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Fieldgrey

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About Fieldgrey

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    Lord of the Krath

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  1. The Dark Side is fueled by war. By that pride of man that grips the heart and turns him to violence. We embrace sentience in all its forms as passion is its lifeblood. The Jedi would have you deny your very humanity. There is no peace. There was never peace. Not while free will exists. ***** The Krath stumbled onto the freighter, her legs feeling like they were made from lead and her joints as if they were filled with the burning sands of Tatooine. The expenditure of power was draining, but there was something far more sinister at work. A feeling that made the fine hair on the back of her neck rise. Adrenaline pulsed and the Sith slide down the bulkhead that adjoined to the cockpit. She gazed out the open landing ramp with glassy eyes and focused on her own locus of control. The Sith could feel it there, gnawing at her gut, a devouring hunger that was not her own. Her eyes closed as she focused/ It was like a parasite burrowing itself through her, its teeth rending her flesh, consuming her power. Her temper had no effect on it, nor anger, nor hate. The Sith Lord shook as she tried to smother the parasite with her own fire, but all the strength she poured into it, it consumed and grew stronger. It was somehow familiar. She smelled spiced pipesmoke. <<Did you think I would be so easily tossed aside?>> Fieldgrey’s eyes snapped open and she scrambled into the cockpit, tossing herself into the nav-chair. No, no, no. Not now. She was in a cold sweat, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She would leave the Pilot and Shiro to the steering. She spit a mouthful of blood into her hands, cringing at the site. It began to smoke. <<Will you ignore me...>> The Sith Lord closed her eyes again against the onslaught of her master’s haunting presence. All she could feel now was hunger. <<Like the death of your Sister?>> Darth Awenydd frowned. She had died from her own weakness. Chaos had brought that life short. It was why she craved power, to stop the chaos from killing more innocents. Her mind turning to that night on Nar Shaddaa, the ravaging of her mute sister by the Sith, her own escape. Kyrie had died there, slain in that rusting apartment. Amongst the blood of their mother, last moments spoiled in vile depravity. …Hadn’t she? From behind her eyes came a vision, a battletorn hanger. Not much unlike the one they were escaping now. A dying Sith and a dying Jedi. The woman had a silver lightsaber, and she was on fire. Her flesh was melting into white flame. Emerald eyes. You were made like glass, so fragile, so fine. The Pilot’s voice cracked through her self-reflection, burning through her master’s lesson. “I'll get us there but it's gonna be rough.” Grief dissolved her resolve and hunger overcame her. The Sith licked the smoking blood from her hands, removing the crimson stain from her pale flesh. She was fighting for control and losing. Her voice was grave, but betrayed her inner struggle with a hint of desperation. “Get us to the Sith fleet. We will not be led into another deathtrap, even at the Dark Lord’s command.”
  2. ((OOC: Apologies for this upcoming character development, it’ll look weird)) The whole universe is in Dejarik. At the end of all things it doesn’t matter what piece you are on the board, what truly matters is who plays you. Any move can be the death of you, if you are moved by the hands of others. Never be a piece for others to play. ***** The Sith Lord licked her lips, removing the blood that had stained them, metallic and sweet in its taste. The pain from her arm blossomed in her mind like a fire-rose on Ryloth, living for but a moment before the flames of the eternal sun destroyed it. She took that pain and let it flow into her own power. The Sith lived on primal emotions, and pain was as good as any other to fuel her fire. She brought her pale arm close to her lips, smelling the wound as it grew, rending the flesh. Its odor was of war. Like her master before her, she was well trained in the Krath arts, and amongst them was pyromancy, a particular favorite of hers. She channeled the pain into literal flame, searing the flesh, cauterizing the wound before it could spread further. She brushed away the ashen skin and a wave of nausea hit her like a speeder. White Fire. There was a song in the force. One she had not heard since her innocence had died on Nar Shaddaa. It lasted but an instant before it was gone. In igni, nec tamen consumebatur… What madness was this? On fire, but not consumed. You died! The Krath swayed on her feet, her eyes a milky white. She spat bile from her mouth as the ship’s rattling death throws drove her to her knees. The figure in her mind was a revanchist in holy fire. The Sith cringed, driving a spear of pain into her own mind. A shriek left her lips as she shattered the visage. The decking was torn apart around her by the fury of the force. A whirlwind of her own hate. She hated what she saw, what could have been if her life had not been so destroyed on Nar Shaddaa. She added fire to it, slagging metal to liquid. Hate, Anger, Fury. Passion. Those are my friends. That is my strength. I had no choice. The Whirlwind shattered the wall of the hanger, revealing a YV-666 Light freighter in retrofit. Anger formed to determination. She ripped it from its moorings and pulled it towards the scattered Sith Forces. It skidded upon the destroyed decking, sending up a shower of sparks. “Pilot, you have no debt to me. Let’s get out of here.”
  3. If you consume strength, is it truly yours? If you rely on the power of others, does that not make you weaker? Is power, in of itself, enough for a Sith? Or is it one’s own strength that makes us truly powerful? ***** The cacophony of blasterfire created a discordant rhythm with which the Sith Lord danced, an angry, rebellious beat that that carried with it the death knells of the Cabal. Darth Awenydd’s pale lips twisted into a smile as she danced over the decking, her body twisting to compensate for the roiling chaos of the ship’s rattling death throws. The Sithling’s lightning ripped through the veil of smoke, writhing about her but not ensnaring her. The azure light blinded her, stars of multiform color clouding her vision as her ocular nerves were overwhelmed temporarily. The Sith’s eyes closed and she focused upon the rhythm of the Force. Fieldgrey could feel it, the rapid heartbeat of the Trandoshan Sithling. She could smell his blood. She could taste his fear. Her tongue curled, a predatory imitation, drawn from her deep psyche, a desire for a crimson stain upon her ashen lips. The Sith had trapped the lizard with her furious storm. The lightning faded; the heartbeat increased with adrenaline’s touch. She amplified the primitive reactions of the Trandoshan as she moved through the smoke, growing the flight reflex to augment his fear. The Cabal Sithling had been impaled through his gut, a writhing ribbon of durasteel trapping him and curling through the wound. She let the metal writhe and coil like a snake. Black blood poured upon the durasteel. Darth Awenydd could feel the durasteel’s lust for blood as it was an extension of herself. She let it work its way through his viscera, drawing out as much pain from the reptile as she could, letting it nourish her own power. The heartbeat began to stall, but she bade it on, bathing it in its own dopamine and epinephrine, keeping the beast alive until she could devour all of its power. There was a rattling gasp. The Sith Lord bathed in the lasting terror and sundered the corpse. Black blood fell like rain. She added the Trandoshan's book and belongings to her own. Her sulphuric gaze found the pilot and the newcomer, (Shiro). She drew the remaining Cabal to her, letting her twisting metal dance through them. More rain, more terror, more power. She stalked like a predator towards her allies. Her simple robes, soaked as they were in reptilian blood, whirled around her, sending a shower of darkness about her teenage form as she leapt. …Shiro of the Sith. The Sith Lord landed nearly on top of the Pilot (Bakra). The decking reverberated beneath her feet. Her voice exploded into his mind, with none of its previous subtlety. …Fear not, Pilot. The dark magic of the Krath was averse to life, but it thrived on power. Only he could see it, in the hollows of her eyes, a regard averted from life. The Sith Lord brought her hand to her face and with a swift motion, slit her wrist with her own teeth. As she bled, so his bleeding reduced. As her wound grew, so his would shrink. Equivalent exchange. The teenager spoke with a snarling voice, “Shall we leave this accused ship?”
  4. What makes us powerful? …Truly? it is our embrace of humanity. We do not fall into the denial of passions or the harmony of peace. That isn’t human, or well, it isn’t sentience. Think of a funeral of a loved one murdered… A Jedi will give you that inhumane smile and say everything is at peace, but a Sith… We’ll pull you aside and promise to flay the murderer alive. Which one shows love? The inhumanity of inner peace has no power other than that which is devoid of life. We are powerful in our embrace of life, in all its forms, and with all its problems. ***** The storm howled, the twisted metal shrieking as it tumbled through the air. The power of it reverberated in Darth Awenydd’s eyes, staining the hazel with a sickening sulpheric yellow. The power was as unrelenting as the darkness that tarnished the stars, forever threatening to overtake them until each met its end, to be drowned in the blackness of entropy. Her heart raced, her anger flaring white-hot in her breast. I… Bring Order… Corrupted eyes searched feverishly for targets, but there were none left standing. The withered husks of those Trandoshans that had foolishly challenged her were nothing but leaves, cast from the tree of life by her strength to rot and die to feed her power. There were no more bright heartbeats within her grasp for her to consume and destroy. It infuriated her, and the decking seemed to shake in answer. A cruel smile painted The Sith Lord’s freckled features. The entrance of the newest enemy was hardly subtle, the turning of cogs and the loud machinations of hidden machines were matched in the Force with a sense of overwhelming danger. The enemy was a bright hot flame amongst the ashes of her destruction. Her storm took on a frenzy that matched her heartbeat. Fieldgrey tracked the Sith through his leap, the jagged metal of the storm screaming to impale him, but she let it twist through the air on a different mission. As the Sithling landed, a curtain of durasteel was drawn from the wind to close down between them. The lightning would glance and shatter the void harmlessly. The Sith Lord cried in furious wrath, sending a half dozen shards of metal to impale the nimble creature from all angles. …To Chaos… The Force raged with a dark furiousity, crying for the gnashing of bone and sinew within the maddening storm. It was infectious, the wrath crawled within the Sith Lord’s soul, feeding upon her emotions and drawing from it even greater power. An endless cycle of violence and rot that could only end in death.
  5. Through strength I gain power. Does that make strength or power the most holy? Not all power requires strength in the physical or spiritual sense. I can get much farther by manipulation and subtly than I would by the berserker strength of a Sith Warrior. Power is what should be worshiped, not strength. The weak should be destroyed. ***** The Force twisted about the Sith Lord, the feeling of a spider weaving a web of durasteel cables. Her footsteps stalled and she whipped herself about, braids whirling around her head like a dozen whips lashing on the backs of slaves. Her mind drifted to the descriptions Sheog had given of the Dark Lord’s influence and command of the Force. A master of assassins and shadows. A sneer contorted her freckled face …Shadows and knives, but a spider is only king to the flies. Darth Awenydd despised servitude, but no Sith could resist the call to slaughter. Pain blossomed into her focus, but it was not her own. She pressed her strength into a mad dash back into the fray, letting a hawkish cry spring from her lips. The souls she had touched before, the Trandoshans, were falling to their own weapon, the result of her attacks. Their crippling agony seared through her consciousness, bringing her alive with their shattering bodies. As the poison gas consumed their lungs, filling it with corrosion and rot, The Sith Lord drew upon their anguish. She willed them to live a moment longer, if only so they could suffer more. The weak must serve the strong. I am the strong. The shattered decking the Fieldgrey had touched earlier cried out for her. The Sith Lord channeled the power of the Dark Side into the twisted durasteel as she ran towards the chaos of battle. She let the anger rise within her until she could feel herself begin the lose control. With each step towards the oncoming Trandoshan reinforcements, the pain of the dying threatened to overwhelm her senses. From their chaos, I will bring… The Krath brought the Force to bear on the durasteel, twisting it to her will as she amplified the pain of the dying Trandoshans, feeding on it like an ouroboros. She could feel the metal’s weight straining on her, trying to drag her down. The Sith Lord wrapped the decking in her anger, banishing the weight from her mind. Order. The decking sheared into ribbons like it was flimsiplast with a tremendous groan and an ear-shattering shriek. Amongst the haze, the shards of durasteel twisted to her design and began to tumble into a whirlwind about the Sith. Into it, she poured all of her hate. The durasteel made a screeching roar as it picked up speed, beckoned to a murderous haste by the Force. A lumbering Trandoshan ran through the haze, searching for his lost Vibrosword amongst the smoke. Darth Awenydd howled for his attention. The Sith Lord could feel a twinge of fear in the force from the Trandoshan as he saw the chaos of her storm and she was drawn to it like a mynock to a power cable. She amplified it and let it grow, savoring the taste of reptilian fear before devouring it with her power. Fieldgrey tore at his soul with her wrath, overpowering his own reptillian mind, consuming his consciousness with her ravenous desire for power. The Sith Lord could feel his life force dissolve beneath the withering assault of her storm, the total of his life vanishing like a handful of salt in the rain. She could taste it now, the stirring madness of power that was beginning to alter her seething soul into a mindless rage. The heartbeats of the reptilian cabal flickered like torchlights in a darkened forest. The girl laughed wickedly, savoring the fight to come. Nothing would smother her fury; it could only be drowned in blood.
  6. Why do I allow myself to be caught in the thick of battle? ‘It’s no place for a Krath’ Sheog would say. Of course, the corpulent worm would always object to going places where speed was of the essence. But why was I here? Orders from an unknown Darth are of no value to me. Not even from the Dark Lord unless it serves a greater purpose. How does fighting aboard a doomed ship help me? ***** Movement drew the eyes of the Sith, as the enemy revealed themselves. Tattered cloaks in the moving in the mist. Furious heartbeats in the hammered against her senses in the Force. The decking flexed beneath her feet, its shattered durasteel groaning. She counted the heartbeats as the smokey haze moved. The sharded whips began to flex and contort, reflecting the firelight into a thousand shattered rainbows. Twenty-one within killing distance. The East called to her. A rush in her blood called on her to run. Animalistic passion urged her to rend the enemy in a hail of rage-formed glass, but there was intellect that begged her to flee. Instinct overcame bestial wickedness. A tattered breath brought clarity, searing her mind with cruel reality. Just how unabashedly perilous her position had become entirely clear in the span of a heartbeat. Fierfeking Trandoshans Fieldgrey’s heart raced and the cold fingers of doubt began to tear at her insides, but the rage within her was not fully gone. She breathed out a sigh, the air clearing one of her bangs from her eyes. Hazel eyes glanced to the East. Quell your doubts, there is no time to think. There is only time to act. The Sith girl bit down on her tongue, letting the flair of pain clear her mind. The pain mimicked the gas grenades the Trandoshan held, billowing clarity throughout her entire body. Gas masks. She was glad that her pilot friend wore his flight helmet, at least he would be safe. She took a deep breath of clear air and focused on the pain, focusing her mind around it and expanding it with her fury. She could feel the damaged decking, begging to give way, to bend and twist, to be formed to her will. Darth Awenydd’s legs began to shake with excess energy, and she placed her locus on control around the gas grenades in the Trandoshan’s hands. She let one of her whips collapse in a clatter of reinforced glass. A Sith Lord could only do so much. The other whip began to contort with excitement, a perverse greed for blood. The heartbeats around her sounded like claxons, their signatures burning bright in the Force. The East beckoned. Blood welled in her mouth. Gas Grenades were launched. The Force moved. The Sith Lord ripped the glass whip into a shattered wave speeding it up to its peak velocity in an instant. Once it was at speed, she released it at the Trandoshans most vulnerable place, their gas masks, and dropped it from her control. Velocity would run its course and make them vulnerable to their own weapons. It had no need of her guidance now. Her legs began to move, a mad, force-enhanced dash to safety. I will make you bleed like me. The gas grenades that went east were next, and the Sith beckoned the Force to move and redirect it back to its thrower. It didn’t take much to overcome the nonchalant throw, and she didn’t need to do more then clear a path for her escape. Blasterbolts seared through her world, but she ran. She barely noticed the pilot's ship lurch forward. The Force that drew it was like that of a spider, drawing a fly to the web. Heat scorched by the girl, but she did not stop. The durasteel shouted for release, groaning from its warped scars, the damage from her A-wing’s entry. The anger within her gave way to steely resolve as her feet pounded on the decking. Darth Awenydd charged ahead, pouring all of herself into her speed. The durasteel beckoned to her, but she knew she could only focus on escaping now, or die trying to be heroic. Glory was of no use to the dead.
  7. What visions have the Force given me? Is it always the slow advancing rot, that terrible unyielding darkness? There are other dreams, beyond those gifted by the relentless corruption that lurks within me. Order from chaos. All I need is the strength to tame it. There is only one path that can give me that power. They say that the hardest battles are fought in the mind, in the conflict of ideals… but this choice is easy. ***** The Sith Lord’s breathing was slow and labored, sweat beaded upon her brow and trickled down her spine in tepid rivulets. She was no master, able to manipulate the Force without exertion. The control-yoke lay slack in her hands, pale hands trembling. The Krath smiled through the nausea that arose in her stomach, for behind the exhaustion was a deep euphoria that stirred in her heart. Another flare of warning set itself in her mind, causing her to stir and attempt to refocus. The scanners on her A-wing were distorted from the dissipating heat she had used to mask herself and were of no use. She focused on the warning, and brought it into her hate, letting it become fuel for the destruction that was mounting within her. Fieldgrey widened her locus of control beyond her ship and used the warning to guide her attention. Her hands moved on the control yoke on instinct alone, pulling the A-wing into a sharp redirection. Her own eyes caught the distant reflection of Coruscant Prime’s starlight off of solar arrays and command fins flying in tight formation. Bombers. She killed the sensory readout and scanning array, not willing to let her new prey detect her before an attack. The Sith Lord reached out with the Force, letting it guide her actions. Wrath flared in her blood, sending her mind into destructive, hateful intent. Her calm visage took on an enraged smile. Battle Frenzy. Tactics began to arise as she focused herself onto the opposing bomber pilots. They were flying modified Y-wings, configured for stealth operations, with sensor dampers. Ungainly and slow, a herd of Banthas caught unaware by a Kryat. The heartbeats of the pilots burned in her mind, infuriating her. How dare they think they can attack us? The Sith Lord placed the afterburner into overdrive, ignoring the warning claxon. All she could see now were her targets, the insolent fools that were bringing chaos to her victory. Rage seethed, burning away her exhaustion and showing her their plans. They meant to strike the landing party, destroy the Sith invasion by decapitating its leadership. As Fieldgrey’s A-wing passed beyond the hull of the derelict Dauntless, green lines of laser fire stitched the darkness before her streaming from the gunnery teams onboard the Y-wings. She could feel their fear and it amplified her predatory senses. The Krath took away their fear, devouring it with her anger and returning it to them as distorted panic. Instead of one A-wing, they would see an entire squadron of strikers that would have made Pash Cracken jealous. Panic flared in the force, the organized squadron falling into disorder. The gunners began to shoot in desperation at the phantoms within their minds, filling space with staccato blasts that were less concentrated, but a danger to the Sith nonetheless. Their panic fed into Darth Awenydd’s power and the cycle continued. All she needed to do was push upon the mind and their fright became horror. Into their disjointed squadron, the Krath sewed her remaining concussion missiles. The horror of her enemy filled her to the breaking point, her wrath insatiable. She began to shatter them, one by one. The ones that did not die from her missiles began to shoot each other, phantoms masking friends as foes. Dark laughter filled her ship. The control-yoke jerked violently in her hands as the port engine overloaded, the outdated craft pushed far beyond her limits. Fieldgrey breathed out a sigh, ripping the spinning ship towards the safety of the Dauntless-class Heavy Cruiser. She was ever an Icarus, once the power took hold of her, she became unable to think of her own safety. Still tasting the bomber squadron’s horror on her tongue, she cut the starboard engine and let the microthrusters calm the sharp spiral. It simply wouldn’t do to die smashing into a derelict ship. The hanger bay yawned before The Krath, a gaping maw of destruction that reminded her of the Master of Gluttony. Eternally consuming but endlessly ravenous. Disgust rose within her, but she let it pass, choosing to focus on the source of her strength, the rising tide of rage that continuously threatened to overtake her and drown her in power and lunacy. She reached into the decking that rose before her and pushed, fueling it with her hate. The decking buckled and shattered causing a scar in the hanger that stretched from the shattered ship of Bakra to the far wall. It slowed the A-wing enough for her to jump from the cockpit, dark robes fluttering behind her like ebony wings. The A-wing smashed into the far wall in a cacophonous explosion of durasteel and fuel, turning the hanger-bay auburn. Fieldgrey could feel the radiant heat scorching her skin, bringing back memories of Tatooine as she landed beside the Sith pilot (Bakra). The Sith girl was only three inches shorter than the man, but he carried himself with the poise of a veteran. She could feel his presence in the Force like a bonfire of stability fighting back the chaos of darkness. Fieldgrey whistled a greeting and flared her hate. Blasterbolts were an orchestra of light that adorned the hazy hanger in danger. The shattered glass and warped durasteel called to her, begging to be used in her ambitions. Flicking her wrists, the shards of glass from Bakra’s leapt from the decking in a shower of glittering fragments. The Sith Lord bound them to her, imbuing them with wrathful intent. They stretched from her hands like laserwhips, reflecting the firelight that consumed her wrecked A-wing. She winked a hazel eye at Bakra and contorted her wrist sending a shard of shattered glass whipping over his head to disappear into the smoky haze. It whistled as it flew, its contortions causing it to vibrate with the airspeed before it sliced into the shoulder of a Trandoshan. The wicked snapping of scaled flesh and severed tendons made her shudder with passion. She focused on the enemy’s pain and let it fuel her. “Come, petty officer, let us make them our prey.”
  8. What good is darkness to me as a tool? It’s far too cliché now, ‘The Evil Sith’ that just wants terror and rot for the sake of masochism. Aimless destruction is useless. You have to expand your perception. Darkness, ‘the dark side’ as the Jedi call it is not the mindless evil of a psychopath. Darkness lies behind the light. It is patient. Darkness does not bargain, it is rot. It is the entropy that lingers beyond the stars. It will always win. Why not use it to set the galaxy right? ***** Darth Awenydd clicked an affirmative on her commlink to Bakra’s suggested course. She could feel the wariness her presence weighed on his mind. Sith were ruthless and uncaring to the weak, especially their own soldiers. The officer’s unspoken reservations saddened her. She gritted her teeth and pressed the A-wing into a steeper climb. How long will a hydrospanner stay useful if you never maintain it? Why would I mistreat good soldiers? The Sith Lord reached into herself and opened herself to the Force, thriving on the fear and destruction that echoed in her soul. It gave her resolve in her own rebellion against the chaos. The battle would be set to order, and it would take all of her strength to do it. Echoes became a rhythm she could channel into her own strength. Wrath began to resound, a calm hate through which she would find power. Fieldgrey could feel it now, the heartbeats of her wingmates, illuminated in light. Far away, another heartbeat, beating fast and eager, decisive in its malice. Its intent was clear. The enemy. The Sith smiled, issuing a challenge. To her wingmates, she pushed their concentration upon the other Delta-7s making their outlines more appealing. They were released to their fates and didn’t matter unless they got in her way. The force was moving, and no one would stand before her and destroying what she hated. The A-wing broke formation, spiraling as a tempting morsel for the hunter in the Delta-7. Fieldgrey kept her control-yoke loose in her hand, looping the spirals lazily and focused her locus of control onto the pilot. Such a maneuver was entirely armature, and she felt his thrill of the hunt within her heartbeat. There was something else in his blood, a disappointment at the lack of challenge. She answered with a reverse pull of the command yoke, breaking the spiral and settling herself towards one of his wingmates. The unexpected repositioning resulted in a change of his blood, and tactics began to form in his anticipation. She could feel his fingers toggle off his missile lock, mirrored in her own skin. A faint smile tugged at the Sith’s placid face. The Delta-7’s pilot had decided she didn’t deserve a missile. …Got yo- Her whole ship shook with the impact of a mass driver round. Alarm claxons began to deafen her, and the hinted smile dropped in shock. The Sith began to curse herself roundly for her stupidity. She had been so concentrated on her singular prey that she had deafened herself to anything else on the battlefield. Had she been paying attention; she would have noticed the Force’s warning. She had strayed too close to the point-defense of the enemy. She increased speed, sending the afterburners into overdrive while the ship’s computers ran a diagnostic. The readouts showed the loss of her laser cannons, and minor maneuvering thruster damage to the port side. She was left with only concussion missiles. Sithspit. Fieldgrey closed her hazel eyes against the burning starlight that streamed around the planet’s horizon. She had never seen Coruscant Prime so bright. She exhaled and placed the A-wing into another dive, this time setting her path to graze the atmosphere. It would warp her heat signature enough that it would make it harder for point defense systems to track. As the A-wing began to shake, the she set her concentration once more to the Delta-7 pilot. He was still tracking her, setting up to intercept her eventual ascension, using the derelict cruiser to mask his approach. The Sith Lord toggled a single concussion missile to activate and waited for the touch of the force. There was no using a tracking system when stained in the heat aura of a planet. She kept her eyes shut against the light. She didn't need sight now. Wrath gave its reassurance and she released the unguided concussion missile. It ran the edge of the derelict cruiser, skimming its surface without variance or disturbance. As the missile reached the zenith of its inertial power, the Delta-7 appeared around the bow, highlighted by the lightbeams of Coruscant Prime. Triumph flared in the force as the pilot sprang his trap on the limping A-wing. Fieldgrey smiled. The Delta-7 Aethersprite took the concussion missile down its gullet like a gluttonous Hutt, the missile tearing through the armored hull with reckless abandon. The ship swayed in space for a millisecond, the control flaps unable to automatically correct course, before blossoming into a starburst of flame and wreckage that impacted the hull of the cruiser. The Sith Lord exhaled slowly, savoring the pain and terror of the pilot’s final moment. The betrayal of his triumph was a narcotic. He was an agent of chaos, and he had set his path by standing against her designs.
  9. Why do I walk this path? The choice of Nar Shaddaa was made for me by chaos. By disorder. By weakness. I can feel it now, it yearns for my life, hungers for it like a pack of Strills on the hunt. I can feel its teeth tearing my flesh. When will I have the strength to set it right? ***** Darth Awenydd could feel the pulse of chaos within the Force. It was fed by the wound in the force, consuming hope and drowning the world in fear and pain. The cold and cruel influence of disorder. Her teeth clenched with the stress of it all, she was still too weak to control it. She felt like a bandara trying to ward off a sandstorm with the beat of its wings. “This is Petty Officer Bakra of the Sith Empire. If you're looking to join the fight, I have a hole in my formation where a few rookies bit the dust. A fair warning, we're aggressive. If you can't keep up, you're on your own.” The voice of the Sith officer burst from the calming static of her commlink, making her start. With a flick of the control-yoke, Fieldgrey set the A-wing into motion, watching the readout on her control screen. Through the chaos, the Sith Lord settled her mind to her new squadron-mates. The cool determination of the Sith pilots were unmistakable in their tangible control of mind. Calm. Predictable. Unified. Fieldgrey focused harder, making her mind a knife’s edge against the assaulting confusion that chaos threatened. Beyond the calmness of their minds was their personalities, burning bright in the darkness. Each unique and fully set apart from Sith training. Nervousness about the odds, deathwishes, missed farewells. One light soared above the others as he A-wing fell into formation; that of the commander. A veteran pilot. She could almost taste the cynicism and determination within him. This battle would not slake his thirst for war. She toggled her own commlink to answer “Darth Awenydd at your command, Officer Bakra.” With those words, she placed her mind solely upon his aggression. It smoldered there like a coal in a forge, begging for life. Fieldgrey breathed in a lungful of recycled air and with her exhalation, passed some of the energy of the war into it. It would be as though the bellows of the forge were finally set in motion. To his mind, she passed her blessing as through cascading thought …Kill them all, commander… Darth Awenydd passed the blessing to the rest of the squadron, letting the surge of strength pass through them all like an embrace. She would fly with them until The Dark Lord commanded her otherwise. The Sith Lord had no great love of pilots, but she needed control of the war, and they were conduit to power. …They will be my shield against the onslaught of chaos.
  10. Where do dreams find me? At first, there is nothing more than a wordless tune, caught in the lullaby of years long past. The gentle, loving humming of my mute sister. Her ebony braids swaying in the dance of her unspoken demons, the pure contrast to her alabaster skin. The rhythm of choreatic movements wracking her body, brought by the dance of the song. Sister. Peace. The innocence of childhood was no match for the darkness of that rusting world. The Sith had come and all had died. Beloved sister defiled in the rust. Was she slain? Kyrie, what became of you? Did you guess my fate? I became a puppet of their sick perversion’s appetite… ***** The blaring of the hyperspace claxon shattered her dreams, dragging the Sith Lord back to the discomfort of reality. The glittering dance of hyperspace gave her reflection a corrupted distortion. Pale skin fallen to grey, hazel eyes to sulphuric yellow. She had seen that change on Sheog. It had taken the beautiful Vermandois and formed them into empty syphilitic husks. …The fate of the weak. Hyperspace fell away and the ruin of Coruscant took her breath away. The moon had given it a glancing blow. The wound in the force staggered her. It was not a recent effect, but the force was still raw with the pain and terror. …Was this what Malachor V felt like? Darth Awenydd opened herself to the pain, letting it pass into her soul where it burned with her inner fire. Wrath moved inside of her, the deliberate hate that corrupted her soul and fed upon the pain around her. A callous dispassion for the violence, a hidden joy at the planet’s fall. It was an insidious thing, her Wrath, an infection she had to fight against for control. The power threatened to drown her and devour her mind. She channeled it into expanding her sphere of influence and her senses. The sleek figure of the Sith command ship caught her eye. She had not expected to find other Sith here, least of all an invasion. It was near a heavy cruiser that was not of Sith design, and the contrast of the two made her flip the A-wing’s command yoke into a steep dive. Excitement pulsed through her and she channeled the wound in the force towards the Command Ship in a crude salutation that only the Krath could manage. She toggled her commlink to scan for incoming transmissions and prepared herself to join in the violence of war.
  11. Fieldgrey gasped into consciousness, the Hutt’s words crawling within her skull. She felt empty, like all of her former power had been drained from her. The mud within which she lay was a reflection upon her. She sputtered out a breath and a mouthful of foul mud came with it. The grainy texture ground against her teeth, and the rancid taste of it came upon her like a flood. The girl wretched and fought against her roiling stomach and lost. …Did I rely so much on that blasted Hutt for my power? Fieldgrey freed herself from the mud’s embrace and wiped the sickness from herself. Her hands came away crimson. The Hutt’s influence always came at a price. …Darth Awenydd The girl stood, letting the rancid mud form about her feet. Her alabaster skin was dyed and cracked by the drying mud. A distant thunderclap rang through the shattered tomb. The sound stirred her mind from its confusion and the Sith’s breathing became more calmed. The world was no longer defined by her master’s corrupted will. Fieldgrey stepped from the mud, leaving her discarded clothes to rot with her past. The stone was rough on her feet, weathered though it was by rainfall. She recognized Krath patterns in the permacrete and it sparked thought to her own philosophy. The core upon which she would build a new power. Peace is a lie, there is only passion. The raindrops began to spatter across her bare back, seeping through her matted hair to run through her scalp. Peace bred weakness in all creatures. The millennia of peace for the Old Republic had brought the complacency that allowed the rise of Palpatine and the near destruction of the Jedi Order. She spat out another mouthful of mud-stained blood. Peace had its purposes. Constant warfare rarely led to intellectual advancement which was the pinnacle of Krath philosophy. Too much passion was a poison. She had seen far too many Sith Warriors taken by the passion of anger, only to be reduced to a lifeless corpse by a lightsaber’s riposte. Through passion, I gain strength. Rain beat harder upon her skin, beginning to wash away the tomb’s corruption with the rhythmic beat of water. It was nature’s heartbeat. It was passion. Passion preserves life. Passion is what gave sentience joy. The caress of flesh or that of the knife. Strength came through the mastery of passion for the Krath, while many Sith became a slave to their baser passions. The Jedi denied passion, and through their denial, rejected life. Through strength, I gain power. As the murky sludge was washed from her flesh by the rain, it showed the perfection of her body. It had escaped the trainings of the Sith unmarred and unspoiled. She had been Sheog’s favorite, and his love for her had made her weak. She remembered the battles in Myrkyr alongside Karys. She had been weak then. No more. Craving for power was what always trapped the Sith in cycles of self-destruction. It was time for her to learn control Through power, I gain victory. There would be time enough to test herself against the wiles and blades of the Jedi. For the Krath, victory was often more subtle than that of other Orders. Victory was easy to express when one is standing over the bisected body of one’s opponent. For the Krath, a victory was in creating a movement in the Force, to see it influence others to a common goal. Victory was in knowledge and a mastery of the Force and one’s own demons. The rain pelted her harder. The shattered permacrete began to get slick and treacherous. Through victory, my chains are broken. With a shaking hand, Fieldgrey grasped one of the rusted durasteel beams that jutted from the crumbling permacrete like the ribcage of a rotting wale. Sheog had the greatest victory over the Jedi seen in millennium and it had done nothing but bind him tighter with his insanity. Her own sin, wrath, was that too a chain she voluntarily bound herself with? Gluttony and Sloth had been the gateways to Sheog’s power, but also his downfall. The Sith philosophy itself was a chain. With weary legs, she moved from the crumbling crater towards the dark outline of her A-wing. The caress of metal on her skin cleared her mind of its fatigued haze, her fingers fumbling with an access hatch. Within, she selected a black tunic and cloak to match with her new rank of Sith Lord. Even covered with cloth, Fieldgrey could still feel her skin crawling from her former Master’s touch. Pulling the cloak tighter against the rain, the girl climbed into her A-wing, feeling the worn leather of the pilot’s seat embrace her. The Force shall free me... Or did I free myself? As the A-wing left the atmosphere of Mechis behind, Darth Awenydd considered her new name. Her Master’s last gift and lesson. She would head to Coruscant to join the invasion, and there find her power once more. Her new lightsaber would be built from whatever the Force allowed her to find there.
  12. There was always a lesson with the Hutt, but most were far less subtle. Strength and power wrapped her in its embrace. She could smell the spiced pipesmoke, the perique that overpowered Sheog’s blends of tobacco. It was familiar. It was kind. Familial. …Why not take his power and use it for my own? Fieldgrey laughed, voiceless amongst the boiling pool. “Why would I surrender myself? Why make myself a slave once more to you?” She pushed away the embrace upon her naked flesh. “Your gift of power… Would allow you to rule me.”
  13. …Kriffing Hutt. Still bound by your insanity. Fieldgrey let the water move around her, steeling herself against the onslaught of madness. She was his apprentice, but she had no interest in being bound to his will any longer. Without air, she formed her words within the pond. “You will not consume me…” She stretched out her hands, trying to grapple with the visage, but her hands found no bearing on the spirit. Her wrath burned brighter, setting her blood on fire. She would burn him from her flesh. “Let me… Be…”
  14. Her Master’s former Temple. Ruined like all things he had touched. All that was left was a tomb, filled with rainwater and rot. Hayley slipped from her clothing, allowing the stagnant pool’s tepid water caress the pale flesh of her legs. She placed her cloaks upon the water’s edge, careless of the rotting stench that emanated from bile-colored moss that adorned the stones. She felt uneasy about what she had planned, but it was far too late to turn back now from the brokenness she was about to embrace. The blackened algae swirled around her as she ventured deeper into the lukewarm water, the stench of it clinging to her nose and throat. As the water reached her throat, nausea began to spread its quivering fingers through her stomach. She shuddered, and let the sticky water submerge her completely. There it lay within her mind, her boiling rage. Her curse. It was not the suddenness of Wrath that defined so many Sith warriors or her drunkard Father. There was no haste in this. There was no animalistic loss of temper. Her rage was deliberate and settled deep within her soul. There was no loss of control. Fieldgrey let her breath dissipate into clear bubbles that fought their way through the thick fluid, escaping her and her desperate mission. Hunger shattered her seething disposition, coming from somewhere distant. Beyond the physical plane. It invited her to eat. …There you are.
  15. FIELDGREY’'S CHARACTER SHEET Identity Real Name: Hayley Fieldgrey A.K.A: Fieldgrey, Darth Awenydd Homeworld: Nar Shadda Species: Human Physical Description Age: 19 Standard Years Height: 5’7” Weight: 110 Hair: Chestnut Brown Eyes: Hazelnut Sex: Female Equipment Clothing or Armor: Black Tunic and Cloak Weapon: Lightsaber: focused through a crimson crystal, with silver lightning Common Inventory: Survival Kit Faction Information Force User, Force Sensitive or Non-Force User Alignment: Dark Current Faction Affiliation: Sith Current Faction Rank: Sith Lord: Krath History: Force Side: Darkside Trained by: Sheog the Mad Trained who: None Known Skills: Alchemy, Smithing, Krath Healing. Soul Manipulation. Of the Seven Deadly Sins, Fieldgrey channels Wrath the clearest. Background: Unclear. Raised from earliest memory by Sheog, former Master of the Krath Ship: Stealth Optimized RZ-2 A-wing interceptor
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