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dathomirdumpsterfire · 7 months ago

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[In-progress Obimaul, post TCW, updates tuesdays! New? Read the prequel "Desertification" on Ao3! 18+, Link at the end. ]

~~~~Chapter 8: Research and Rest~~~~

Darth Maul does not sweat.

A feature of zabrak, Dryden had believed, or nightbrothers specifically, considering the fetid swamps that bore them. Neither humidity nor dry desert heat seemed to bother him. The efforts of battle, business, and pleasure alike failed to bring any telltale gleam to crimson skin. The sith didn't even sweat in a hot bath, whenever they’d shared such on First Light or when visiting the Black Sun’s impressive bathhouses.

Now, as he watches sweat bead across tattooed skin and green mist seep from between bared teeth, Dryden has to wonder at the power of these psychic attacks. In the wake of it Maul growls and shakes, and radiates that same luscious aura of darkness all sith artifacts do. Even from a distance the force boiled hard enough that with just a barely-there connection he had felt it twisting.

A shiver runs crisp and chill down his spine. How quaint Maul’s warning suddenly feels, about the beguiling dangers of the objects in this room. By far the most seductive thing here is the sith lord driven to his knees before him. Dryden murmurs a question, barely recalls the words even as he says them. It serves its purpose, calling Maul’s attention to him. Bloodshot eyes open and rise to his. Sulfurous and dilated, only a thin ring of color around two dark pools. From this angle the zabrak is just sharp horns and burning irises framed in furious black.

Lovely, really.

The impulse to touch drives his hands together, fingers laced and steepled before his mouth. Dryden entertains the idea of running his fingers down the marks of a damp brow only briefly, truthfully far too engaged in watching how gracefully the sith rises to his feet, so very… wraithlike. The motion is too smooth to be anything but force-assisted.

When the other man turns his back Dryden follows, riveted by the fine tremor in black-clothed shoulders. After nearly three years of working together, Lord Maul has finally brought him here, to Dathomir… and how illuminating this visit has been, in such a short bit of time too.

It was to Maul’s credit that Crimson Dawn had survived the birth of a new Empire. Thrived, despite the chaos swirling around a young regime eager to swallow all who could or would stand opposed to it. Dryden had come to respect, and at times even depend on, Maul’s power. His efficient, unrelenting drive. However, the sith’s occasional habit of, hmmm… disappearing was, in Dryden’s opinion, another matter.

Sometimes it was simply not answering comms, other times...

Visits to worlds in the unknown regions. Excursions into imperial occupied space. Days in a trance, speaking to -apparently- ghosts. He’d rather feared this event was yet another distraction when Maul had gone quiet some weeks ago. Ensconced on Dathomir, off in his own horned head, again, leaving Dryden to manage their organization alone.

So unutterably boring compared to having him around.

But Maul’s summons had ended that monotony in spectacular fashion. A mystery, an unknown assailant, a dark power… and an exclusive invitation. Dryden’s patience had paid off so very well.

For a second time he is forced to stop his fingers from touching.

He does wonder though, who else had his lord contacted for help, before him? No one useful it seemed. No one with answers. These Dryden would provide, through the Dawn’s network.

The other man begins drifting back the way they came and Dryden smirks as he follows, self-amused. That Darth Maul has no one else is a delightful little theory Dryden finds himself lending more credence to by the hour.

They return upstairs to the ichor lit living space, such as it is. Maul retrieves his two books and goes to curl up in a nook of the stone couch. Dryden settles in beside him, not quite touching, and smiles a belladonna smile. With a faint creek from ancient bindings, Maul opens one of the books. His fingers are the slightest bit unsteady, a tremor making the edge of a floating page quiver. Oh yes, delightful.

"My lord,“ he interrupts before the sith can really get to reading.

Maul is immediately tense, turning to glare, a black lip curled just enough to show a hint of teeth. Heat creeps up Dryden’s neck as his markings flush in kind. Irritability is par for the course with Lord Maul, but that’s a bit more aggression aimed his way than is warranted, really. He’s here to help after all.

Staring back, he rolls his wrists over to show open palms. When the sith puts his teeth away and blinks, Dryden softens his own expression into an indulgent pout, reaching out to rest his arm on the couch behind Maul’s back. “What else might I do for you?”

Sharp teeth flash again when Maul replies. “Find me more references."

Tsk.

“Of course.” Dryden replies smoothly, and sits back on the couch- more of a bench, considering the lack of padding… perhaps he could get away with gifting the sith a collection of cushions? The carved scrollwork everywhere is lovely, but the lack of finishing touches is rather unfortunate.

“I will contact the personnel out hunting for us, yes?” he asks rhetorically, and uses his datapad to remote access First Light's encrypted holonet connection. “Perhaps they’ve found something by now.”

Maul grunts, and turns to his reading.

Dryden does as promised, checking in with his auction hunters and archivists.

Nothing pending, unfortunately. He reports the state of things in an apologetic murmur, and turns to working on other matters for a time. It wouldn’t do to press the irritated man for more details so soon; these will come in time.

Beside him, Maul reads with dogged focus. This turns out to be an activity involving near-constant muttering, rifling back and forth through the pages, and frequent small noises made at the text. This amusing intensity of concentration is broken an hour or so in, when the world tilts and—

Dryden sways in his seat, faintly startled. There are… chimes? Strings? Floating unseen through the air and reaching, seeking not through the air, but in the force, some great, intangible spider weaving a silken web from the energy of the universe itself. Plucked threads hum in a resonance felt rather than heard, bell tones melting in the ears across dimensions as they call, beckoning, coiling in an oil slick embrace around—

Maul makes a noise like a speeder failing to start and drops his book. It flops to the floor, and the sith hunches over. Energy surges out to throw the strings back, tearing, rending, shredding.

Dryden braces his hands on the stone couch, fighting to keep hold of which way is up as the raging chill of the dark side rips the beguiling music into a discordant cacophony, filling the world with screaming noise, windchimes in a hurricane.

When he can focus past the sheer noise, Dryden finds Maul curled in on himself, entire body gone indistinct and hazy. The sith's form wavers like a mirage, the lines of him dissolving into grey, curling mist. It’s the only part of him that’s moving, whipped into tatters by the storm playing out in the force.

Dryden has a hand out before he can even stop himself, surprised when his fingers are met with solid warmth.

The heat of Maul’s body is like a furnace beneath the black, roughspun fabric, bones shifting subtly against Dryden’s palm as the sith breathes— hard, panting. A far more pleasant thing to focus on than the dizzying sensation of clattering bells reverberating through his entire being, strings plucking and catching at him as they whip past in the force.

Swallowing back nausea, Dryden dares to reach toward the sith with what little force presence he has, pressing himself toward the questionable shelter of the icy claws ripping the noise asunder. A chill burns down his spine, vertigo gives one last, hard twist, and suddenly he’s… numb. The chimes and strings and furious energy is replaced by buzzing, as though a door had been shut on it all. Maul’s back heaves against his palm, and he takes a deep breath of his own, looking down to see his arm beginning to blur.

"Remarkable," he manages, raising his other hand before his eyes. A laugh rises in his throat as he watches his fingers all but disappear into shadows. In a matter of seconds his body appears no more corporeal than Maul’s.

Buffered from the attack, he is free to watch the man fight. A delight in any context, truly. The sith’s energy- what he can perceive of it- lashes around them. A deadly whirlwind pushing and shredding and holding back the dizzying, frigid presence that tries to intrude. Grinning, he reaches out with his own pale command of the force, moonlight compared to the wrath of a sun, reveling in the burn and rush of true power.

By the time whatever it is eases away, the cloth under his palm is damp, and his sith is shuddering from the strain.

“What-?” Dryden says in a whisper, then stops.

He isn’t sure how to phrase what he wants to ask. Adrenaline has made him giddy, questions clamoring in his mind, but Maul is growling again. The vibration of it rolls up his arm. He takes his hand away, but the zabrak doesn’t seem focused on him, too busy retrieving the fallen book with shaky fingers. It sits unopened in Maul’s lap for a time, while Dryden puts his thoughts in order and the sith’s breathing returns to normal.

A wordless sigh, and Maul goes to his reading like nothing had happened.

Dryden doesn’t. Couldn't possibly. “Do you… have anything stronger than tea, my lord?”

"Mnh," the man replies, seeming to think it over before setting his book aside and disappearing down the hall. The zabrak returns with an ancient bottle of something golden, and one crystal tumbler.

“Oh ,” he says at the sight of it, and ends up pouring four fingers for himself.

Dryden whiles away the rest of their evening working on his datapad, comforted by a glass of something like whiskey, if it was made from distilled sunshine. Maul reads beside him, disappearing to the kitchen on occasion for food, or presumably to weather yet another of the psychic assaults far enough away to spare him the radiant effects.

He can’t quite decide if he’s grateful or disappointed by that.

When the other man has finished devouring both books, to no evident result, he sets them on the low table and rises.

"I am going to rest,” Maul informs him, apropos of nothing, “Are you returning to your ship?”

"Hmmmm," Dryden stalls, nibbling lightly on his lower lip and swirling the dregs in his glass, "What are the odds something dathomirian would kill me in my sleep?"

"Small, but not zero. Everything on this world wants to kill and eat everything else, always," Maul says, blunt as ever.

Dryden looks up at him from under his blonde eyelashes. "Does that include you, my lord?"

"Mm, naturally,” the man responds, hands behind his back, shoulders too straight, a bright gleam in those bloodshot yellow eyes.

He laughs, entertained. Such a mild threat was practically a warm welcome, wasn’t it?

“I shall stay then,” he purrs against the rim of his glass, “if it pleases you?"

“Mh,” Maul has to say about that, “come then.”

Evidently, it does. Dryden tosses back the last of his whiskey and rises, turning to his droid. “Tee-four, retrieve my day bag, yes? Oh, and my crane robe. The black silk one with yellow tips on the feathers, from Ziton.”

He turns to smile at his sithly host, gesturing toward the hall he presumes leads toward the bedrooms. “After you.”

Maul leads him through a roughly hewn archway and down a hallway leading off to several little cave-like rooms, most of them empty apart from what’s clearly an office, shockingly modern. Dryden’s brief glance gives him the impression of a room transplanted straight from an Imperial starship, repainted in black. Curious.

Down past the office, the carved stone corridor opens up into a sprawling room that he takes for another storage space but… no, this must be the bedroom. They had passed by nothing else that would fit the description, and this room does indeed have a bed in it. A very large one- ovoid, of modern design- placed two steps up on an elevated dais that fills the far left of the room.

After a long look he can t ell how the room’s design had begun. Black ashwood furniture and tiled floors, luxury fixtures in bronze. The redstone of the walls and ceiling have been worked smooth, then carved onto decorative moulding, pilasters, and arabesques.

Whereas the rest of Maul’s apartments look half-done, this sanctuary stands as the example of what they all might become. Rough stone and eclectic styles, smoothed and harmonized into something… elevated. Dathomir’s wild sensibilities intertwined with sharp civil luxury, all bathed in the red gleam of the sunset pouring in through a wall of windows.

At some point, however, it seems the room’s thread had been lost. Countless candles, scattered about, substitute where electric fixtures seem to be inoperable. Their unsteady magelight reveals an odd and extensive collection of extra furnishings and storage crates, shoved and packed at random into the darkened edges of the room. Their surfaces are covered in… things. Partially disassembled electronics lay alongside priceless artifacts and sporadic clutter. Books, datapads, scrolls, tablets, and dripping candles. He spots the geometry of no less than three holocrons within the mess, edges shining in red and gold.

Maul’s dimly-lit hoard reduces the floorspace of what should be a grand room to perhaps half its useful potential.

He allows himself a long count of five to be overwhelmed by it all, then forces his mind toward relevant questions. Meanwhile, Maul has gone ahead, winding his way across the room.

"...my lord?" he asks, seeking direction.

The sith stops at the large bed and reaches to unlatch something at his middle, sounding distracted when he replies. Or… perhaps that’s tired? He’s never heard lord Maul sound tired before.

“Sleep where you please. Though I warn you, the attacks will continue through the night."

Well. That explains some things, including the bloodshot look his sith is sporting. Granted, his eyes were always somewhat rimmed in red, but not usually quite this much.

Dryden surveys the space, considering. There's a canapé à confidante style sofa with a long plush section that would do, if he cleared it off. What looks like a daybed is tucked up next to the windows, covered with more pillows than Iego has moons. Perhaps some of those might be migrated to the living room couch? Anyway, these two options may prove far enough away from Maul to avoid interrupting Dryden’s sleep with further assaults from those awful strings… but the sith had proven quite capable of shielding them both, and why invite him here in the first place, if not for company?

His shoes click on the tile as Dryden crosses the room to test those waters, moving up the two steps to join Maul on the dais. There’s more tiled redstone here, softened near the bed by a collection of dark pelts. He walks up to the edge of the mattress, mindful of the zabrak’s personal space -or more accurately the reach of his claws- and sits. No reaction comes.

Hm!

He looks over to find the sith tossing his robes onto the back of a chair. The last gasp of sunset highlights his lord’s skin with orange and gold. Taking off his cape, Dryden reclines on his elbows, tipping his head back to keep Maul in sight. “Tell me you’ve been able to get some sleep, hm? I know you can survive without, but that seems dreadfully unpleasant.”

The zabrak climbs into his bed, rolling over to fall back into the pillows. "Mnh."

When that’s all the answer he gets, Dryden lets his eyes wander over the view left bare to him, the rise and fall of a tattooed chest already slowing toward sleep. They’d shared beds before but never had the sith actually slept in his presence, so far as he knew. What a day of firsts it’s turning out to be, all thanks to this odd affliction.

Really though, what could be powerful enough to do this to his lord? Who could be daring and motivated enough to risk such advances?

PA-LT4 trundles in, balancing an oversized suitcase, and the crime lord turns these questions over idly as he stands to retrieve it. He’s imagined no truly realistic answers even in the time it takes to complete his nightly twelve-step hygiene routine, the droid kept busy fetching water. Its comings and goings don’t seem to bother Maul, who hasn’t stirred once since collapsing on top of the bedclothes in nothing but the pants he likely didn’t want to bother getting off over his cybernetic knees.

Dryden considers his motionless form briefly, and decides a pair of shorts are indeed enough. What was that saying? 'When in Onderon, do as they do'? Besides, Maul has never once cared about his state of dress, and the air here is a hint warm for his tastes.

He folds his crane robe and sets it aside on a small leather ottoman, then finds his way under the duvet Maul had ignored entirely. Black shimmersilk sheets await him, and he comments on them quietly, in case the man is still awake to hear him.

"My thanks for your hospitality, my lord, in these difficult times."

"Mnnnn," the sith hums softly. Not asleep quite yet then.

Dryden smiles as he makes himself comfortable. A night or two of poor sleep, presumably to be interrupted by the strange attacks, is an exceedingly small price to pay for everything he is gaining from this venture. He pillows his head on an arm and watches Maul’s pulse beat in the hollows of his neck, wondering what new things tomorrow will bring.

…and if he’ll get to take a longer look at that storage space.

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