the holding room. He triggered the force shield--designed only to respond to a very small handful of people--, the blue shimmer dropping just long enough for him to step inside. Instantly he felt his connection to the Force dampen, to the point where he felt very vulnerable despite himself. He could hold his own without it, but... No, no one ever said he had to like it, and he’d be damned if he did.

“Councilman Stone.”

Had he been one for rolling his eyes, he would have at Venalis’ tone. For all it seemed, Nathaniel had just walked into a nice little get together in Venalis’ happy abode. No matter, let the Cultist have his small piece of satisfaction. He would give up so much more soon enough. Of course, he wouldn’t press to much on his own. Not until Shae’andri’lar joined them as well.

“Venalis,” he stated back, not moving to sit. He stood where he was, just within the doorway. “Feeling better?” For some it might have seemed a casual question. As it was, Nathaniel really needed to know if the other felt he was healing properly. It wouldn’t do to break a potentially dying prisoner.

Tython was a world heavy with the weight of ages. In a universe replete with endings, here was a beginning. Here had been the crucible in which the philosophy of the Jedi Order was first purified, where the precious scraps of wisdom collected over thousands of years by hundreds of sages, saints, and scientists were first forged into a united whole. In times of promise, missionaries had first set out from thereto spread the word of enlightenment. In times of hardship, it had remained the last fallback point. Wars ran their course, politics shifted, fortunes rose and fell... and still it remained, deceptively untouched for the past twenty-five thousand years.

Striding down the ancient stone corridors of one of the many temples littering Tython's surface, Shay could not help but feel the press of posterity all around her. Sensitive as she was, she could not ignore the psychic 'residue' so many millennia of inhabitation by her kind had impregnated into the land itself. If the Order was truly a religious organization as so many believed, this world would be their holiest of holies. Even Master Marin's habitually irreverent nature could find little to jest about when it came to Tython itself. Except, perhaps, the way some of my younger fellows tiptoe around the place as though afraid they'll irritate someone's Force ghost if they make too much noise.

Musings of historical importance did not occupy much space in the forefront of her mind at present, however. Instead her clever brain was repeatedly turning over the details of her latest assignment, with the same dedication her vornskr would utilize to worry at a new chew toy. Of all the tasks I've been called upon to perform in my lifetime, this qualifies as one of the most unusual by far. An interrogation was a familiar scenario, but the specifics of this situation were unique. After all, how many centuries had it been since a follower of the Sith teachings had been successfully captured by the Order?

If some in the Order had their way, it would have been several centuries more yet. For the first time in a good long while, the Investigator was not the Council Member whose actions had provoked controversy. The Cultist known as Venalis was the only prisoner to be brought back from Korriban, and with good reason. Keeping a Force User restrained was problematic--especially when said Force User had absolutely no qualms about killing whoever stood in between them and freedom. The fact the Consular had managed to disable his opponent so effectively without killing him was a testament to his level of skill, not a denigration of the abilities of their opponents.

Cutting their captive off from the Force had been their only safe option, but even that had presented complications. Within the confines of the bubble effect produced by the ysalimiri, the Force could not reach the Cultist any more than the Cultist could reach the Force. If he lied, they would not be able to read his mind to discover the truth. If he struck out, they would not be able to shield another from the blow. There was, of course, the more drastic solution of severing Venalis from the Force entirely, but for now the Council had elected to hold off on taking such an irreversible action.

As far as Shay's opinion went, right now the Sentinel found herself in somewhat reluctant agreement with Stone's point of view. Any information they could gain from questioning the Dark Sider might very well prove invaluable in the months and years ahead. They knew almost nothing about this 'Cult of Sadow'--where and when it had originated, how the Sith teachings had been rescued from obscurity, what their specific goals were, etc. While it would be easy enough to lump all wannabe Sith into one general category, that way lay the path of assumption, and Master Marin had no desire to see the Order's membership meander near any shallow graves.

Would the future payoff be worth the risks they were taking in the present? She was not ashamed to admit she honestly didn't know. Shay had never been the most clear-sighted visionary at the best of times, and at present her limited precognition presented only a murky and vague intimation of the future, hinting at much but confirming little. Too many potential fates were in a state of flux right now for anyone to precisely predict the consequences of their actions. In the end, the Jedi Master had concluded all they could do was make the best of what they had been given.

This was why the Dolomarian was now gliding down the hallway towards the venerable fortress-temple's detention area. The construction designs of the building gave away much of the tenor of the early era of the Order, a time where there they had faced far more conflict both within and without their ranks than they had in recent centuries. There's a lesson to be learned in that, I'm sure of it. Now if only I can figure out which one... Casting her idle curiosities aside, Shay closed the distance remaining between herself and her destination at an easy walking pace, hands clasped in a habitual pose before her.

Coming to a halt a few centimeters away from the hazy blue glow of the cell's energy field, Master Marin cast her amber eyes about the scene she found in the interior. Compared to the crazed appearance seemingly favored by most of his compatriots, the man she found with Stone displayed a surprising amount of calm and rationality. Suppose it takes all kinds to serve the Dark Side. His appearance and facial features were not the sort one would take to be the outer shell of a wicked, murderous warlock either. In fact, rather than appearing totally alien to the Jedi Master, something about the Cultist's countenance seemed... familiar, if only in the sense of a long-forgotten memory teasing at the edge of her conscious mind. This reaction she found intriguing, as Shay was quite certain she'd never met this Venalis before in her life.

Setting aside the thought to puzzle over later, the Councilwoman cocked a pale brow at the pair of them. "Don't tell me I'm late for the party," she quipped in a wry manner. Her seemingly casual demeanor was directly at odds with the formal lines and drape of her blue-and-white Jedi robes. Somehow managing to appear both amused and serious at the same time, Shay palmed the force field controls and stepped inside the blank space generated by the creatures from Myrkr. The thin plane of energy instantly snapped back into being as soon as the hem of her outer tabard cleared the threshold.

Dark eyes followed the Sage Master’s every movement, his every breath, inclination and twitch analysed and taken apart to read his intentions. Tristanian had always possessed the uncanny ability to see through people’s motives and thoughts, an aptitude that allowed him to understand, predict and methodically destroy his opponents – yet Nathaniel Stone was proving to be as easy to interpret as his namesake. There were many small contradictions in the man that irked Tristan’s instincts: he was built like a warrior but of the Consular inclination, he was clearly no stranger to warfare against Dark Siders yet had spared Venalis’s life… Councilman Stone’s thought process was hard to comprehend and it made Tristanian wary – for someone in his line of work, dealing with someone whose movements he wasn’t able to predict was hazardous.

“Venalis. Feeling better?”

Nathalie wasn’t sitting down, apparently. Idly wondering if the man’s inflexibility extended to his knees, the assassin’s fingers flitted across the holographic surface, dismissing the dejarik board. It was shame, Tristanian would have far preferred pitting his intellect against the artificial intelligence to having a heartfelt discussion with the Sage Master – conversations with Jedi were most of the time as rewarding as bashing his head on the wall repeatedly. As the same was true with most Cultists, however, the assassin tried not to hold it against them too much. Not that it would stop him from mocking them about it – mercy wasn’t one of Tristanian’s more prominent attributes. A sardonic smile quirked Venalis’s lips once more and he raised an eyebrow before answering.

“I suppose I could say I feel much like someone clobbered me with a piece of driftwood, but I suspect your remorse in the matter is… limited,” the Champion answered dryly.

The assassin’s sharp ears caught the muffled sound of someone approaching and he sent an inquisitive look at the Jedi – there was to be company, then? Good, prodding Councilman Stone into losing his composure might be more entertaining if there was an audience. The dark-haired man’s eyes slid back to the standing Sage Master, his ever-faint sardonic smile still in place.

“I must confess, however, that I am slightly disquieted at the fact that my clothes have been swapped from standard-issue evil black to what is no doubt the result of the slaughter of several doves. I would ask if you are the one who had the duty of dressing me up, but I’m afraid that your answer might be scarring to my psyche. Not that I’m insinuating you would molest me, of course – well I am, actually, but it’s not polite to admit it out loud,” Tristanian continued in a pleasant, slightly distracted voice.

The mystery visitor appeared at the door, revealing itself to be a blonde woman with remarkable amber eyes. There was something about her that immediately stirred the amalgam of instincts and reflexes deep inside of him that made him ‘Venalis’ – her facial traits were striking, but it wasn’t what drew his attention. It was that slight unnameable feeling that accompanied her presence for those who knew what to look for, that fluid grace in her step that reminded him of the edge of a blade. The Jedi might have seemed at ease in her blue robes, but the assassin in Tristan idly noticed she had unconsciously kept her balance perfect to react should he try to reach for her. Tristanian had no doubt that the woman in front of him was one of the most dangerous individuals he’d ever met – there was more of a threat in her little finger than the entire Marauders put together. Perhaps the Order had not been as unaware of the risk he represented as he had thought. Not complete fools, then.

"Don't tell me I'm late for the party."

“A lady has a right to be fashionably late,” the Champion answered agreeably.

Thoughtfully hitting the table with long fingers, the assassin leaned back in his chair nonchalantly. For many, it would have been a vain boast to say they weren’t afraid of death – but for Tristanian Pax it was not the case. Whether or not he survived this particular predicament only brought forth mild interest from him, the same kind of attention he would accord to a somewhat amusing play. Truthfully, he did not expect to walk out of his cell alive, but he would be damned – again – if he did not derive some entertainment from this whole affair.

“While I am… acquainted with Nathalie, I’m afraid we’ve never met,” he told the woman idly, eliciting to ignore the Sage Master in favour of the new arrival.

Dark eyes met amber ones, ever-present cynical laughter simmering in them.

“I go by Venalis, but you most likely already knew that,” he finished, his lips quirking acerbically as they did every time he used his chosen appellation – Tristanian had always been fond of irony, and to name himself ‘that which has been sold’ in old Dolomarian was jest that still amused him after all these years.

Venalis certainly didn’t act like a man imprisoned by his worst of enemies, but Nathaniel had already suspected such would be the case. Not long ago, on the battlefield, Venalis had failed to act like a man who was fighting for his own life. Even a change of scenery couldn’t sway the nonchalant nature that the Cultist presented. It would make this a somewhat difficult endeavor, but perhaps in other ways, it would present openings that others might not have given.

What exactly those were remained to be seen. Even a Consular of foresight knew to take the moment for exactly what it was and not count on hints of the future entirely.

“I suppose I could say I feel much like someone clobbered me with a piece of driftwood, but I suspect your remorse in the matter is… limited.”

Limited was ultimately an understatement. Indeed, it would have been apt to say that Nathaniel felt no remorse for what he’d done at all. One could have said he actually felt little on the situation and been right. He felt a simple sense of satisfaction at a job well done in having captured Venalis alive, but ultimately... this was nothing more than the will of the Force. For so many Jedi, it was a constant relearning to remove one’s self from emotion. For Nathaniel, it was merely nature. Now and again, something would get through, but for the most part... no.

“I must confess, however, that I am slightly disquieted at the fact that my clothes have been swapped from standard-issue evil black [...] Not that I’m insinuating you would molest me, of course – well I am, actually, but it’s not polite to admit it out loud.”

It was times like these that being a few dozen steps away from one’s own emotional state was beneficial. It would have been all to easy to fall into Venalis’ implications and taunting. Many other Jedi might have fallen to it quite quickly. But the one called ‘Buttons’ merely pursed his lips slightly, his appearance wholly disinterested in Venalis’ subtle accusation. He might have taken the time to explain that he had not, in fact, been involved in Venalis’ current state of cleanliness and healing, but he’d not give the other fuel to play with. Nor did he think Venalis actually cared. They were all Jedi, that was probably what mattered to him.

Shae’andri’lar showed up then, entering the room, looking as professional as she ever did whilst among her kind. He was a little unsettled by the fact that he’d not felt her coming--ysalamiri be damned--but he let that wave run off of him without a word about it.

"Don't tell me I'm late for the party."
“A lady has a right to be fashionably late.”

“You’re only a moment behind me,” he stated evenly to the other Jedi, ignoring Venalis as much as one was able to. He stepped enough to the side to allow the Sentinel a place beside him.

“While I am… acquainted with Nathalie, I’m afraid we’ve never met. I go by Venalis, but you most likely already knew that.”

The Consular remained quiet, letting Shae’andri’lar handle Venalis for the moment on a vocal level. For now, he could observe, see how the Cultist took the other Master. Perhaps with a new element involved, there would be more opportunity for openings into Venalis’ likely strong mental armor.

"...Not that I’m insinuating you would molest me, of course – well I am, actually, but it’s not polite to admit it out loud."

Shay hadn't known what sort of scene she'd be walking in on, but the current conversational topic wasn't anything she would've guessed at. Stone had been accused of being many things in his time--most of them voiced behind his back--but a violator of helpless captives wasn't one of them. I don't know whether to be insulted or amused on his behalf! In the end, Jedi discipline dictated she be neither, and she locked the unnecessary emotional responses away for now. If he's trying to get Old Stoneface to crack, he's going to be disappointed. If Gandon and Titch can't manage it, no one can.

“A lady has a right to be fashionably late.”

"Whether or not I qualify as a 'lady' is highly debatable," she quipped wryly, using her self-depreciative sense of humor as a smoke screen while she returned the Cultist's evaluative regard. Whatever he saw in her seemed to interest him on a 'professional' level, for lack of a better term. Shay had to admit there was a return of the same sort of appreciation on her part. The Sentinel recognized the subtle clues as to the Dark Sider's true nature in the careful way he continued to hold himself while allegedly at rest. Venalis didn't partake in the blatancy of the other Cultists she'd fought. His methods likely resembled her own--a fact that was not the least bit comforting to the Investigator.

“You’re only a moment behind me.”

The Dolomarian Jedi might have been cut off from the Force at the moment, but that didn't mean she couldn't theorize as to Nathaniel's mindset. Probably was pretty unnerving for him to not know exactly when I was going to be arriving for a change. The Consular had one of the strongest connections to the Force out of all the Jedi she knew, which meant he must feel the lack of same even more keenly than she did. "Good," she acknowledged her fellow Council member's statement with a slight nod of her blonde head.

For her part, Shay held a slight advantage over her older peer. Maintaining the proper level of concealment of your Force signature necessitated a certain 'dulling' of one's perceptions. Her level of reliance on the touch of the universal energy inside her was therefore far less than most Jedi Masters. She'd learned to get by without the Force's help as much as possible. That didn't mean she enjoyed the sensation of being enveloped in the 'null space' generated by the ysalimiri, of course, but she was better adapted to the absence than others would be.

"While I am… acquainted with Nathalie, I’m afraid we’ve never met."

The Cultist's continued pretense that this whole scene was a pleasant social visit tickled Master Marin's funnybone. It's certainly an unusual reaction to being taken captive. Wonder how long he'll keep up the game. Seeing no reason to not try to twist the rules of engagement he'd set down to her own benefit, Shay offered her Dark Sider counterpart a friendly smile. "Yes, I was rather preoccupied at the time by... exchanging pleasantries with one of your compatriots. Otherwise I would most certainly have insisted on a proper introduction."

"I go by Venalis, but you most likely already knew that.”

"I did. That's not your true name, of course, unless your parents possessed an exceptionally twisted sense of humor." The Sentinel's command of Old Dolomarian was fragmentary at best, but the Cultist's alias was a basic enough vocabulary word that even her four-year-old self had known it. Guess that's the price I pay for being born to a pair of traditionalists. The fact the Dark Sider had used an archaic term drawn from her ancestral tongue meant the next few minutes might prove... interesting, depending on what his connection to Dolomar was, if any.

"As for me, I'm Master Shay Marin." Thank the Force I get to do my own introductions. I swear, if Nathaniel utters my full first name in front of this guy, I'm calling him nothing but Buttons for the next standard year! "Master Stone and I serve on the Council together." While normally the Sentinel did not care overly much for titles, she wasn't about to offer Venalis the privilege of foregoing them. Given the disrespectful nickname he'd saddled the Consular with, she wasn't about to hand him any additional leeway where she was concerned.

Tristanian observed the interplay between the two Jedi with careful consideration. The older man greeted her with the same equanimity he’d shown through all the earlier proceedings, bloody battle to the death included. Venalis had never been one to pass hasty judgment - indeed, constant second guessing and reevaluation of the ‘truth’ had kept him alive where better men’s throat had been sliced – but he was already almost certain that Master Stone represented most of the things he disliked about the Jedi. The Sage Master’s unnatural, unflappable calm was different from what he himself displayed – Tristan kept a cool head even when surrounded by atrocities committed in the name of the pride of fools, but there was always some glimmer of humanity present in him, be it in the form of amusement of disgust. Nathaniel Stone had been swallowed by the principles he served and was now nothing more than a vessel for decayed rules and hazy half-truths mounted on a pedestal. Venalis, by the reality that he would kill every man, woman and child on a planet without blinking if it got him an inch closer to freeing Anaria, had earned the epithet of monster. In his eyes, Councilman Stone had done the same by crushing his own soul for the Jedi’s law.

Such things had never really bothered the Dolomarian, however – really, who was he to judge anyone? – thus he let the thoughts wash over him and disappear. The business of the Jedi belonged to the Jedi, and they could lobotomize each other merrily for all he cared. As far as he was concerned, what the Order tried to accomplish was worthy of some respect, even if it was hopelessly naïve: his current conundrum, however, spanned from the fact that he was a Dark Sider in a Jedi cell. Historically speaking, very few good things had happened to individuals in his situation, he remembered wryly. Someone else might have been worried, but Tristan merely thought of the situation as holding the potential to be mildly interesting – maybe he’d die, maybe not. It wasn’t really anything to get excited about, really. The Cultist wasn’t arrogant enough to think that his life was anything more than a brief candle’s flare in the night: his existence, the existence of everyone in this room or even everyone on the whole planet meant little in the long run. The galaxy would go on without them the same way as it had when a hundred thousand other sentients who thought themselves unique and unforgettable had died before them. That the people in front of him took this whole affair so seriously made his lips quirk sardonically once more.

"Whether or not I qualify as a 'lady' is highly debatable."

How peculiar, the woman had a sense of humor. Didn’t the Jedi get those surgically removed when they got the robes?

''Then I must congratulate you on the operation – it is exceedingly well done, I hadn’t noticed at all,''the Cultist quipped dryly.

"Yes, I was rather preoccupied at the time by... exchanging pleasantries with one of your compatriots. Otherwise I would most certainly have insisted on a proper introduction."

Had Tristanian been the type of man to grin, he would have done so at that jibe. It appeared there was another civilized Force Sensitive in the galaxy besides Alice, to his delight. Well, he supposed Souza counted as half one since he was quite polite but you were never really certain whether he’d drugged your tea or not. And the woman knew how to banter! That was a rare treat, and he’d been solely deprived of it when on Korriban. A Marauder’s idea of wit was being insulted during two minutes before snapping ‘Die, you bastard!’ and try to kill him with elementary Djem So swordsmanship. It never worked, of course, but the imbeciles seemed to forget that fact every two weeks and deemed it necessary to try again. Normally Tristan wouldn’t have minded the entertainment – the Cult’s Evil Lair was nothing if not dull – but he was frankly getting tired of knocking out people twice his size. It tended to bruise his hands and as they always fell for the exact same trick it quickly got rather repetitive. Nevertheless Venalis supposed he was supposed to make a token tentative to learn about his ‘comrade’s’ welfare, if only for the sake of appearances.

''Ah, yes, they do tend a bit insistent on the formalities. Might I inquire whose company you sought?'' the assassin asked pleasantly.

"I did. That's not your true name, of course, unless your parents possessed an exceptionally twisted sense of humor."

''I’m afraid the jest was mine, Master Jedi. I have a tendency to indulge my more satirical leanings and I suppose every Evil Overlord needs a fancy name to inspire proper terror in his minions,'' the dark-eyed man answered in an amused voice.

"As for me, I'm Master Shay Marin."

Marin, Marin, Marin… Now, where have I heard that before? Tristanian’s mind was working furiously behind his calm features, his normally unfaultable memory struggling to provide an answer. It was then that the woman’s blond hair and strong, handsome features connected with a muddled image from his childhood – the Marins, his father’s associate in the taking of Corellia and closest political ally. He’d been on of their son’s playmate on occasion as a child. So the Councilwoman was the daughter of one of the ‘Butchers of Corellia’? She was too young to be a sister and too old to be a grandchild – now, wasn’t that just priceless? The sardonic smile spread even more across his face, stronger than ever.

''A Marin Jedi? Now isn’t that quite the lovely piece of irony,'' he mused aloud, dark laughter shining in his eyes.

There was a slight moment of silence after the conversation ebbed out, something that the Cultist did nothing to alleviate. This was, after all, the Jedi’s show – it would be impolite to interrupt their little interrogation habits. After another ten seconds of silence where it became increasingly obvious they weren’t sure exactly to do – well, Nathalie probably knew the protocol, but the man probably wasn’t going to speak up unless he had to. Tristan had met mutes that were better conversationalists that Councilman Stone. Sighing softly and rubbing the bridge of his nose in a gesture of slight exasperation, the assassin shot both Jedi a disappointed look.

''Since you apparently aren’t very familiar with the traditional questioning method, I suppose I’ll have to educate you. First off, bonus points for bringing the tall, somewhat menacing man,'' the Dolomarian started off with a vague gesture in the Consular’s direction. ''His main function for the rest of the session is usually to hover in a corner and frown in a stern way at the procedures – see, Nathalie, you were born for this.''

The assassin leaned back in his chair tapping a finger on the table absently.

''After that you punch me in the guts – or break a few fingers, if you’re feeling frisky – and slowly come to realize that when I say my tolerance to pain is fairly inhumane, I’m not boasting but stating a fact. As far as psychological warfare goes, I’d appreciate you trying, if only for the entertainment value, but I can save you time now and say that the only ones that would have any effect are on the other side of your ethics scale,'' he continued agreeably.

The dark-haired man’s finger abruptly stopped tapping and he straightened ever-so-slightly in his seating.

''Meaning, of course, that we are in a bit of an impasse - you are in luck however, as I despise boredom much like Councilman Stone secretly despises laughing children and sunflowers,'' the assassin jibed at the silent man. ''We can make it a reasonable, civilized exchange – I’ll answer a question of yours for every question of mine you answer.''

''Ah, yes, they do tend to be a bit insistent on the formalities. Might I inquire whose company you sought?''

To state this was not the sort of conversation Shay had anticipated having with the Cultist today would be like saying Coruscant had some people on it. Not that she was in any sense disappointed by reality not matching up to theory. Quite the contrary; the Sentinel enjoyed a good verbal sparring match. The fact Venalis was at present chewing up the scenery in the dramatic role of her sworn enemy only made the challenge of matching wits with him all the more stimulating. Master Marin did not enjoy conflict as a rule, but neither did she shrink from same when it was laid before her.

"While I encountered a large number of your fellows in passing, I only had the opportunity to get to know two of them to any significant degree. One was a young woman, rather talented with illusions, who seemed mostly interested in making fun of my hair before I was forced to cut our conversation short." Normally Master Marin avoided resorting to anything resembling a pun, but war was hell, after all. "As for the horned gentleman, he preferred throwing lightning bolts over exchanging words. I suppose I can't blame him; if I had as much trouble forming complete sentences as he does, I'd probably avoid talking too."

''I’m afraid the jest was mine, Master Jedi. I have a tendency to indulge my more satirical leanings and I suppose every Evil Overlord needs a fancy name to inspire proper terror in his minions.''

Venalis' derogatory jab at his own status and the stereotypical trappings thereof earned the Cultist an elevated eyebrow from the Jedi. In her experience--limited, yes, but far superior to that of most Jedi in comparison--those who fell to the Dark Side tended towards arrogance, not poking fun at themselves. Pride goeth before a fall and all that. Or was the jest supposed to be at her expense instead, a pointed reference to what he believed her assumptions were about him and all others of his kind? Difficult to tell, so practiced her opponent appeared at holding his true thoughts behind a deceptive facade. "As I'm not one of your minions, I must report the desired effect is rather wasted on me. I'd prefer to address you by your real name, if you would be so kind as to provide it."

''A Marin Jedi? Now isn’t that quite the lovely piece of irony."

The Investigator now felt it was safe to conclude the Order's captive was a fellow Dolomarian. All the pieces fit. There would be no avoiding the implications of her name with him. So be it. Two years ago, before she'd been given the assignment to infiltrate the Alliance, Venalis would have been gifted with an emotional display from the Jedi Master he no doubt would've savored with exceeding relish. That was the past, however; in the present, Shay's only outward reaction was to clasp her hands behind the small of her back. Patient amber eyes met the dark jester's look of silent laughter without flinching.

She said nothing, as the Jedi Master knew better than to provide her opponent with additional ammunition. Any reply she made would no doubt be turned about and used against her. After all, that's what she would do were their positions reversed. For both Dolomarians in the room, words were a weapon favored over lightsabers. More and more Shay was coming to view Venalis as her own dark reflection. He represented an alternate life, a vision of what she might have become had the Force not spared her by sending her to the Jedi. Never had she been so thankful for its benevolent graces before.

''...We can make it a reasonable, civilized exchange – I’ll answer a question of yours for every question of mine you answer.''

Now it was Shay's turn to be darkly amused; specifically, at the Cultist's sardonic spiel regarding how they should be questioning him. Another lovely piece of irony present was the fact it had taken the Sentinel over thirty years to find someone new who possessed a sense of humor so very similar to her own--and wouldn't you know it, he was working for the other side. Venalis' jokes were lost on Nathaniel, of course, as most all wisecracks were. The Sage Master was far too stolid an individual to be bent out of shape by a few facetious remarks. Believe me, I know from personal experience!

"Actually, I am more than familar with orthodox procedures for interrogations. I just wasn't going to waste my time--or yours--with them. I mean, really now, torture? What kind of crass amateur do you take me for?" Smirking in open derision at the concept, the Dolomarian Jedi stepped away from her Consular counterpart and approached their captive. "If I wanted wildly inaccurate information, I'd go watch the public holonews feeds for a few hours." Shay took up a new position in the chair across the table from Venalis. The pose she struck was crafted of deceptive ease, as her graceful body remained primed to respond to any aggressive move on her enemy's part. Not that she expected as much, but it never hurt to be careful.

"As far as your proposal is concerned, I find it acceptable... in theory. Practice is a different story. No doubt you can appreciate my position when I say there are some questions I will not answer. I'm willing to bet real credits that the same goes for you." One hand lifted to Shay's face, tucking a few wayward locks of flaxen hair behind her right ear in an absent gesture. "Therefore, if either of us wants to get anything useful done today, it would be in our best interests to avoid those lines of inquiry we know to be unproductive." Another wry smile curved its way across her lips. "I could also make mention of the fact I have no reason to treat anything that comes from your mouth as truth, but I wouldn't want to be insulting."

"While I encountered a large number of your fellows in passing … seemed mostly interested in making fun of my hair before I was forced to cut our conversation short."

The first person that came to mind at the Jedi’s description was Alice, and a dark glint passed in the assassin’s eyes at that thought. Alice Risseau was the only person in the Cult he could say he was unquestionably fond of – the price the Order would pay if they took her life would be as bloody as it was steep. Tristanian, unlike most Dark Siders, would not obsessively pursue every Jedi he met in a mad attempt to avenge her memory. No, his retaliation might take a year or twenty, but when all was said and done there would be ashes where the Temple once stood and the very principles that had led to Alice’s death would have been dragged through so much blood they would have become meaningless. Venalis was a calm man, and his anger was just as calm – perhaps that was what made it so terrible. The mentioned insulting of Marin’s hair was not very Alice-like however, and he finally dismissed the notion. He spared a thought for his Firrerreo companion, sincerely hoping she’d made it out of the bloodbath intact.

"As for the horned gentleman, he preferred throwing lightning bolts over exchanging words. I suppose I can't blame him; if I had as much trouble forming complete sentences as he does, I'd probably avoid talking too."

The woman, Venalis realized with much mirth, was talking about Jeraal. The smile that stretched his lips was of genuine amusement, and the assassin decided that he liked Master Shay Marin. Anyone that mocked the remarkably demented Triumvir earned a modicum of esteem from him, but from her words it seemed she’d walked out of the encounter with no wound worth mentioning. Liking her did not mean much, of course, as he’d killed people he liked without so much as a blink of the eye in the past.

“Ah, Lord Jeraal,” the Dolomarian uttered with the ironic inflection he always added to the title whenever he spoke it.

He eyed the blond Sentinel speculatively, somewhat dubitative at the fact that she held no visible scar from the duel. Insane on a scale rarely seen out of asylums the Zabrak might be, but he did things with the Force that sent shudders up the spines of even the brashest of Marauders. Then again Force Lightning left no visible mark but a few burns, when it wasn’t used to a lethal degree. And the ‘revered’ Lord Jeraal had always held an unholy predilection for the power that allowed him to see people writhe and scream in pain, had he not? It brought Tristan a callous satisfaction that for once the madman’s target had been able to answer in kind. How does it feel when the prey has fangs of its own, Milord?

“I do dislike the man, his leanings are most… uncivilized,” he muttered, mostly for his own sake.

"As I'm not one of your minions, I must report the desired effect is rather wasted on me. I'd prefer to address you by your real name, if you would be so kind as to provide it."

“That name is more fitting than the one I once wore, Jedi,” the dark-haired man answered softly, a fatalistic smile twisting his lips.

He’d worn the sobriquet longer than the name he’d been given at birth, but that was not what he’d meant by the comment. Tristanian had made his choices long ago when he’d chosen to take the hand of the man in the shadows and started down the path he still walked. It was not a choice he regretted, even now, and it had been a long time since he’d associated himself with calm, sarcastic teenager he’d once been. That image was associated with a laugh longed for as much as his own breath and warmth in his arms that was beyond his reach – for now, at least. But until he heard the sound of Anaria’s voice again, he would be Venalis. A faded whisper in a tongue long forgotten, the glint of a blade in the darkness and the soft, derisive laugh of a jester who knew that the truth was worth nothing but disdain. That was his way until the madness could be discarded and there was no straying from it.

"Actually, I am more than familiar … I mean, really now, torture? What kind of crass amateur do you take me for?"

“My apologies, Master Marin, no offence was meant,” the Cultist answered dryly, amusement once more thick in his voice.

"If I wanted wildly inaccurate information, I'd go watch the public holonews feeds for a few hours."

“The Confederation does make lovely works of fiction,” Tristan agreed pleasantly.

"As far as your proposal is concerned, I find it acceptable... in theory. Practice is a different story. No doubt you can appreciate my position when I say there are some questions I will not answer. I'm willing to bet real credits that the same goes for you."

The assassins stayed quiet for a few seconds, studying the woman in front of him without even pretending he did not. Her seemingly casual pose did not fool him even remotely and he raised an eyebrow at the Jedi – he did, after all, hold himself in a way that was surprisingly similar. Perhaps they had more in common than professional tendencies and a home planet, the Dolomarian conceded silently. If their earlier banter was any indication, their sense of humour was remarkably identical – it was a shame the woman wasn’t an evil mass murderer, they would probably have gotten along well. As it was, Venalis had a feeling he would probably have to kill her before this asinine war was done – if she did not kill him first, of course.

“Indeed. We all have our little secrets, after all,” he finally answered with a wry smile.

"I could also make mention of the fact I have no reason to treat anything that comes from your mouth as truth, but I wouldn't want to be insulting."

“I could also bring to your attention the detail that controlling the information to which a prisoner has access is a basic psychological tactic, if it did not stretch the limits of good manners,” Tristan answered in a similar tone.

Starting the tapping of his fingers against the hard surface of the table again, the dark-eyed man initiated the first volley of his day’s entertainment.

“Since you do not seem overly eager to commence this affair, allow me the honours… Tell me, Councilwoman Marin - as far as you know, how many Cultist ships made it through that lovely blockade of yours?”

“Ah, Lord Jeraal.”

When shaped by Venalis' derisive tongue, the Zabrak's title sounded more like an insult than an honorific. "Is that his name? I'm afraid I never did catch it; he was far too busy running away from me for the proper introductions to be made." As much as Shay had been derisive earlier about the concept of falling into the normal interrogator stereotypes, she wasn't opposed to utilizing 'traditional' questioning tactics in a subtle fashion. Finding common ground with your subject was a tried and true method of getting them to relax their guard around you. Not that she was any less than sincere about her distaste for the maniacal Cultist, of course. Words and actions often held double meanings and embraced multiple intents where the Investigator was concerned.

“I do dislike the man, his leanings are most… uncivilized.”

No, she'd never expect her fellow Dolomarian to approve of 'Lord' Jeraal's behaviors. While Shay may have only just met the man, the Sentinel had always been quick to take stock of another sentient's character. Venalis would not be a simple subject to unravel over the long term, but his defining personality traits were easily read. For one, his intelligence was of a cunning nature many wannabe 'evil masterminds' aspired to but few achieved. Such a mind appreciated artful techniques to eliminating your enemies, and would scorn brute force methods and melodramatic blather as beneath them. The parallels to her own mindset were striking. "I would've said demented and self-indulgent, but that works as well."

That antagonism existed between high ranking members of the Cult of Sadow was no surprise to Shay. While the study of history remained a mere hobby to her, rather than the calling it was for Titch, she'd always paid attention when her teachers had described the Order's ancient enemies. One of the traits the Sith had been infamous for was the amount of in-fighting they tolerated, even encouraged as a matter of course. How deep said antagonism ran--and whether the Jedi could use it to their advantage--remained to be seen. Venalis did not strike Master Marin as the type who'd easily allow himself to be manipulated for another's benefit.

“That name is more fitting than the one I once wore, Jedi.”

Strange, the things her adversary chose to reveal in contrast to those he sought to conceal. It would seem the issue of his true name was of personal concern to him, whereas the Cult itself was not. Interesting... "I'm disappointed, Venalis. Hiding behind titles, self-assigned or otherwise, tends to indicate some amount of shame for what you've become." Now it was her turn to permit a humorless smile to tease at the corners of her mouth. "Besides, if I cared one whit about how 'fitting' one's birth name was, I never would've bothered to introduce myself." Bearing the moniker of an infamous war criminal wasn't exactly appropriate for a Jedi Master, after all. Making a joke about it before Venalis could also served the purpose of removing that particular weapon from the Cultist's own arsenal.

“Indeed. We all have our little secrets, after all,”

Shay did not shy away from the burning sensation those intense dark eyes left on her skin as they examined her in close detail. Indeed, she appeared entirely unconcerned by his scrutiny. Let him look his fill, so far as she was concerned. Venalis was not the only individual in the room practiced with keeping his true self hidden under wraps. He'd find no clues of use to him in her physical shell. Master Marin did wonder what the Cultist perceived when he stared at her so, but she was used to dealing with the occasional nemesis that was her strong sense of curiosity.

“I could also bring to your attention the detail that controlling the information to which a prisoner has access is a basic psychological tactic, if it did not stretch the limits of good manners.”

Since the Sentinel always strove to be honest with herself, some small part of Shay couldn't help but admit to enjoying itself immensely right now. It was rare she was afforded the opportunity to test this aspect of her skill set against such a formidable opponent. "Force forbid we violate good manners," was her verbal parry to Venalis' thrust. "What with both of us being such very civilized individuals. That just wouldn't do."

“Since you do not seem overly eager to commence this affair, allow me the honours… Tell me, Councilwoman Marin - as far as you know, how many Cultist ships made it through that lovely blockade of yours?”

Amber eyes diverted briefly from Venalis' face to take in the motion of the Cultist's fingers against the table's surface. She'd noted this habit of his earlier, but as of yet her brain hadn't processed its relative significance. So far it seemed an unconscious gesture, not one signaling agitation, but she wasn't about to take that supposition for granted yet. "Thank you for the compliment, Champion Venalis," Shay offered in riposte, deliberately misinterpreting her opponent's words for humor's sake. "It's good to know our efforts did not go unappreciated."

Shifting her discerning gaze back to her dark counterpart, Master Marin took a few seconds to evaluate the potential consequences of answering the question. The assassin's earlier point about the advantage to be gained by controlling what a captive knew had been quite accurate. Informing him some of his fellows had survived could strengthen his resistance to further questioning. That said, Venalis no doubt was too smart to buy any blanket claims as to the Cult's total destruction. "As far as I know, five ships. Which leads neatly into my first question... did the Cult have any other active bases of operation at the time of the assault on Korriban?"

"Is that his name? I'm afraid I never did catch it; he was far too busy running away from me for the proper introductions to be made."

It was an elementary Cult tactic to introduce oneself in a grandiose monologue and then present a clean pair of heels to the enemy when things got risky – it was taught at the Academy, the teachers even handed a few superlatives for the members of less literate inclinations. Tristan had never particularly fond of the strategy, as he’d put too many knifes in people’s back to ever be comfortable showing his to an opponent. It appeared, however, that Lord Jeraal was keeping the Cult traditions shiny and polished even in these dire days. It just warmed the assassin’s heart.

"I would've said demented and self-indulgent, but that works as well."

The sardonic smile had never left the dark-haired man’s lips, but it widened ever so slightly. What had the Jedi expected, merry nymphs frolicking with unicorns under the sun? Every member of the Cult of Sadow was at the very least a murderer by the time they’d become of Cultist rank. And the training methods these last years were noticeably less harsh than they had been under Triumvir Kaila Dorien – that particular woman had stretched the limits of stupidity with her encouragement of slaughter amongst the lower ranks. So many lives, so many resources wasted in the name of faded Sith teachings. While he’d disliked most of the fallen on a personal level, the sheer waste irked him on a professional one – sometimes Tristanian wondered if he was the only one who remembered the Sith had failed. That the Cult expected to avoid the same fate when following the same rules never failed to cause the appearance of that darkly amused glimmer in his eyes.

“Every Dark Sider walks a fine line where sanity is concerned – Lord Jeraal’s failings are simply more obvious than most,” the assassin shrugged indifferently.

No one could use the darker aspects of the Force and remain untainted, Venalis knew this very well. Especially those favoured by the Zabrak. There was a reason the Dolomarian refrained from using his abilities as much as possible – he refused to become like those bloated balloons of self-importance that walked the hallowed halls of Korriban. Arrogance was a sin he refused to indulge in, even if his nonchalance skirted the edges of it at times.

"I'm disappointed, Venalis. Hiding behind titles, self-assigned or otherwise, tends to indicate some amount of shame for what you've become."

“You operate under the assumption that your judgement is worth anything to me,” he answered with a sharp, blade-like smile.

For the first time since the beginning of the interrogation, there was something akin to contempt on the dark-eyed man’s features – whether it was at the crudeness of the Jedi’s tentative to upset him or at her words was arguable.

“Still, I suppose I shall humour you for posterity’s sake – tell me, Jedi, what should I be proud of? I feel no shame at what I have become, but there is certainly no pride to be derived of it. I am, as far as I am concerned, a monster: it is very likely I killed more people than you’ve ever met. Don’t presume to understand people you’ve just met, Master Marin – it’s the easiest way to step into an early grave,” Tristan retorted without any hint of hostility to his voice.

He was speaking flatly, as if every word he’d said was matter of fact. In his eyes, it certainly was.

"Force forbid we violate good manners. What with both of us being such very civilized individuals. That just wouldn't do."

“I’ve always been of the opinion that being evil is no excuse to be rude,” the assassin agreed pleasantly.

Waiting for the answer to his question, Tristanian observed the blonde woman as she weighed the advantages and disadvantages of providing the information. It might seem to her benefit to lie on the subject of survivors, but both knew the Champion would not believe such an obvious lie. If he was the only survivor no time would have been wasted on questioning him – and definitely not by two Council members.

“As far as I know, five ships. Which leads neatly into my first question... did the Cult have any other active bases of operation at the time of the assault on Korriban?"

Five ships – so between twenty and thirty survivors. Other might have been off-planet at the time, but the Cult’s effectives were still well below a hundred. Inwardly, the assassin adjusted his intentions for the future in consequence: if the Cult was in such a dangerous position, some of the time he normally dedicated to hunting that ever-elusive knowledge he needed would have to be sacrificed. He still needed the organisation’s infrastructure and contacts to support his search, meaning he’d have to make sure it survived until he was done. How troublesome. Turning his attention back to the question, the dark-eyed man raised a sardonic eyebrow at the Jedi Master: that question would have been within the bounds of something he wouldn’t answer, had the Cult not been so pathetic it wasn’t worth the lie.

“No, it did not. We are farcically unorganized, as since we are the ‘most glorious successors of Lord Sadow' defeat is simply not possible,” Tristan replied sardonically.

Choosing his words carefully, the assassin phrased his next question. What he really wanted to know was if the ships constituting the blockade had been of the Alliance, but if that piece of information was to be obtained he would have to take the long way around.

“Did the Jedi become aware of the Cult’s existence by themselves?”

“Every Dark Sider walks a fine line where sanity is concerned – Lord Jeraal’s failings are simply more obvious than most.”

The truth in Venalis' words was self-evident; what surprised Shay was her opponent's easy admittance to that fact. No attempt was made to add qualifiers or assert his 'special' status, untouched by the afflictions endured by the rank and file of the Cult. Behind her faintly amused and oh so civilized facade, the Investigator took careful note of this detail. Every word offered and each hint provided by body language became subject to the discerning focus of her clever mind. Master Marin was nothing if not meticulous in her psychological analysis. Piecing together how her fellow Dolomarian's mind worked promised to be an undertaking worthy of her skills.

"...Don’t presume to understand people you’ve just met, Master Marin – it’s the easiest way to step into an early grave.”

And there it was--the first crack so far in the Cultist's otherwise flawless performance. Perhaps he found her method of provoking him crude, but he allowed her words to affect him all the same. The Sentinel's blonde head canted a few degrees to the right as she considered her dark reflection intently. The most striking element of Venalis' response was its honesty. Here was a villain who knew exactly what he was, his self-perceptions unvarnished by any moralizing gloss. At the same time, he did not revel in his fallen state; he merely accepted it. Such candor was rare as snow on Tatooine coming from any being, to say nothing of a follower of the Dark Side.

"I presume nothing," Shay corrected almost gently, her smile widening a fraction at his expressed opinion of her. Being the target of insults was nothing new to her, and the Assassin's slights were rather mild for all they were sincerely meant. "Merely making an observation, based on what I've seen of sentient behavior in the past. If you drew something personal out of what I said... well, perhaps I inadvertently struck a nerve then. My apologies." Of course she wasn't in the least bit sorry for what she'd done, which he'd no doubt pick up on easily enough. They were still playing at the pretense of politeness, after all. As far as battlegrounds went, the arena of small manners was one of the more entertaining settings to joust in.

“I’ve always been of the opinion that being evil is no excuse to be rude.”

And so the game begins anew. Doubtless any future faltering on Venalis' part would not last for long either. The man was too self-possessed to be any other way. The contrast between the two male Cultists she'd 'dueled' thus far could not be any more dramatic. While her fellow Dolomarian presented a true challenge to the Sentinel, the Zabrak had proved to be nothing more than an obstacle. Venalis' tactics were subtle, whereas Jeraal's were so facile as to be nonexistent.

Not that the lightning-spewing madman was any less dangerous for the lack of thought needed to comprehend his methods, of course, but Shay wouldn't be nearly so grateful were he the one to be occupying this cell at present. The assassin presented the far greater potential threat to the Order, as well as to the galaxy at large. That is, if he chose to direct his cunning nature towards the goal of destroying the first and conquering the latter in the first place. So far he'd seemed rather unconcerned, even dismissive of the traditional goals of the Sith.

“No, it did not. We are farcically unorganized, as since we are the ‘most glorious successors of Lord Sadow' defeat is simply not possible.”

Well, that was good news in a sense. They'd been correct in their belief Korriban had been the one and only center of Cult activity. While they'd no doubt be cleaning up stragglers for decades to come, the Order had successfully destroyed the bulk of the organization in one decisive blow. The downside to this being their captive didn't know what location the survivors might have regrouped at by now. Oh well; you've always thought the Order could use more practice in good old-fashioned detective work anyways. "If they believe that, they really ought to brush up on their history. Naga Sadow's defeat was as spectacular as his original ascendance to power." Venalis wasn't the only one who appreciated irony in this room.

“Did the Jedi become aware of the Cult’s existence by themselves?”

This question had been inevitable. Shay found it amusing all the same. So much was obvious by the return of her smile, and the soft chuckle that resonated in her throat. Venalis was fishing, while doing his best not to be obvious about it. The Sentinel appreciated him for that. "No." And that was all the information her opponent was ever going to get from her on this issue. "How is the Cult structured--from a leadership and rank perspective, specifically? We can save philosophy and metaphysics for another time." What she really wanted to ask was the identity of said leaders, but it was doubtful her enemy would give that information away so readily.

"I presume nothing. Merely making an observation, based on what I've seen of sentient behavior in the past. If you drew something personal out of what I said... well, perhaps I inadvertently struck a nerve then. My apologies."

Tristanian smiled, but there was no joy in the act – a simple stretching of his lips, nothing more. There had been a flaw in his performance, even if it had been slight: he’d talked too much, it revealed the comment was tied to something of significance in his mindset. To someone else that information would have been meaningless, but the assassin recognized the glint in his fellow Butcher of Corellia spawn – it was the same his eyes held when he was quietly analyzing and dissecting the personality of an opponent. A dangerous woman, but he’d already known that from the second she’d walked into the room with the same lethal grace of a blade still in its sheath. That he’d revealed even a sliver of information in this farce of an interrogation was shameful and the assassin would feel embarrassment over this when he could spare the time. Throwing her bones about the Cult was of no importance, but giving her even an inch of insight could very well cause his death somewhere along the line.

There were many different ways to be calm, Tristan knew this very well – the impossibly clear serenity that came upon him on the battlefield, the sharp composure he held while mocking and prodding or even the wry tranquility he usually wore. They would not be enough, he could already: the woman was too clever, too much like him. The little tricks he used to spin the heads of his enemies and allies alike would not be enough to confuse her – he should have taken her seriously from the beginning. Letting the deceit slide off his skin like water, the assassin’s lips curved into a wicked smile as his idle fingers tapped the table in an exact mirror of the heartbeats of the Sentinel. The hollowness flowed in his veins like cold flame, eating away all his feelings as his face took the jester’s mask: Shay Marin had wanted to see Venalis, had she not? Let her get her wish and pay the price.

“Oh, it is who should apologize,” he murmured softly. “Indeed, I’d forgotten how very… naïve your Order can be. It does so irritate me, at times.”

"If they believe that, they really ought to brush up on their history. Naga Sadow's defeat was as spectacular as his original ascendance to power."

“It is in the manner that which he fell that the lesson should be taken,” the assassin disagreed pleasantly. “Besides, that would require my honored comrades to read - a skill I am afraid they have not all acquired.”

"No."

“Stingy Jedi,” he commented in a dry tone.

Truthfully, the assassin had not expected much more than he had received – it was enough, however. The smile and chuckle from the blonde Dolomarian indicated she knew very well the information he really wanted, but let her laugh. She seemed to forget that, for all they bowed and scraped and laughed, court jesters always more than a trick up their sleeves. Venalis, even if the conclusion of his jests was bloody steel more often than not, was no exception.

"How is the Cult structured--from a leadership and rank perspective, specifically? We can save philosophy and metaphysics for another time."

The Sentinel’s intention were so obvious they prompted the return of the wicked, mocking expression on the Cultist’s face. She wanted to cut off the snake’s head, so to speak – eradicated every command structure left in order that the survivors would be nothing more than a disorganized pack of hounds running in fright and easy to put down. Venalis approved – he would have done the same in her place. Then again, the more the woman spoke the more Tristanian wondered that if his parents had accepted for him to be taken by the Jedi in his youth, he might just have been in her place, facing another Champion.

“May subtlety rest in peace,” the dark-eyed man quipped cuttingly.

Taking a second to phrase his thoughts, he spoke concisely.

“Three Lords compose the Triumvirate, widely considered as the strongest in the Cult. For that reason leadership shifts constantly as the more influential and powerful of Champions often try to take a seat from their predecessor’s corpse. Champions are the elite of the Cult but tend to keep to themselves, assigned certain tasks by the Triumvirate as per their skill set. Aspirants are the backbone of the effectives, poorly trained but in a few abilities – they make up for it in sheer brutality and viciousness. Cultists and Hopefuls are the lesser ranks often still students either to a specific master or to the more general classes. They rarely leave Korriban, and I believe almost all of them are dead.”

Turning to the blonde woman he smiled viciously.

“Do you have a padawan, Councilwoman Marin?” he inquired.

“Oh, it is I who should apologize. Indeed, I’d forgotten how very… naïve your Order can be. It does so irritate me, at times.”

Shay recognized the instant Venalis realized what he'd done, and the chagrin that followed. The slip was a minor one, a faint crack in the facade any other Jedi would have failed to recognize as significant. Some would've dismissed his subsequent venomous turn of behavior as a Dark Sider mouthing empty blasphemies, nothing more. The Investigator, however, knew better; she'd been before where he was now, striving to regain the advantage after an inadvertent misstep in the performance of one of her many cover identities. The tapping of his fingers in mimicry of her pulse was a delightfully subtle tactic for unsettling another, one she would've used herself were their positions reversed. This is the strangest joke the Force has ever played on me by far. And for once, I'm not laughing.

"You're far from the first one to say so," the Sentinel chimed in cheerfully. The more he retreated into the role of the derisive wit, the less seriously she resolved to take his quips. Let the assassin discover for himself how nigh impossible it was to effectively aggravate Master Marin. Besides, if his intention was to get under her skin, he'd have to try a lot harder than that. "Insulting the Order, really now... do I somehow strike you as the overly sensitive type, Venalis? Perhaps I've given you too much credit." Surely the man's powers of observation weren't so poor.

“It is in the manner that which he fell that the lesson should be taken.”

The blonde Dolomarian did not need to fake interest in this turn of the conversation. Curiosity dwelt in both the realm of her most admirable strengths and that of her most dangerous flaws. "I'd be interested to hear your perspective on it, truth be told. Dozens of historians in the Order have performed after-the-fact analyses of Sadow and the other notables involved in the Great Hyperspace War, but there's only so much intellectual distance we can manage on the subject, for obvious reasons." Shay never bothered to try to deny the Jedi were biased on a number of issues. No sentient being was without flaw, so therefore no organization they formed could ever claim otherwise.

“Besides, that would require my honored comrades to read - a skill I am afraid they have not all acquired.”

Even as the Councilwoman smirked at the quip, her keen mind filed away this most recent display of disrespect from Venalis towards his supposed comrades. "I'll count myself fortunate to belong to a group where literacy is very much a requirement, then." Two cognitive structures undergoing development in her brain refused to mesh--namely, Shay's estimation of her dark reflection and her understanding of the Cult. The more the Jedi Master spoke with the dark-eyed man, the more divergent her opinions became towards both subjects.

“Stingy Jedi.”

The complaint was a mild one; no doubt he'd expected such minimalism out of her. "I'm generous when I have reason to be." Unspoken but assuredly understood by Venalis was the fact he'd given her no such reason. For all their play at being civilized and witty banter, the two of them remained dire enemies. Master Marin held no doubt in her mind that he'd not hesitate to strike her down given the need and opportunity. This truth didn't bother Shay in the slightest, since she'd do the same. As refreshing as it was to find another individual who could compete with her on so many levels, the threat he posed to the Order was far too great to ignore.

"...They rarely leave Korriban, and I believe almost all of them are dead.”

Three at the top, one of which is the Zabrak. Too bad he doesn't seem inclined to share the identities of the other two. That Venalis himself rated near the top of the pyramid did not surprise her, given his demonstrated abilities and impressive degree of intellect. The fact he wasn't one of those running the show intrigued her a bit. Since it was plain he did not lack the capability to do so--especially compared to someone like Jeraal--the Investigator felt it safe to make the tentative conclusion that he had no wish to be in charge. This fit in with his expressed distaste for his fellow Cultists, but the lack of a lust for power and control remained unusual for a follower of the Dark Side.

“Do you have a padawan, Councilwoman Marin?”

So it's personal now, hmm? Shay had expected some form of retaliation for the earlier points she'd scored against him, but his choice of method was no less disturbing for it. The thought of Nereus drawing the slightest sliver of attention from the manipulative monster seated across the table from her stirred up every protective instinct she possessed. The faint smile playing on her lips never budged, but every trace of human warmth abruptly vanished from her amber eyes. The resemblance between the two Force Users became yet more apparent as a result. "Now who's murdering subtlety in its sleep?"

The trap he'd laid out for the Jedi Master was an excellent one, well thought out. While she very much did not want to answer the question, any refusal to do soon her part would tell Venalis everything he wanted to know. Lying remained an option, but if the assassin was as perceptive as she suspected him to be he'd have a fair chance of catching her in the act. Force give me strength. "I do."

Spouting death threats wasn't the Sentinel's style. Snarling and posturing were wastes of time and energy when they weren't part of a carefully calculated act. Instead, the consequences anyone who harmed her student would suffer could be found in the delicate adjustments she made to her demeanor, for those few who knew where to look. For a moment the Shadow overwrote the Investigator. "Why did you join the Cult, Venalis?" Two could play at prying, after all. The game ascended to the next level. "You don't care for it, and you fit in there about as well as I would."

"You're far from the first one to say so."

“Nor will I be the last, I assure you – the truth can be peculiar like that,” the dark-eyed man answered in a voice smoother than silk.

The slight pretence of civility he’d worn earlier was stretched so thin one could see through the tissue – Tristanian Pax’s sardonic sense of humor had no place in this anymore. The indolently amused Champion had disappeared, swallowed harshly by the hollow flame in his blood: he was Venalis now, the man with the cold eyes and the bloody hands who left a trail of corpses behind him. It could be seen in the way he stood, the way he breathed, for those who knew where to look: both assassins - for what was the title of Sentinel but a poor euphemism of that reality? – had come in this room with the unspoken menace of a sheathed blade crowning them. Tristanian had merely unsheathed it and pinned it to the table for all to see.

“Insulting the Order, really now... do I somehow strike you as the overly sensitive type, Venalis? Perhaps I've given you too much credit."

“If you take my comment as an insult, perhaps you really are oversensitive – my apologies again, I was not aware the Order was above such things as questioning itself,” the assassin replied with an impious smile.

Shay Marin thought she knew what he was doing, that he was trying to make her lose her temper through backhanded insults and hazy insinuations – it proved she’d yet to grasp his personality. Goading Tristan was pointless, hence he was very much aware it was the same with the blonde woman. Dark amusement simmered under the assassin’s skin, entwined with the empty clarity: no, he was doing this purely because it forced her to make assumptions. If she assumed she understood what he was doing, she would miss his intended target by following that line of thought. Vanity , the Cultist contemplated with a fatalistic smirk, vanity will be undoing of us all.

"… but there's only so much intellectual distance we can manage on the subject, for obvious reasons."

He supposed it would not cost him anything to answer the question – if anything, another portion of information to assimilate would force her to divert a part of her intellectual faculties on the matter. Any inch he could grasp, Venalis would take, however insignificant it might seem to someone else. Both smiling murderers in the room knew that the game had higher stakes now than ever before.

“Sadow’s enterprise was fated to failure from the beginning, because it relied on principles that were flawed. Fear and ruin were the tools he used to create his reign, but he relied on trust to maintain it,” the assassin’s tone was derisive, mocking the very concept of the word.

The dark-haired man’s wasn’t quite talking to Master Marin anymore, the words directed to something else – perhaps the Cult? He wasn’t sure, but perhaps it did not matter. The words were spoken, and that was enough for him.

“He trusted in Daragon’s loyalty, trusted in the allegiance of his subordinates - his craving for power made him forget that betrayal runs deep in the Dark Side. He thought his empire was a cause , you see, not just the extension of his insatiable greed, and that it would command the devotion he couldn’t inspire,” Tristan continued absently.

Dark eyes pinned the Jedi Master under a stare that made even the Triumvirs, those madmen who let horror and darkness run undiluted in the bodies, feel as if they were an insect squirming under the indifferent stare of a god.

“There is no such thing as a cause for people like us - forgetting who and what we are is a dangerous thing, for those who swim in the darker waters,” he spoke delicately, his voice soft as velvet and deceivingly pleasant.

Venalis felt the weight of the Jedi’s thoughtful amber eyes after his succinct summary of the Cult’s hierarchy – strangely enough, the curiosity seemed to be directed towards him and not the Cult itself. The Dolomarian’s mind whirled through possibilities while his face remained outwardly untouched: what exactly had he implied that would earn her attention? Ah, the Triumvirs- she was wondering while he wasn’t sitting on one of the three thrones. Tristan had, in the past, been presented several occasions to claim a seat. It was a relatively well-known fact amongst the Champions and something that had always puzzled his associates. Power over the other Cultists was not something he sought or desired: it was a waste of time and a pointless liability. There was only one thing he wanted from the Dark Side, and when he finally did get the knowledge he’d sought so long he would leave without a single look back. The Sith were pathetic megalomaniacal fools and the Cult was nothing more than a pack of wild dogs attempting to emulate them while they tore at each other for scraps of power. No, Tristanian would leave the madness behind as soon as he woke up from this ludicrous nightmare to the sound of Anaria’s laugh. Until then, nevertheless, he would sing the mockingbird’s song with a sardonic smile.

"I do."

The woman’s reluctance to speak the words had been apparent, as well as the harsh unspoken menace that emanated from her very posture. Now she understood what it meant to play with fire, the dark-haired assassin reflected cynically. His lips quirked into the same vicious expression he’d adopted when asking the question.

“You do seem awfully tight-lipped on the subject, I wonder why that is? Quite sorry if I upset you, really, I was just making conversation. Have I… what was the word again? Ah, yes – have I struck a nerve , Master Jedi?” he asked in a voice where the innocence was so sardonic it was almost obscene.

Being flawlessly polite while twisting knives in people’s open wounds was a talent Tristanian had nurtured through years of company with fools and monsters, and he liked to think that he’d kept his edge sharp even in these strange days. It wasn’t very likely Shay Marin would appreciate it, but then again people rarely appreciated Tristan’s wit.

“Why did you join the Cult, Venalis? You don't care for it, and you fit in there about as well as I would."

For the second time since the beginning of this conversation, the Sentinel had drawn dangerously close to one of the subjects Tristanian did not discuss. Well, Alice had gotten a few snippets of information, but the cheerful Firrerreo was an exception in many ways. This time the poisonous flame consumed the emotions before there was any indication of them, and the Cultist found himself thankful for the lessons in composure that had been drilled in him from his early childhood. He paused a long moment before speaking, considering his words carefully. The conversation required honesty, but there were many ways to present the truth and the assassin had always been a master at twisting meanings.

“Power,” he answered impassively.

Venalis did not crave power, he was not that much of a fool, but it was what had shaped his life – the power to wake the woman he loved, the power to change that dreadful fate he could not accept. Let the Jedi assume he sought power for power’s sake, it was no business of his. But that in and of itself was not a sufficient answer, and the assassin’s mouth let out another emotionless word.

“Arrogance."

He’d been arrogant enough to believe he could stare in the abyss without the abyss looking back into him, once upon a time. He’d learned the extent of his foolishness the first time he’d killed an innocent in the name of a cause he didn’t believe in and realized casually that he felt nothing as he flicked the blood off his blade. It was just another sin to add to the heap of horrors he would leave in his wake. Arrogance, to think he could master the Dark – there is a price to everything , his mind whispered, reminding him of the first lesson he’d learned in the cold halls of Dolomar.

“How many battlefield-able Jedi are there right now?” he asked cynically.