#nor was he defeated/killed by someone taking the title that way. the line of bane being an illegitimate sith line is hilarious to me

[dapurinthos]

sifo: we should pick a bland code name to use instead of sith. something greatly disliked so it would make sense that we're complaining about it. ari: dairy. milkmen. lactose. sifo: right. i call this meeting of the dairy defamation d ... can't think of a word. ari: dominion. division.

~planning the serenno arc chapters means i get to seed things now like the 'can clearly see that it is the depression when looking back, but not at the time' bits, like at the perlemian orbital facility gathering~

“I don't know,” I burst out, then flip my hood up over my head. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. Everything feels wrong. A weight has fastened itself to me, a set of armour that impedes instead of protects. There's a shrieking, out-of-tune viol where the pegs have been twisted so far around that the strings are ready to snap like the negative reinforcement of an elastic band against my wrist each time a thought I don't want surfaces. He looks around and leads me off to the side, just beyond the entrance of a hallway that leads to the off-limits part of the station. It’s lined with fancy chairs that look more like sugar confections atop a cake than actual furniture. Master Si pulls one of the chairs over and sits in it, leaning forward until his head is on the same level as mine. “Hey, it's okay.” “No, it's not.” My throat constricts. “Then we'll make it okay, all right? Come here, breathe with me.” He cups my elbows and I rest my hands on the inside of his forearms, on the bracers he wears to keep his sleeves out of the way. They are more decorative than utilitarian, with elasticized lacing up the inside where the fabric of his sleeves bunches up. I clear my throat thrice and blink rapidly to clear my eyes. In for the count of three, hold for the count of seven, and then out for five. Again. And again. It takes a few more rounds than usual until the shrieking becomes more of a background hum. Still there, but quieted enough until it can be properly dealt with later. “Want a hug?” “Lean.” “No, I'm Sifo-Dyas,” he says like it's the pinnacle of wit, but straightens up in the chair so I can lean into his side. I swat his leg with the back of my hand like I've spotted a mosquito there. After a moment, I speak. “Come on, there are milkmen to stick pins into.” “Picked a particular poking pin?” “Illegitimacy of all milkmen claiming the title after the moon landing.”