Lord Qet

Qet wasn’t inclined to be shot through with lightning, or to end up actually stabbing Darth Vowrawn (as much as he might fantastise of it at times, it was not with the power-lust of so many lords’ apprentices, but with the long-suffering irritation of having a particularly garrulous Lord).

Qet looked liable to burst into tears. He was a talented bodyguard, but his talents did not extend very far past the outskirts of that region. With Vowrawn’s death, if he had not prepared carefully for what to do with Qet, the poor boy would either not last a month, or, far worse, would fall under the power of somebody like Baras.
“Qet, listen to me. If our position ceases to be tenable, go to Darth Marr. Pledge yourself to his service.” Marr would do what he could to look after Qet, or at least to teach him to get onto his own feet.
“If our position’s untenable, we move,” said Qet, as stubborn as Vowrawn had ever seen him. There was now anger in his eyes, instead of the forewarning of tears – good. Anger would give him strength. “On your feet, Master,” said Qet. “We need to move.”

They’d had this discussion before, though not as explicitly. Perhaps his Lord was of the impression that as numbers in their Sphere had dwindled, so had the ratio of Qet’s ambitions of quiet influence to ambitions to be a shining, articulated target.

“How did I find a human with Tsis honour?”
Qet bowed. Not the sketched bow he had made in response to Vowrawn’s joking, but a full bow, knees on the carpet, palms pressed downward, his forehead to the floor in front of him.
“Get up, Qet,” said his Lord, and Qet obeyed. There was also a mental summons to step closer, to in front of his Lord’s place; he obeyed this, also. Darth Vowrawn stood from his chair, turning to face Qet fully, and slid a ring over his talon. He took Qet’s hand, palm upwards, and slipped it on to Qet’s finger. It was heavy, set with a magenta crystal – he was not as expert as Darth Vowrawn, but he guessed that it was an adegan crystal. He felt it coil around his finger just as the golden metal it was in did. He looked back up at Vowrawn, no idea what kind of expression was on his face and also not much caring – his Lord would take joy from provoking a reaction, surely.
Vowrawn, though, looked serious, steepling his hands together in front of the tendrils on his chin. “I am not naming you my heir,” he said, then untangled his hands, placing one on Qet’s shoulder and another on his scalp. The resonance of his voice was nearly overpowering. “You are Second in my Sphere, and henceforth your word is as my own, should you choose to utilise it.”