A/N - this is my take on Dustil Onasi's dalliance with the Sith Academy on Korriban, angst and fluff will likely follow. I'm trying to improve my portrayal of him and to practice different character types in general.
The Price of Power
Part One
"Are you coming?" Selene was waiting for him, one hand resting just above her hip; the other wrapped around the polished lightsaber hilt she had constructed. The weapon was unfinished and from the irritated set of her stance, she hadn't forgiven him yet.
"If you're thinking about jumping ship I understand. You're a sitting mynock even with a working saber." Dustil Onasi strolled idly to the edge of the platform, keeping his face carefully neutral. The windswept balcony protruded from the main body of Dreshdae city at a slightly less than horizontal angle, and the storage crates on the sand covered surface below looked deceptively small.
"Long way down," he remarked nonchalantly. "Besides, this isn't a ship. And you were the one who wanted to swap: 'I'm the Sith apprentice…a proper red synth-crystal would be wasted on a mere hopeful,' and uh, 'Oh come on, you owe me, I'll be your friend,' wasn't that what you said? I'm just a victim of the system here; a mere hopeful wouldn't stand a chance of recognizing a fake lightsaber crystal. Apparently neither would an esteemed student, though I do appreciate you giving up your cast offs to this humble individual." She pursed her lips firmly, looking out towards the great stone doors of the Academy, her sense quite open to better show off how she could channel the resentment into pure Force energy. For a bare second her eyes seemed to glaze over, taking on a lurid yellow-grey hue; but they quickly returned to their usual shade of brown.
She wasn't remarkably pretty, but the slightly reddish shade was quite becoming against the much lighter tan colour of her hair. It was drawn back in a severe bun against Korriban's harsh winds, but a few long strands maintained a constant presence, catching behind her ears and blowing across her open mouth whenever it was least convenient. The grey uniform was less flattering, but only because the Sith outfitters had not allowed for a rather taller figure than the average human female; it was tight in all the wrong places and far too broad in the shoulders.
Though by comparison, Dustil was probably worse off; his uniform was four years old and 'functional' was the most generous term he could ascribe the glorified saber. And for a weapon created with entirely zero experience and a half-translated series of instructions downloaded from the holonet, he hadn't done too awfully.
"It works," he growled, feeling Selene's lightly mocking eyes on the back of his neck. She smiled easily, the charming innocence quite inane from a woman he'd seen fry – well yes, a sitting mynock, latched onto the exposed power cables around the landing pad. And that had suited her, a grey spider-work of veins tracing across her skin, suddenly pallid despite the barren climate that had persisted over the near twenty years of her time on the desert planet; somehow repellent and strangely beautiful at once.
"That is the nature of power," she said, displaying the uncanny ability to follow his thoughts that was belied by her mild demeanour. The words had a slightly practiced feel, and she frowned as she said it. "Power offends those who aren't truly prepared to seek it, distinguishing those with vision from the unenlightened masses." Dustil held her eyes for a long moment more than was strictly necessary, as blank and uncomprehending as he could manage.
"That would have been so much more profound if you sounded like you believed it and had the lightsaber to back it up," he said eventually, mimicking the solemn tone.
"I am going to enjoy beating you in the ring. Oh yes, I am. I am indeed," she muttered, stalking back through the pitted metal doors. "Come on, kark-for-brains, lousy, scruffy-looking…" Dustil followed, a little more slowly, only speaking to advise her when she began to repeat herself.
* * *
The interior of the Sith Academy was both more and less than his expectations, something that Selene had been quick to identify. True, the rough-hewn walls and murky lighting complemented their overseers perfectly; Master Uthar might have been an unremarkable, elderly human, but for the naked sense of power about him. The half-light gave the archaic tattoos on his face some small life of their own, the livid designs seeming to twist around the glaringly pale eyes. Yuthura was the same, though to a lesser degree; there was an unpleasantness in her expression, bespeaking a malevolent purpose that was less refined.
But, as Selene had prised out of him – with all the subtlety of a rancor – their instructors were not forthcoming, and they were not fair. His blue-bladed lightsaber had created quite an effect, extracting praise from his superiors, and intense dislike from fellow students. Yuthura had also insisted that he replace the focusing gem with one befitting his station; it was, naturally, red, and the blue crystal had disappeared entirely. Selene had made a great show of pardoning him, just as soon as she had retrieved a supposedly even better crystal from the Academy vaults, but Lashowe had made her disdain quite clear – and it was against her that Dustil found himself assigned in the evening's sparring session.
Their sabers were set lower than usual, meant to burn rather than inflict lasting, potentially fatal damage; and they'd been given practice hilts that could not be tuned higher for this very reason. Even so, he found himself defending as energetically as he would against a more formidable foe; the woman's face was drawn into a vicious grin and she would have gladly beat him down to within an inch of his life, a time-consuming process or not.
The matching blades clashed again, the sound throbbing through Dustil's ears. There was no support coming from the students lined up against the walls – stalemates didn't involve much blood, and were therefore unexciting, particularly ten minutes later when they had both failed to land a suitably brutal hit. He had the advantage of weight and height, but Lashowe had the benefit of experience, even if her fitness was beginning to betray her. Dustil feinted away; she moved with him and met the sluggish blow, pitching her weight forward in a clumsy sort of shove.
The Force was present but was being blatantly uncooperative; shifting out of his grasp seemingly in time with the vague openings he kept missing. Another opportunity flashed by, his opponent dropping her guard slightly as she swept her sodden fringe out of her eyes with her free hand. At some point in the fight – Dustil couldn't quite place the moment – the bit of fine cord had come undone, spilling the rather stiff blond tresses out across her angular shoulders, but she stepped back quickly as he tried to exploit it.
"Too slow," she snarled, straightening against the fatigue that threatened to drop both combatants. He moved after her carefully, straining to feel what her next move would be – and dove forward as the warning surged through him. She swung her arm back and sent the red-white blade scything through the air; not at him, for it was aimed too high, but venomous delight coloured her features, and the brilliant shaft spun towards the spectators. Towards Selene as she trotted anxiously into the chamber, the ruddy light reflected in her widening eyes. He thrust one hand towards Lashowe, the Force leaving him as a blunt wave that knocked her backwards; she was still smiling because the blade's own momentum would now suffice.
He couldn't catch the hilt, it was too small and moving too fast, but he reached out for it all the same – a bright corona formed around his fingers and a cackling streak of lighting lanced across to the weapon. It sunk into the metal casing, permeating its circuitry, and the red gleam winked out. The little cylinder still bounced against her breast and she somehow managed to catch it, though her mouth remained open with the shriek of alarm left unrealized.
"You shutta!" Lashowe screeched; shrill enough for two, but Monoen, the Twi'lek weapons' master held out a warning hand.
"Enough," he said flatly, one side of his face moving slower than the other because of the shining line of scar tissue that bisected it. Looking at the injury, it was quite possible that he had obtained it in a similar situation; the age-old burn was completely straight and only a little less than horizontal.
"Observe; here we have a contrast of ability. One with no experience but innate talent; and one –" the iron-hard gaze fell over Lashowe, "– with more experience but no ability." The blond woman's face contorted and she threw Selene a poisonous glare. Dustil belatedly lowered his hands, feeling terribly slow; and he never noticed the way the old Twi'lek's gaze followed that of his trounced student, or the confused unhappiness in his friend's expression.