Nar Shaddaa

The plant in hand, Moyr reported to the rooms of her master's daughter, bracing herself for the encounter.

The doors were closed and oozed dread.

Moyr shuddered slightly, but then it was no time to give in to foreboding. Knowing Zhorrid's habits, she reached out with the Force to check how many living things were in the room. The feeling of revulsion toward her practices coloured the outreach and almost compromised it. [Mask Pip to Activate]

EE6. Sense. Mask.: 1eF 2 Light Side

There was only one living life form on the other side otherwise she has a general layout of the apartment, but she has seen it before.

"It's Moyr, my lord." The woman announced herself through the door.

The door opens to a clean chamber with Zhorrid sitting with her back to the door on her couch.

With the potted green thing under her arm, Moyr approached, wary. She waited for Zhorrid to disclose what mood she was in. A mental vision of stabbing her in the back didn't fully depart but her father's will was binding in this regard for now.

"Someone has a gift for me!" she says standing and looking at Moyr.

"Yes, my lord. The plant."

She approached with the potted thing.

"Though I have so far failed to unlock its powers I have learned more of it. There is a wild Jedi cult on Nal Hutta calling themselves the Black Witches who guard a rare place where these grow."

Zhorrid smiles and inspects the plant and then uses the force slam into the wall... she turns casually and shoots lighting from her fingers until it is ash. Satisfied she says, "It didn't go with the decor."

"Just all wrong. Now tell me little mouse what has kept you so busy?"

Moyr watched the demonstration of force keenly, taking the lesson of Zhorrid's powers to heart.

"I spent a lot of time on Nal Hutta. Bargaining with the local Hutt for the knowledge of his scholar slaves, fighting an acklay who someone found fun to bring into the swamps down there from Geonosis or wherever they come from, and dealing with those incessant Black Witches. And I made an effort to find a way to contact your father."

She glares and says, "And what did ghost dad say?"

"A few things. One was that you are precious to him and he doesn't want harm to befall you. And that your ambitions don't run counter to his plans. I am glad I heard it from him, frankly."

"Precious!" she shrieks and force throws the couch out the window.

"He is a bastard! I HATE HIM! He just won't stay dead!"

"How else would he have made you so strong, my lord? He did let me experience what you must have been suffering for years. I can't say I know how it is, but I have an inkling..." She spoke calmingly. "At the very least your father is a powerful man who can be learned from. My own was just a lowly scum who sold his firstborn daughter into slavery just because he was afraid of her nascent powers and defiant nature."

"You think I care about your roots?" she hisses. "You are nothing... nothing but what my father has deigned to grant you. I would kill him if I had the power. I would carve his heart out and then show it to him and say father... see this... see this bleeding black thing. See it father and despair. I would make him eat it."

"I undeniably owe him quite a bit." Moyr nodded. "So while I can relate to the aesthetic appeal of the scene you've just described as well as to the taste of vengeance you'd feel in such a moment, I still have mixed feelings about it. Mostly because I am pragmatic about my own fortunes while getting embroiled in your familial vendetta. I just want what the Code offers, nothing more, nothing less, and a possibility to get there."

"You are barely Sith, barely worthy of anything. Yet you think you are worthy to be his apprentice?" she asks delicately.

"I don't contemplate my worth too much, my lord. I prefer to focus on making myself greater than being a Sith just barely. But he has tested me before, and I have proven my utility. It's a bit like with a grip on the lightsabre, it fits one hand more than another. Your father may be having a good hand for Twi'leks." She replied patiently. "Though it may be hereditary."

"Why do you say that?" she says cautiously.

"Because you're growing on me, my lord, if I may say so. Your style is different than I used to espouse but the more I descend into the Dark Side the more I find in myself what I observe in you. Just this afternoon I butchered a few men in the Shadow Town and drank their blood just because I could."

"This sounds disingenuous?" she says with a frown.

"How so, my lord? They proved to be useless so I invented a use for them. One way or another, I prod at the current boundaries of my strength."

"You words feel like daggers," Zhorrid hisses. "I admire your lies for what they are."

"I still have the taste of blood in my mouth if you want to check, my lord. And wine." Moyr's smile turned slightly feral. "At the very least, unlike Zash and many others, you are the real thing."