Dark Sun Station

[Telperiën Ar-Pharazon]

Strong arms flexed, muscles bunching as they pulled back the hemp cord that was attached to the long durasteel infused yew bow staff. The staff ‘creaked’ audibly as it reached its furthest point of bend, the maximum amount of power concentrated in the compression along the spine of the bow. Exhale. Then release. The black feather fletchings brushed by Telperien’s mouth as they guided the arrow towards the duraloid plate a hundred feet away in the hanger. The cord itself slapped along the woman’s arm tearing at the calluses and scabs that streaked from base of wrist to curve of elbow. The wicked bite of that bow gave the woman power, the pain amplifying the force she used to guide and help the arrow. She was Dathomiri after all, and the curse of those people was present in her as well. They needed...things to concentrate their force. They could not just summon the power at will, perhaps it was in their blood, a weakness that made them the ‘lesser’ of the Sith. Many of them could barely be described as a feral dark jedi, damned by their blood to using totems, lines of chalk, and as in Telperien’s case, Pain to focus herself. 

 

The arrow streaked through the hanger in a blur, the passage of the arrow causing a snap in the arrow as it punctured the sound barrier, then another snap as it impacted the thick lamellated plate, of the kind the poorer mandalorians wore. The wicked bodkin point of the arrow, a darksteel spike some five inches long, easily shattered the plate, dragging the heavy dark ash shaft through the hole it made until the fletching stopped the arrow. Three more arrows found their mark alongside the first hole and Telperien was satisfied with her work. 

 

Her amethyst eyes searched the hanger for the returning starfighters and she spat on the decking as a wave of undamaged fighters made their return. The Jedi had not assaulted the Black Scarab, and her time in the hanger had been wasted. She cursed and placed the horn tip of the bow against her boot and pulled with all her strength on the other end to destring the bow. The bow returned to its straight staff appearance and she knelt to wrap it in its leather sling. Unlike most holofilm producers, she knew that bows left strung for even hours without battlefield use would lose their power. The staff forming a permanent curve and losing its superior strength.

 

Only after the bow was slung onto her back and the hemp string tucked away in an oiled pouch did she look at her bleeding arm. She smiled and as she walked into the turbolift to the bridge ignoring the flight officer who gave her a wide berth. When he departed the lift she lifted her arm and licked the blood from her weeping wounds. The taste was as sweet as it ever was. Plus she needed to clean up to see the Spider.