Korriban. Why did it have to be Korriban? Darth Insipid hadn't set foot on the frakkin' world for decades. Not since, well, the incident. And here he was, back here, at the end of things. He had been itching to get involved, to run his shoto into Darth Shieka's neck, but now, upon the revelation that the duel would be done here... a strange aura of melancholy had hit the Sith Lord. No, not melancholy... professional detachment. Yes, that's what it is.

Insipid had wandered the planet for days, and the sand was still just as terrible, and irritating, as it had been when he had been here as a lowly apprentice. Grimacing, Insipid found himself back where he had been then, loathing himself more than the galaxies innumerable faults. That was why he had become 'Insipid' - because he thought of his weakness as grotesque to the highest degree, and his fellow Sith, even more. The Sith Lord had held innumerable titles, and been apart of innumerable cults. He had grown immeasurably powerful, in his opinion. And had lost it all, on a few occasions.

And where had it taken him?

Professional detachment, he silently chided himself, as he wandered the abandoned corridors of the citadel. He had to maintain it. Especially here. He emerged into the winds of Korriban, and looked down into the courtyard. To his right was the others - the 'judges'. They had relentlessly manipulated him here. The mad one. The quiet one. The strange one. Insipid did not even acknowledge them, but simply cast his eyes onto the courtyard. His opponents would be here soon.

A noise reverberated through the gloom, and Insipid habitually withdrew into himself.

If they were not already.

Insipid began to look around, carefully maintaining his footsteps. It would not do for his victims to discover him, he idly supposed.

Dispassionately, detached, but not melancholic, Darth Insipid saw the other two women going for it. Somewhere in his mind, the Sith Lord acknowledged that intervening in a duel between two women - darksiders, at that - was a foolish error. But it almost felt as if he didn't care. After all he had done, after all he had survived...

He absently wondered if the Sith who lived for centuries ever felt this way? Like... they had stretched themselves to the point they no longer truly existed. He uttered the most traitorous thought. Had Darth Krayt felt this way? Had Vincent?

With a snarl, Insipid battered away such thoughts, and raised his left hand, channeling his aggression into down his fingers and pointing them at the woman who was striking now. His anger struck her, hard and insidious, and into his other hand rolled his lightsaber hilt, falling down his sleeve. What appeared to be a lightsaber hilt, anyway. And then he leaped from the balcony, flaring his hand again to through off his cloak, and then toss it at the same target earlier, revealing his tunic, and other lightsaber hilt attached to his belt. His mind ran off on its own, noting that by picking on one of his opponents, he made the other inclined to side with him, and then he could betray them when necessary, and he would be -

- alone again.

Insipid jerked when he landed, within blades distance of the two of then, but clamped down on the repulsive thought and replaced it with the correct answer, roaring aloud. "VICTORIOUS!"

"I shall be VICTORIOUS!"

The duel intensified, Insipid's victim being thrown back and away from her target. The cloak was nonetheless hurtled at him, but Insipid saw it was untargeted. It made little difference, as the expansive cloak rippled out, and so Insipid flicked his wrist, activating his lightwhip and shredding it accordingly. He wasn't even paying attention, really... he didn't really see the point of seeing his aged cloak shredded again.

Instead he turned, pivoting on his booted heal so he could watch as his original enemy leap away, keeping an eye on his 'ally' nonetheless. The Sith Lord released a soft sigh, the air emerging from his mouth as a thin cloud, the cold air of Korriban still surrounding them. In night, this desert world was freezing, and he wondered if it would become his tomb one day as well. Not that he had any followers left to build it for him. He shrugged, and reached into the Force to anticipate what the 'excitable one' would do, who was clearly building distance between them for some reason or another. These were no Mikaru's, that much was true.

Battle precognition served him well, allowing him to raise a shield in time to catch her little strike. Doubting that his own opponent would be seasoned enough to do the same, he simply returned the favour, and summoning what little rage he had left in his weary body. He needed invigorating. It was cold rage. The kind that was favoured by Sith like Lord Tyranus. Not the hot rage that the 'angry one' seemed to enjoy. The death field that emerged from his rage was nonetheless just as brutal as any other Sith's.

Having exerted himself little beyond drawing on the Force, he cracked his lightwhip at the 'angry one' - another victim, another moment into the battle. Another Aden. Another Ardeur. Another battle where there were two foes, just as likely to align as kill.

It didn't matter.