Keenava Dira

Watching the mass of rolling hateful ash pop from existence, was odd. On the one hand, her history as Furion's estranged right hand and Exodus' prodigal apprentice would beg retribution for the waylaid Sith spirit that sought power and freedom. But Keenava's newfound clarity brought a cold cynicism to the burning embers of passion that used to sear away any cogent thought. And any step she made back to that desperate and broken past was foolish and idiotic. But in her current mindset, knowing that she was given a new path to walk - a new destiny, as it were - she could only feel detached. A part of her was relieved, but she had no context for this. And still another part of her - a darker part - was wondering why she didn't just wander off into the desert; if persisting was really the best choice. “Greeting and meeting? Identify!” The words were abrupt and briefly disturbed her reverie. Keenava allowed herself too look up from the ground she didn't realize she'd been staring at, to view the scene that the cloud revealed when it flew away. And she was slightly surprised. There, in the center of it all, was a Jedi that had knelt to the ground; a circle of glass orbiting her fish-like form. And there was an imposing droid-like figure - the likely source of the blunt request - standing not three feet away; an old droid from the looks of it. She couldn't really tell make or model because she hadn't had a lot of experience with droids, but Keenava had seen some modern combat droids and this was not that. Its seemingly dim black photoreceptors were trained on her, and the hammer it clenched in its fists was still shedding metal pieces from what it'd just done. It had powered the hammer down but, though it was metal, Keenava could feel the implied threat of action if Keenava said anything that this droid didn't want to hear. She could only hope she knew what that was. No pressure right? "That's kind of a loaded question, if I'm honest." Keenava rasped, not realizing how much the sand in the air had ravaged her vocal chords. She coughed a little before continuing. "I am Keenava Ootunavi; former slave; former dancer Lallunia Kallemi; and former Sith Assassin that served directly under both Dark Lord Exodus and Darth Furion." She said her last words with absolutely no emotion. Defeated. Here was a Jedi that could likely tell if she was lying. Here was a droid that just 'erased' a force of evil from the dusty ball of rock they all stood on. And here she was: no crazy mask to hide behind, no clothes, no weapons, barely containing severe wounds on her back, and contending with sand in all sorts of uncomfortable places. She stood with her hands up, showing no sign of resistance. "That's what I was at least. As to who I am now... That's a much deeper question that I'm not sure I really know anymore."

Chuf chuf chuf chuf… Sand kicked back into the air as Keenava sprinted toward the far off town, ignoring the screams of her body. Sand bit at the soles of her feet and the harsh dry winds tried to keep her at a crawl. But, if there was one good thing she’d gotten from her Sith training, it was how to ignore pain. Hunger was her first priority and water was an immediate second considering her canteen was getting low. A small itch bloomed to life at supratip break of her nose. A static buzzed at the base of her skull. Keenava tried to brush it off and ignore her body's signals like everything else, but they wouldn’t go away. Too her surprise, the sensations she was trying to ignore culminated in a big formless cloud of evil - for lack of any other descriptor. The glowing orange-red eyes were kind of a giveaway for evil intent. Keenava knew these things from being an evil person in a past life. This isn’t a time for joking! You kidding? A sense of humor is invaluable in tense situations and smarminess is part of my charm! Every instinct in her body fought to stop her momentum, potentially preventing her from careening into the murderous death cloud. But instead, her rapid decline in momentum caused her to - rather comically - faceplant into the nearest dune. It was the first time Keenava had been thankful that this planet was covered in sand, followed by growing discomfort as previously untouched crevices were now completely buried in delightfully chafing little crystals. The cushion of raw earth helped her avoid major injury, but the impact rattled her body, slashed her skin, and left her shuffling her rags and coughing up sand for a few moments. Well that was… something. Keenava wearily wrenched herself to her feet, sand still falling from… places. She looked upon the mysterious gas with perplexion; it had grown since she saw it last, and she could feel the presence inside it. The presence resonated with a powerful energy, and though she knew something of it, she wasn’t in a good way to fight whatever it was. Though, the temptation to blow the giant billowing fatal flatulent was clinging to the edge of her mind. Like… maybe if I blew really hard? Shush! Okay, Okay!

Keenava’s muscles were on the edge of riot. She could feel her skin begin to flake and peel despite its dark obsidian color. And, though the rags she wore were soaked – with what she hoped was sweat – they did nothing to mask the burning heat that clamored for what was left of her vitality. But that was nothing compared to the sand. She’d been lucky when she scored a canteen during her escape. It was an advantage. However, every gulp of water was greeted with a mouthful of sand. It permeated every crevice it could find. The creases between her bare toes and fingers were caked with the little obnoxious rock crumbs, scraping against her dry skin, threatening to tear and slash with every movement. *Grumble* “Ah, yeah. There’s that too,” Keenava quietly intoned as her stomach rumbled like a vicious predator. There was nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. The slaves that made it out with her had scattered in different directions. Some of them tried to wrestle the canteen from her to save themselves. But when she proved too difficult to gamble what little strength they had, they ran. Is this it? Am I going to die on this rock? A little morbid don’t you think? Ah, if it isn’t the new voice in my head. Do you care to talk now? Do we have time? Keenava feigned looking back and forth, reminding herself that there was nothing but sand for kilometers in either direction. I think we have nothing BUT time now. Well, I guess time isn’t really the problem then. The problem is that I don’t really know how to explain it. That’s helpful. I know, right? You see… I’m you. No shit. The other voices were me too. Well… yes and no. The other voices were defense mechanisms that you conjured to help mend your broken psyche. They took on the personalities and characteristics of defining figures in your life. But instead of fixing your mind, those voices only added to the corruption and continued to tear the fabric of your mind apart. Because many of your role models have been sadistic people bent on extreme shows of violence and destruction. Wow. That explains a lot! But, if you’re me, and I had no idea what those voices were, does that make you the smart me? Or my conscience? Keenava shuddered. There were many things in her past that she regretted. If she had a conscience back then, she might have avoided a lot of pain. But it was no use fixating on that now. Some pain was unavoidable. No, I’m you. And you do know what those voices are, but your trauma blocked your ability to understand, and handle those voices that clamored for supremacy in your brain. Well then, what makes you different? And why do you sound like you own a galactic dictionary? Because you have an extensive understanding of the Common tongue. You just don’t use it. Fair As to what makes me different - I suppose the best way to say it is - I’m you if you never became a slave. Keenava paused as her stomach and heart sank to her feet. A Keenava, who wasn’t a slave, was a Keenava who had a chance at a regular life. A Keenava, who wasn’t a slave, would have never met Jzora, Furion, and Exodus; they would have felt neither the bite, nor the sting of pain, misery, and regret that came from years of physical, mental, and emotional abuse. That explained why this voice felt so soothing; it didn’t come from anguish. This voice came from a place that Keenava never thought she’d ever see again. But how? I still… I still have my memories! Keenava casually lifted a ball of sand with her mind, though the exertion pounded against her head like a drum. I still have access to the force. How are you me if I never became a slave? That is what I can’t really explain. As far as I can tell, your corruption was erased by… something. What it was, where it was, when it was, and why? Are still questions that have no answers. But what I do know is that you aren’t the same you anymore. You don’t even have the same eye color. Keenava’s brow furrowed at that. As long back as she could remember, she’d had ruby eyes. What color were they now? Well… what now? I suppose that depends on you. Do you continue down your previous path, and chase after freedom you’ll never have, or do you use this as an opportunity to take a second chance? Keenava had a lump in her throat she couldn’t swallow. Who would clean her stained hands? Why would someone care enough to wash years of blood away from her callused fingers? And what difference could she make with the understanding that she could do all of it again? I suppose this is what freedom is. How do you figure? Keenava looked out to the horizon. She could see the fiery halo of the twin suns, painting the sky red as they tore through air; she could see oceans of sand sprawling around her, promising nothing but emptiness and despair; and she could see – though small and standing like tan-colored beads against the darkening sky – the outline of a city as it came into view. Without another thought, word, or hesitation, Keenava pushed her aching muscles into a run, away from the deep blood of the evening sky.

Inflamed and gasping Bared and grasping Hollowed and collapsing collapsing… The deceitful caress of transient existence brought searing agony to a weary shell. Anger - a hand - dragged the spirit from its rest. Failure - a reminder - tore wontanly, reveling in every savory torment; Pain - a needle - wove her to the coil that had shuffled her; The Force - a shackle - condemned her to persist… The spark of reconstruction was mysterious. Though ceaseless speculation drew allusions to the shame and regret that she’d left behind, the tethers of life were never so predictable. Whether they wilted impulsively before the fateful bloom, or grappled desperately, clinging to the dying roots to spite a natural end. No one could afford an answer. Wisdom was bankrupt and logic a fragile lie. The twi’lek’s life was gone. It was snuffed by a merciless fighter that claimed her mortality with sensual abandon. How then? And why? Why? Why did she live? A choked cry was her only response. Her strangled breaths were shameful. Her existence was shameful. What was she? Who was she? Was she Lallu? The woman doomed to chase a ghost forever with heartache as her only reward? Was she Keenava? A woman who traded a slave master for a Sith master? Could she truly persist on her own, and what cruel fate would bind her to existence when every step was pain? The sharp thwack of something hard hitting a wall, the pounding throb singing at her temple, and the brush of cold steel against her wrists shook her from her reverie. The air was stale, clinging to her dry tongue. Her muscles were seizing, contracting without cue, and sweat beaded her obsidian brow. Foreign yet familiar scars stung upon her back and upon her bound wrists. Her vision was blurry, clouded by an eyelid that refused to open. Something was dry there. Blood? The distinct metallic smell was everywhere, but gone was the pool she’d drowned in. The red dust of Korriban was gone, and in its place was sand. Where there wasn’t blood, there was sand. She could breathe, though each inhalation stabbed knives into the deep tissue of her lungs, and each exhalation was followed by wracking coughs, which sent more knives deep into her chest. Living was no blessing. Then again, when was it? Everything she’d done was for someone else. And everything ended with pain. Whether it was Exodus, Furion, her father, or slavers. She hadn’t done anything for herself. Was there even a self left? Or had Ailbasi taken that too? The thought of Ailbasi drew a hiss from Keenava’s clenched teeth. She didn’t want to remember what happened. She was content to let everything lie. Anger meant thoughts of revenge. Anger meant pain, it meant rage, and it meant that she was tearing herself up from the inside out. And yet, the irony of it all, was that it was all her fault; the fight, the failure, the death, the shame. Everything was her fault. She could try to blame. But she knew better, and blame did nothing. It was empty; worse than empty. Blame meant negligence and ignorance. It would get her nowhere. If she had anything in all of this, it was time; whatever good that was. She also possessed an uncommon clarity, which was odd, given her history with insanity. Though, due to her current state, clarity did little to suffuse the dense murk that sat like a rock on her memories. Visions of slinky garments, metal clinging to her hips, and a thousand eyes groping at her from the darkness tore through her head as she tried to fill in gaps. Suddenly, the cold steel made sense. The outline of her cell was both immediately familiar and uncomfortably clear as she was pulled roughly from the floor and pushed, slamming her knees to the ground. Her face contorted briefly, instinctively. The lack of pain, the scrapes and bruises on her knees, the indentations on the stone, and her ease of motion suggested this was a common routine, though she couldn’t remember it. “Up” It was the only word she heard before white hot blinded her. The thin flesh of her back threatened to break as a single strip of fire raced across it. “Ten lashes for you. That’s what you get for falling on stage and screaming. Our clients don’t need skittish dancing girls.” His voice - though Keenava couldn’t understand why she knew his gender - was garbly and rough. It sounded as if he was gurgling small rocks, which made it hard to understand and very unpleasant. When she didn’t cry out, he continued. In fact, he didn’t pay her much attention other than to send a lance of pain to bite her back every few seconds. What then would she do? What then should she do? Did it matter? Of course it matters! You’re Keenava Ootunavi! You’re a Sith! You don’t bow to spittle or bend to slavers. Show him! Oh- Before she could counter, her legs flexed, rotated, and she was behind the man with the cold metal chains of her bindings pressed tightly against the walls of his larynx. Blood rushed to her head as her legs reached full extension. And, despite the signs of abuse that littered her body, and the weariness that bit at her mind, the muscles of her arm were tight and controlled. He answered her surprising maneuver with gasps. His arms flailed - whip discarded - trying in vain to wrench the small twi’lek’s form off of her feet, but her form did not budge. His hands occasionally found purchase, scraping at the flesh of her face, but she continued to remain adamant. Oh great, the head voices are back. But instead of the cruel voice that bid her to attack, the next voice she heard was soft, even-handed, and if possible… sweet? Don’t kill him. We need to escape, but we don’t need to kill. We? Trust me. The voice was simple. It carried something akin to concern. Though she couldn’t remember the cadence or weight of her mother’s voice, it reminded her of the feeling. Who are you? We don’t have time for that. Escape now, explain later. Fair enough. With one closed eye, Keenava’s vision was a dream-like blur as she took in her surroundings for what seemed like the first time. Her victim was a human. He was a few inches taller than her and he smelled like the ass-end of a northbound Gammorean. His hair was mussed and he was grunting with continued exertion as his life began to dim. Keenava eased up slightly and allowed the man to renew his struggle. “Before I drop you, I want you to answer some questions. If you call out, I will crush your windpipe and leave you here for your superiors to find. Got it?” The man tried to nod, but Keenava’s arm was impeding his neck motion. “Good” Keenava eased up a little more and let a little air into the man’s lungs. He responded by renewing his struggle, grabbing at the chain and trying to pull downward in an attempt to throw Keenava over his shoulder. The twi’lek simply smiled and sat with both of her thumbs poised directly above the pressure points located at the base of the man’s skull. When he pulled downward, he pulled her thumbs into the grooves and applied pressure with each added bit of force. He attempted to cry out, but Keenava closed his cry to a gasp with her chains once more. This time she didn’t ease up. She waited approximately ten seconds until his eyes closed and his struggling stopped. Then she eased him to the floor of her cell. Well, I tried. She leaned down amid the protesting of her joints, and removed the ‘key ring’ from the guard’s belt. It was a small ring of cards that were held together by a small titanium latch. Keenava smiled a little to herself. I’ve got an idea. ~~ Thirty minutes later ~~ Keenava was at the head of a surge of slaves scrambling in a mass to escape from who knows where. She was still in a bad way. She was pretty sure some of her ribs were broken and she had nothing to her name anymore, but some part of her felt like this was the start of something new.

Keenava felt the energy she built moments before, siphoning from the muscles in her arm as her fist met Ailbasi’s gauntlet with a disappointing thwump. But Keenava’s energy-well hadn’t been exhausted. And the lack of energy available in the room simply helped her change targets. Keenava continued drawing energy, but from the planet and the Academy instead. Acolytes milling about their day, wandering about the halls, would feel slightly light headed as they passed. Apprentices, hard at work, training with their instructors, would start to feel sluggish after every blow. Generations of Sith, who fought and died in the wastes of Korriban, whispered to her as their dark power slithered from the tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers. The shift of potential violence in the room was noticeable. But Keenava was allowed the freedom to disengage. She noted the blood on the wall, the fire brimming in her opponent’s eyes and the Sith blade floating back to Ailbasi’s hand. And, while she continued to feel the hideous claws of ancient Sith energy raking the inside of her carcass, she patiently waited while the Cathar took her position against the door and started monologuing. But, for the Cathar’s wordy troubles, silence followed. In the string of time that followed Ailbasi’s blast, an icy realization struck the practiced calm of Keenava’s mind. She barely noticed Clotho and Lachesis - her twin whip knives with barbed chains - rising from her hips, extending to their full forms, and dangling lethally by her side, the purple-colored fishy smelling paralytic still glistening on their blades. Every catalyzing syllable, every goad, every arrogant, self-serving, slanderous sleight kept piling on and on and on. It was a noxious slime that eagerly waited to crush Keenava beneath its odious girth. But deep within the fog of ooze and slime, alone and unafraid, memories fought to surface. A small girl cried. Her little brain tails, scarcely more than nubs, were scarred and burned. Her body was soaked with various unknown liquids. And she lay amidst the sludge, in a fetal position, bawling floods until all that remained was desiccation. A larger woman lay on cold steel, her life a murmur in the dark. Another, hunched and alone, sat on the dead ground and bellowed raspy tones of vacuous hunger. Two more replaced them, streaks of desperation etched into their face, with bloody hands and terrible smiles. Rows upon rows of cold flesh rest beneath the surface of Keenava’s mind. Every trial; every tumult; every hurdle; and every mark was one more step on the Assassin’s journey. And every syllable from the Cathar’s wretched throat was an acrimonious admission of ignorance; her tirade was nothing more than an excuse to showboat. It was something all young Sith did. It was something that Keenava had done years ago. The vivid recollections of her anger and pride manifesting in explosive fireballs brought phantom tingles to her skin where burns used to be. But… Sacrifice? All Sith know sacrifice. All people know sacrifice. Every molecule in Keenava’s body boiled. Her flaming crimson eyes slipped into an intense blue that burned the delicate skin of her caruncula. Copper filled her nostrils as gore began to flow from the corners of her eyes. Her cold expression, stolid in the face of the Cathar's raving mania, stared daggers at Ailbasi from a few steps away. Her fists tightened. Her whip blades blazed with the same blue as her eyes. But she refused to explode. And, when the Cathar's concussive blast built to its fantastic crescendo, Keenava backhanded it, popping the explosive energy like a harmless soap bubble, sending countless items back to where they came, clattering against the stone walls and floor; an orchestra of junk. There was explicit care taken in the gesture to avoid any excess force being pushed toward Ailbasi. She was spared, while her junk and idle knick knacks were not. Vicious ethereal knives pierced the side of the Assassin's arm that came into contact with the blast. A grotesque crack emitted from her left forearm; skin broke, cloth parted, and blood seeped. Her eyes remained fixed on Ailbasi. The Cathar amassed an impressive display considering how weak she was when the fight started. But it was hard and foolish to pretend that Ailbasi was anything less than a competent, cornered predator. Letting Keenava disengage and the boisterous monologue -- she'd been baited like this before. She had Fynn Relmis to thank for that. Sorry... Baron Kern Quicker than Keenava imagined, Clotho and Lachesis, their barbed chains taut, slammed toward the door where Ailbasi waited, perpendicular to the Cathar's ready stance attempting to secure her arms to the durasteel door. Their gnarly barbs glistened in the cool blue flames that wreathed them; a lethal incentive to prevent resistance. Ancient power clamoring through her veins, peeling the ebony skin from her hands and breaking the fragile capillaries at the ends of her fingers and toes, Keenava stepped forward until she was face-to-face with the Cathar. Her eyes, burning azure flames, accented by the blood dripping from porcelain cracks in her ebony face, creased. Her eyebrows knitted together while she attempted to remove Ailbasi’s Sithsteel helmet and mask with the force. Following that, Keenava would backhand the Apprentice across the face using her undamaged hand. The blow’s intent would be to leave a scorching red mark instead of inducing any lethal consequences. Then, after a moment of silence passed between them and tears of blood continued to fall on Keenava’s face, the Twi’lek would bend a little closer to the presumably restrained Ailbasi and say: “you talk too much.” ((3))

Waiting, testing her breath against the still air filled with sweat and exertion, Keenava watched the apprentice. The Cathar’s cheeks were shallow, mired in the color of poor health. The only light that bathed the small room they fought in was wreathed with dried blood; Ailbasi’s blood. And yet, here she was, determined to strike Keenava down. That desperation reminded her of Umbara; survival beyond reason. Touching that memory with cotton fingers, seeing the rosy hue of colors accented through force sensitivity, Keenava extended a field of negative energy, sapping what little vitality remained in the room. It required concentration, which left her open to the shift of force energy that passed her by, yanking the sheets from the apprentice’s bed and pulling them into the air. But Keenava was unconcerned. Her hands shot to the sheets as they descended. Each hand gripped an end and wrapped part of the length of cloth around her arms, bracing the sheets with both arms and forming a line of cloth between both of her hands. A hint of amusement curled the edges of her lips. It was an interesting ploy. With a flick of her index finger toward the durasteel walls, followed by a powerful ripple through the force, she cut the wires connecting the lights to their power source, blanketing the small room in darkness. It meant little to Keenava. She trained to fight in darkness. But there was a chance it could give her a hand in this fight. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she continued her aura, feeding off the energy in the room. It was intoxicating. Every color continued to magnify. Moments slowed ever so slightly as her eyes bloomed with a predatory fire. Ailbasi's flurry slowed to an observable strike, allowing Keenava to avoid most of the damage by maneuvering herself around it, catching one or two grazing blows as she moved. After she finished wrapping her arms, she saw Ailbasi prepping another strike and watched as the apprentice began her attack. The Cathar's arms were taut with exertion as she lunged forward to pop Keenava with the pommel of her blade. And Keenava matched the apprentice’s new assault with something of her own. Using the blanket that was meant to incapacitate her, Keenava attempted to catch the weapon by the crossguard as it swung by. Her intent was to sideline Ailbasi’s mace and sidestep to Ailbasi’s left side. Succeeding in that, Keenava would release the sheets, enhance her muscles through the force and strike at the Cathar’s throat using her index knuckle to find the soft spot between her helmet and breastplate. Then, following the success or failure of her maneuver, Keenava would prep her groaning muscles to dart away from reciprocation. ((2))

With her head no longer shrouded by her hood and her lekku free to breathe the stale air, the Assassin’s eyes gripped every surface they could. One step, two steps, three steps… Small room, limited mobility. The air is still, smells will linger; breathe carefully... Keenava lengthened her breaths to retain as much air as she could. She flexed her hands a little as she moved. In what seemed like a flippant gesture, cavalierly moving across the floor with little discretion, touching only part of her shoulder against the wall, preparing the muscles in her legs to leap into action should anything go awry, Keenava committed an instinctive act of deception and survival. Because, A, everyone should be prepared for violence at a moment’s notice. And, B, Keenava was predisposed to assuming everyone had violent tendencies. After all, even among people she cared for, her history suggested that they did. The Cathar’s tone, the shift in her fur, and her painted smile touched violence before blows were drawn. Keenava even began to assume the apprentice’s next moves. But assumptions and plans were fallible. Assuming she would attack left would leave Keenava open if she didn’t and vice versa. So instead of exposing her realization, Keenava watched, readying her muscles and conditioning herself to the limited arena. When the Cathar changed clothes, Keenava’s eyes drifted to the floating blade. It surged with power similar to the Cathar. And while she didn’t quite understand what had transpired, it seemed logical to assume that they were connected somehow. Then the Cathar, gripping the hilt of her blade, sneer apparent in the glare of her eyes, attempted to cut her off and attacked her with a piercing lunge. It was a nice move. The Cathar was clearly trained and her body was built with big muscles. A cut with the blade would be vicious. And, in a room this small, a three-foot blade seemed a little precarious. But it worked both ways. Provided her connection didn't add extensive mobility, playing with a long blade in a room that couldn't be bigger than three hundred square feet was... daring to say the least. The image of fullered steel slicing the thin layer of flesh at her midsection flittered through her head, capturing the breath in her mouth; the familiar feeling, the icy cold steel that brushed her warm flesh, splitting the only border between life and death... ... ... stop... Silly girl… Then again, how many Sith would truly understand the compliment and vulnerability implicit in stating a threat instead of - or before - actually carrying it out? The Sith were taught to believe 'might makes right.' Thus, this episode was nothing more than a reminder of Keenava's time as Lallu; a crazy time to say the least. But, what kind of assassin would Keenava be if she told her marks she was going to kill them before she actually did it? Regardless. I can’t actually kill her. I need her. And it would be a shame to answer potential with death. A thin veneer of purplish residue glinted on the edge of her knives. It smelled vaguely fish-like. And, if not used soon, it would destabilize and prove useless as anything other than colored gunk on her blade. Yet, Keenava didn’t touch the hilts of Clotho or Lachesis - not that they would be of any use here - despite the apprentice's implicit demand for armed combat. Even the Spark rested gently across her hip. No, hands only. Instead of jumping out of the way, she let the blow continue toward her and inched just enough to the right to avoid the bulk of the blade. She saw the cunning of Ailbasi's ruse and smiled. Her focus changed, her root shifted from her center-of-mass to her calves and feet. While the blade whistled next to her, the world slowed in a moment of brief clarity. Colors took on a rosy hue as Keenava let the force ripple through her. And, after the sword passed, tearing Keenava's tunic and biting at the skin of her stomach, the Twi’lek grabbed at Ailbasi's arm, intending to continue her opponent's momentum toward the wall. With a slight lift, aided through the force, Keenava would use Ailbasi’s own kinetic energy to try and slam her against the back wall of the room. Afterward, taking care to observe any interference from Ailbasi's sword arm, Keenava would roll backward toward the middle of the room to ready her hands; each fist tight with the index knuckle protruding just a little further than every other. If she made it to the center of the room, exposed as she would be to the oncoming barrage of Ailbasi's rage, it would put the Cathar's sword arm at a severe disadvantage. The size of the room would compromise her elbow, blocking it in, making it harder - though not impossible - to strike with ease. In a knife fight or a sword fight, your objective was always to control the blade arm. Mutely, Keenava smiled and awaited the next bout. ((1))

“Well… you certainly look like you’ve had some work done.” Keenava said quietly as she smoothly drifted across the room, noting the blood covering the Cathar’s body and her, ‘adjustments.’ The smell of copper lingered, mingled with trace threads of force energy and what might have been… ozone? Hmm. There was something peculiar about the array of items strayed about the room and the floating sword. But questions were useless right now. She needed answers. As she scanned the room for a place to lean against, Keenava’s lekku squirmed a little on her shoulders. The tension that lingered in her braintails pressed against her thoughts like a handful of cotton swabs pushed against her face. But, with years of pressure applied to and taken away from her lekku, she learned to screen such minor inconveniences out. This was important. It required her full focus. “Firstly, I’m Sith Assassin, Lord Ootunavi, former apprentice to both Master Furion and the Dark Lord.” Keenava paused a moment to let each name resonate with its appropriate significance. Though there was a slight acerbic spin to Furion’s name, hinting at something deeper. “I’d love to elaborate on what’s going on here aside from some interesting choices regarding interior decoration. But I’d rather cut to the chase. I’ve seen, through talents of my own, your prowess with creating things; I’ve seen the fire within you that burns as you push to create things of beauty. So, I wish to ask for your help in making or fixing something of mine. And, in return, I offer you a choice. One, I can owe you a favor of your own devise, whatever that may be. Two, I can find and procure something for you, whether it be money, tokens, ingredients, etc. Three, I can kill someone for you,” Keenava oddly preened at the thought of sinking steel into flesh. It had been too long. “Four, I can take you on as an Apprentice. No doubt another master has caught you in their web, knowing your potential. Or, five, you refuse and I take advantage of your current vulnerability and kill you. But I leave it up to you. The choice is yours.” Seeing the machinations that pulsed within the frail Sith’s chest and eyes and the sword that floated languidly by as the Cathar weighed her, Keenava delivered her last lines with deliberation. Each syllable was cut off with precision and severity. Keenava’s own whip-knives were not hidden and flashed cold steel on her hips. They glinted in the low light of the room. Her lightsaber, freshly repaired, glinted under the dim illumination as well. Keenava’s ruby eyes lit with crimson flames. And her expression, betraying only the hint of a smile, was utterly pensive.

Waiting is the hardest part... Keenava rose to the balls of her feet, using light motes of force energy to prime her resting muscles, and keeping her hands at the edges of the pillar indentation she'd been resting against. Her meddlesome subconscious quandaries flitted away, leaving only the cold indifference of shadow that embraced her. She eyed the guards that remained vigilant but saw an opening when the Cathar left. The creak of metal hinges that were well worn or the swish of an automatic modern threshold, hid all kinds of sound based sins while sneaking. The guards watched as the Cathar left, making sure that nobody used that moment to enter Qaela's quarters. Naturally, that meant that the rest of the corridor was less of a priority. It didn't mean that she could escape without completely avoiding notice. But, as she left her hiding spot, she drew her hood to make it look more like an Acolyte's. She loosened her sash and let her loose black tunic run down and hide some of her throwing knives. Then, with her head down, she continued quietly down the hall as another pair of acolytes further down the hall did the same. That way, when the guards resumed their watch a moment later, she was just another part of the milling, unimportant, drones. When she was out of the main corridor, Keenava stole away to find some cover. A small alcove just outside the commons with short vaulted stone ceilings stood out to her as she continued. It was a little exposed, but it provided a measure of space. And for her purposes, it was dark and private. Keenava took a deep breath. Her lekku squirmed awkwardly in their cloth-bound prison. When she knew she was alone, she tied up her hood and tunic once more and embraced the shadows, following the Cathar's footsteps all the way to her quarters. And from there, Keenava... waited. It was clear the Cathar was working on something. But, aside from bright flurries of movement, the Cathar seemed to stall in her quarters. But was that a good thing? Was it time to talk to her? Keenava contemplated crossing the distance and knocking on the Cathar's door. But before she could, a powerful force presence bloomed deep within the room. Darkness, deep and oozing, beat with the staccato rhythm of a dying heart. It was hypnotizing and just begged to be questioned. But who was Keenava to question it? She was a Sith Lord. She was powerful. But even she knew that she had no business walking up and asking about it. But if she didn't ask now, she'd never find the time. Laughing inwardly at her own indecision, Keenava let the shadows fall and removed her hood, letting loose her lekku and allowing them to drape across her shoulders. Her red eyes gleamed with a dangerous curiosity as the tips of her knuckles rapped lightly upon Ailbasi's door.

You do realize that you’re being a weirdo stalker, right? Your plan is to follow a duo of capable Sith and ask one of them to do you a favor when you know absolutely nothing about them other than Qaela probably hates you. How is this a proper foundation or plan? You could probably find anyone else on Korriban to help you with this. You realize that right? Probably. But I don’t want anyone. I want her. So you’re a stubborn ass. What’s new? But what makes her better than the others? Others would write me off. They know too much of who I am. That and their skills are mundane. This project is special. It requires interest and determination. It requires a lively fire. The Cathar has these attributes. I love your gall. But let’s say that no one else can help you. Why haven’t you gone up to them both and just asked? Why do all this following and sneaking? Practice. Sithspit. You’ve been doing nothing but practice every day for months. You live and breathe training most days. What makes this different? I’m bored. Finally, the truth. Now, what do we do with that? Nothing. Knowing the truth doesn’t hide the fact that I need to remain hidden and wait until the moment to act presents itself. Well isn’t that peachy. How come you don’t talk to yourself more often? Because I’m my own biggest distraction. It helps not to dwell too much. But, unfortunately, long spans of silence are inescapably vulnerable to pointless internal ramblings. Sucks, doesn’t it? Eh… It has its moments.

Sweat matted the exposed part of her forehead, which was impressive, considering Twi’leks ran hotter than most. Her lekku squirmed restlessly against their bonds in an attempt to flee the rolling smoke that continued to pour from the flue exhaust. But Keenava fought to keep still. Her chest began to rebel against its bonds, but she couldn’t afford to lose any part of her disguise. She was the roof. She was the tiling, the metal; the whatever it is that kept the roof up. Close your eyes. Let it melt away. Dipping quietly into the force with the smallest touch she could manage, Keenava used her minor inconveniences and channeled them into a steely focus. It wasn’t enough to make out the conversation taking place beneath. But it was enough to notice when the Headmistress and the Cathar walked out the front door and into the commons. Keenava smiled. She exhaled sharply letting out a breath she forgot she was holding and began to mentally approximate the amount of energy she needed for her next move. Her body mass was a little unpredictable at this angle and at this height. But this wasn’t the first time Keenava fell from anything. Granted, two of those falls led to death. But what’s life without a little danger? With a nudge of force energy pushing at her back, throwing as much momentum as she could into one centralized part of her body, Keenava rolled off the roof, falling into the welcoming shadow beneath, and landing with a mottled thud on the ground. Her bones and muscles crashed together like rolling waves upon the cold stone walkway, sending chutes of red-hot fury into her mind. But conditioning and force padding kept her from serious injury. If you can stand, you can walk. If you can walk, you can run. If you can run, you can fight. Her lekku throbbed slightly in their bindings, which caused her head to spin briefly. But it wasn’t enough to distract her. She turned her head in a full arc to check for needy eyes. And when she was satisfied, Keenava melted back into the shadows and flit from corner to corner, taking care to use as little force energy as possible. Qaela wasn’t a typical Sith. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t pick up on Keenava’s energy just the same as any Sith could. But she also came from a society that utilized mundane stealth methods. So, despite the objections that her muscles made with every step, she made sure to suppress every bodily impulse. Fatigue is natural. But it isn’t everything. When she came to the end of a narrow corridor, pursuing her quarry with measured grace, a light bulb popped in her head. It startled her focus for a moment. But her muscles were already working. When Keenava came back to her senses, she found herself plopped against a nearby wall, nestled behind a piling, just out of sight from the two guards bookending the Headmistress’ office. Her heartbeat was like a swarm of angry mynocks. And her breathing came out in a hollow staccato instead of the steady rhythm she was practicing before. The Assassin shook her head. She calmed the torrent that bloomed before it led to panic. I could always knock the guards out. Keenava thought to herself. But what kind of message does that send? ‘Oh, hi Qaela, I know you hate me and I knocked out your guards but I want to talk to the Cathar.’ Keenava’s lekku wriggled in their housing beneath her hood, clearly uncomfortable with the lackluster idea. Could I walk up and ask an audience? But why would I want an audience with Qaela? She and I don’t have anything to talk about. Uncertain, Keenava curled her legs up underneath her and sat beside the piling, wreathed amid the shadows cast by nearby lamps. I’ll wait. I am the shadow. I am the velvety blackness. I am one with the wall. She repeated the mantra. Every repetition was another layer of stillness imposed upon the hive of pain and fatigue that she’d earned up to this point. I’ll wait until the opportune moment.

For weeks after she woke up from her extremely brief coma, Keenava stole away to the Bastion to explore different facets of her research. Her pursuit to find the ideal poison for every occasion was proving to be quite complicated. First, you had to calculate the ample dose for proper use. To do that, you had to know how much your deader weighed, how old they were, how resilient they were and any of hundreds of other details. You could assume or work off of approximations, but it was impossible to tell what would happen if you didn’t know. The deader could just end up really sick or you could kill them outright and the subtlety would be lost. To truly control the execution and understand how to make someone’s death look like an accident, you needed to know all the details. Second, you needed to figure out how to apply it. You could apply poison to pretty much anything, but would it last? Some poisons could stand the test of time and be potent for days. While other poisons would expire within the first few moments of application. Some poisons had to be mixed with others to be more effective and others had to be ingested to be useful at all. An addendum to the complication of how was where. Contact poisons were exceptionally effective, but different surfaces and substances had different permeable and impermeable properties. For instance, if you put a contact poison on the wood of a door, depending on the type of poison, it could absorb into the fibers and be lost quickly. But if you put it on the metal knob or knocker, it would last a bit longer. Third, you needed to figure out the other variables needed to execute your deader. And by then you’ve already done leagues upon leagues of research. The act of killing was an art that no one fully understood. The more Keenava fought to learn, the more she began to understand the complexity of it all and the vast amounts of knowledge she had yet to learn. Adding the force to it added even more possibility. It was enough to give her a headache at times. But she was determined to learn it, so she pushed through regardless. It was during one of these visits to the Bastion that she made a most peculiar discovery. One day, while she was out people watching, an activity that required very little physical strain when you were clothed as a lowly acolyte and studiously rubbing away at the same corner of a floor for hours, Keenava caught sight of a Cathar. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen her. But she seemed different. Her muscles were denser, her stride was focused and her body language was very tight. She was on her way from the forge holding some piece of metal she’d worked on with a fierce determination in her eyes; a determination that Keenava was very familiar with. Days followed where Keenava would, in between her own study sessions, follow the Cathar on her excursions. She would stay to the shadows and suppress her own energy to match the residual force energy of those around her, but something about the Cathar’s determination was infectious. So, like a curious child, Keenava stalked her, albeit with a lot more grace and stealth than a child. __________________________________________________ Revenge was truly sweet. It may not always end the way you want it, but there was nothing like the spiteful cathartic edge of wrath when it was cast upon those who deserved it. Watching it happen though, was interesting. Students, fearful and tense, looked upon their better with trepidation. Fledglings strove to clash with a titan. It was an admirable and rather stupid maneuver if some of the pawns were weak. The lynchpin, however, the controlling point of the entire scuffle, was the Cathar. Her resolve was hard and unforgiving; such efforts were hard pressed if one wasn’t focused. And it was only through her will that the master finally fell. That one has fire... Keenava’s arms tensed as she gripped the beams that crisscrossed the ceiling of the dojo. Her tight fit mottled grey-black outfit rustled a little with her movement, but she muffled it in the tumult going on beneath her. Her force signature was a whisper to the powers that were thrown around. But that was more due to training than anything else. She doubted any of the students would find her presence with their focus trained exclusively on the scarred master. Looking at him now, from high above his head, as the students pushed to pull him apart, Keenava admitted she knew very little about the scarred instructor, nor did she fully understand what he did to earn so much scorn. She’d seen him pass through the halls, but he seemed like any other master; pompous, self-centered and haughty. Though, when she touched his mind and discovered the depravity that lingered beneath, it triggered an old trauma that she thought long healed. It was almost enough to bring her to blows with the man. But she refused to expose herself, especially since she had no way to explain away the situation she found herself in. No. She’d watch the apprentices prove themselves. It didn’t stop her from severing the man’s head afterward and making certain… adjustments, however. But that was more for her own catharsis than anything else. The holo-cams weren’t easy to fool, but Keenava’s dress hardly made her obvious to identify. She rarely revealed her face to anything or anyone. And her lekku were fastened underneath the hood of her garment. It caused mild lightheadedness, but it was worth it not to be spotted. Metal against stone pounded the base of her ear nubs. Boots, lots of them, crowded the pathways; loud voices and angry people. They answered this blood with their own. It was the way. Blood always answered blood. With a step, Keenava faded into the shadows, flitting from point to point and following the Cathar’s steps toward the forge. With each breath, her heartbeat and steps matched with almost precise synchronicity. She was still getting used to training her bodily functions to mesh together and had had a few awkward moments controlling her stomach when she was hungry. But today, aside from a brief stumble as she avoided a cadre of marching troopers, everything in her body was working hand in hand. Even hanging on the outside of the forge, her muscles answered each other with consistent strength. They were starting to see the fringe of exhaustion, but she ignored them. Step by step, handhold by handhold, she pushed. And when there were no handholds, she improvised. But, by hook or by crook she eventually made her way to the roof of the structure. A logical person would argue that going to the top of the forge would be silly; that It would be dangerously hot near the forge’s exhaust. Because metal was actively being melted and the hot air had to go somewhere. But troopers guarded all the exits, which meant there was absolutely no way to walk through the front door. Plus, what kind of assassin would Keenava be if she went through the front door? She laughed inwardly at the sheer thought of it. Still, with all exits covered, she had to find another way to follow the Cathar. Because after weeks of studying faculty and students, the Cathar seemed to be the only promising one at this academy; the only person she could find on Korriban that might be able to help her with her problem. Then she could get off this rock and try to find the others. She didn’t need them anymore, but she was feeling stir crazy here. She wanted to live and breathe again, not stagnate in libraries full of musty records and mustier people. She started to feel like flotsam and it bugged her. It had to end. Keenava inched closer to the flue system, bracing herself for the sweltering exhaust the plumed uncomfortably close to her face, and sharpened her senses, picking through the sound of burning metal to find the voices within. All she caught was the tail end of a question. But the voice was unmistakable. Qaela… There was a fire in the name that threatened to rekindle old differences. But Keenava squelched it. That was back when she felt attached to a lie and it made her do crazy things. The rest of the conversation was vaguely discernible through gaps of banging and boiling, but it was clear that Keenava wasn’t going to get much without using the force. And she didn’t feel revealing herself was appropriate…. Yet.

Keenava sat alone in the center of a dark room. No footsteps. No clashing of metal. No virulent smells. No whimpering. No suffering. The low light obscured the ceiling and made it impossible to discern any detail. In fact, the low light suffused everything around her, hiding even the door from easy eyes. The morning’s study began to fade away. All that remained was the musty smell of dry Korriban air that pushed through stony cracks and permeated the Praxeum. Even her heartbeat began to drift. All who approached the training room would feel a fundamental dread, persuading them to halt their advance. The Assassin wing was off-limits for now. ____________________ I am not a stranger to the dark... Keenava opened luminescent red eyes to the silence. Their bright light filled the room with a dim fire. And as the words flew through her, she shifted her stance, feeling the cold rough stone on the tips of her kneecaps. Hide away, they say, ‘cause we don't want your broken parts... Keenava’s fists clenched and, deep in her fists, sounds started to crackle and pop outward. I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars... The deep scars that ran along her body began to throb dully. Run away, they say, no one'll love you as you are... Hot streaks ran across her shallow cheeks. But I won't let them break me down to dust… Slowly Keenava stood to her full height, with both fists parallel to her hips. I know that there's a place for us, for we are glorious! The beat of her heart surged into her ears and the flame deep inside her grew to spite its fleshy prison. When the sharpest words wanna cut me down. I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out. The veins in her muscles pulsed to the surface of her skin. I am brave, I am bruised. I am who I'm meant to be, this is me. Keenava’s eyes burst into flame. Look out 'cause here I come. And I'm marching on to the beat I drum I'm not scared to be seen I make no apologies, this is me! AGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! Her scream exploded outward. It lasted a good minute. Nothing crumbled. Nothing was destroyed. But the sound shot outward across the wastes, past the academy and nearly to the other end of the planet. On the surface, it was piercing. But its physical mark upon the stone was impotent. Layers of darkness flew from her chords in a grand display of cathartic relief. Unwashed bodies, dark enjoyment, betrayal, desperation, submission, suffering, hate, pain, and agony spilled from her and shocked the stone beneath her feet. But nothing else happened. When it finished, Keenava stood in silence, watching the stone settle once more. A slow smile spread across her lips. Cold sweat clung to her face and the lengths of her arms. Her legs wobbled a little in the sudden silence but the vacuum of strength left by her scream gave her plenty of space to find her bearings again. This is me. Silence reigned, and Keenava vanished.

The stale air lingered at Keenava's ear nubs. She clung to the rough stone walls of the darkened corridor and waited. Her lekku were draped delicately around her neck and her gleaming red eyes, shrouded by the hood of her cloak, scanned the floor. The dust settled beneath every acolyte's step. The smell and sense of exertion, desperation, and fear gripped the air and persisted even in the stone the Twi'lek clung to. As she watched the coming and going, she eyed each person's mannerisms. She watched how they greeted one another if they greeted one another. She watched how they spoke to each other and cataloged each interaction. It was only a select specimen and limited to the etiquette and decorum expected of Sith attendants, but it was a start. Nothing held her attention for too long, though she tried to hold her focus. Instead of letting her mind wander around the corridor, she did what she could to zero in on little details and gather as much information as she could before moving on to the next piece. Time ticked by. Dust gathered on the bridge of her nose and tickled the skin. A small breeze brushed particulates against the skin of her ear nubs. Her eyes began to dry and her lips started to crack. The strength of her eyes began to fade. The energy of her hands as they clung to the pockmarked stone, began to falter. Sweat beaded on her for head and her face began to contort as she tightened her grip and rested her eyes. A small movement drew her attention. But it was nothing. She needed to... wai- what? Keenava turned her head for a second and felt as the tendons hyperextended. She looked toward where the movement was and nothing was there. Kriff... Keenava hopped off the wall and landed silently on the balls of her feet. She rolled the tips of her knuckles up and down the sides of her neck to loosen the tension and made her way back to the lab.

At the end of it all, his eyes were electric. Balls of wild crimson power stared at her from a vacuous husk. But, instead of fear, recognition pulled at the corners of Keenava’s gaze. “But… I killed you.” A wretched, detached, smile crawled across the husk’s form ending with an improbable contortion. Its expression revealed nothing. Under shriveled, dry, dead lips, his empty stare betrayed nothing but cold emptiness. Are you so sure? Keenava tried to lash out but found that her limbs were held in place by an unseen force. Why? The husk contorted yet again with a painful snapping sound and then crept closer to where Keenava stood, frozen in place. The smell of death and decay was strong here. The sound of breathing was uncomfortably absent and although it didn’t touch her, the Twi’lek was ‘aware’ of the shadow’s hollow aura as it bore down on her. Because it is what I was meant to do. I know nothing else. Keenava was about to comment, but her words broke like so much hot air and escaped her mind. No. None of that. It is my turn to talk. An arc of cold lightning powered through every neuron in Keenava’s body. Like thousands of tiny needles stabbing into her at every point, her breath caught and her presence in this demesne - mental, metaphysical or whatever it was - flickered. Hurts don’t it. Now. I have a question… I have many, actually. But this one will do for now: why are you running? Keenava’s face creased, tiny lines broke on the skin of her forehead. She couldn’t move at all. Her body was held in an iron-like vice and every thought to speak was met with blinding agony. Huh. Don’t have an answer, do you? The answer is: you’re scared of what you are. You killed me because you’re scared of what I meant to you. You kept pining for the wolf because he led you into a path of darkness. It was easy to blame his influence and chase after him like some lapdog, forgetting all the way that you were going deeper and deeper into a world of depravity. But when he left you, cold and alone, you were forced to look at yourself. You were forced to really look at what you became. And you beat yourself for it. You didn’t understand how I could do those things to you; how the entire galaxy could steal you away and oppress you. You couldn’t understand how filthy wretches treating you like nothing but flesh would change your perception of yourself. But instead of using their abuse to galvanize you into empowering yourself, you ran after a man and surrendered yourself to his will… like a puppet. Then, instead of moving on when he left you, you go after another… The spider. You laugh and pretend like nothing is wrong, but deep down you are running from something. You act kind when you have no business to be kind. It makes no logical sense. The shadow drifted from one side of her gaze to the other, continuing where he left off like nothing had changed. The shadow forces that ‘inhabited’ your body, resembling pieces of your psyche, are nothing more than your own shadow trying to catch up with you. You’ve been running from your own darkness the moment you realized you enjoyed what your captors did to you and tried to block it out. Kana, sweet and sultry, was your demented pleasure derived from your mistreatment; Kara, the spirit of your rage and the ecstasy you feel every time you lash out with fire and ferocity; and Kava, the thrill you feel whenever you’re on the hunt. These forces terrify you into paralyzation. You can’t stand being the bad guy even though the thought has haunted you your entire life. The spider can see it. The wolf saw it. Every predator that has ever come to you in the night has seen it. But you know what they also saw? The shadow reached deep into Keenava’s metaphysical form and another wave of sensation wracked her brain. Nausea and bitterness welled up to the tip of her tongue. But she couldn’t vomit. Her stomach seemed oddly detached. The shadow’s hand came away with something that looked like a crystal of pure fire. It writhed and swam within the shadow’s grasp like a small voracious animal trying to claw its way past the confines of the husk’s indomitable grasp. They saw your potential. They saw your will and they saw your power. Something that you yourself have been unable to grasp. It is wasted on you. Such fire could move mountains with enough determination. But you squander it. You could fully embrace who you are and what you’ve become. But instead, you waste your gifts resigned to be merely subservient. Admiration and respect have their place… With others. But licking someone's boots will only get you stepped on. The shadow opened its grasp on her ‘fire,’ for lack of a better word, and it shot back into her body with a sharp jolt of pain. But when it returned, Keenava was more aware of its presence. It felt like when someone forgets to breathe and they have to consciously think about their lungs and how they work. She let the flame fill her body and remembered moments of her past where a warmth, a hunger, a desire, burned bright in the core of her being. In moments of desperation, the fire kept her warm, kept her will alive and kept her fighting against those that would oppress her. The shadow’s grin was wicked as it descended upon her. And now that I’ve got you, you aren’t going anywhere. I almost had you in that cavern and I almost killed you in that cave after I took possession of that Sith Beast. Now, after chasing after you all these years, I can finally put an end to your pandering nonsense. I can exhaust your piteous attempts at living and squash you like the bug you are. Expecting sorrow, or resignation, the shadow was surprised to find that Keenava was smiling. It was an odd sort of smile; the same smile a demented person would have as they were committed. But it was a smile. The shadow frothed with anger and seethed as it stalked her. I tell you about your imminent demise and you smile!? What kind of lunacy is this? Keenava laughed. And just as she laughed, the shadow’s bonds broke away, letting the Twi’lek loose. She flexed her hands and then tested the balls of her feet. The shadow continued to lose control, but when Keenava’s gaze flicked up, her eyes gleamed dangerously. “The poison I was working on wasn’t finished. I hadn’t brewed nearly enough to kill anyone. It was a test batch designed to knock out a small animal. You think I’m dying?” Keenava’s dismissal combined with the smug look on her face sent the shadow reeling with unbridled fury. It lashed out at Keenava. But she had the reins this time. No. Now that I know what you are and what you’ve been doing. You’re not going anywhere. Instead of pushing the shadow out or allowing it to dissipate, Keenava walked into it and allowed the force to suffuse her body. Each demented piece of her picture started to roll into itself until Keenava was back on Korriban, gasping the moldy death of the world once again. "Back to work."

Bound in a formless cloud she waited for the next reality to come and the next episodic foretelling to shift into the light of her waiting eyes. But nothing came. At least, nothing she could see. The stare was a sensation she’d not felt in some time. She could neither see nor envision the eyes. But the gaze was unmistakable. The derision, the disappointment, the anger, the disapproval, and the rejection. It was bound within an indisputable feeling that crawled from the smallest hairs of her neck to the tips of each toe. Fu- She tried to speak, but her mouth was lead. Her tongue was robbed of its agility and replaced with a piece of rubber flotsam. Yet, her eyes were open to the cold dark void. Her ears were receptive to the tiniest sensation. The scratching of a nail to paper was like thunder against the fragile structure of her mind. A slight moue of pain escaped silently from her metaphysical lips as the realization of her predicament set in. The dark tendrils of doubt swept through the velvety void like a woolen matt brushing across a linoleum surface. Voices, without a body, echoed, clinging to each doubt like overcharged lint. No… I have to fight this. I’ve come so far! Thoughts struggled to the surface like rodents, desperate for salvation. But a cool voice smothered their hopeless plight. Have you?

The void returned. It was thick and black. Her arms and legs were wreathed in a cold shell, bound to the limits of whatever her ‘puppet master’ deemed appropriate. It wasn’t ideal, but Keenava could hardly argue. She’d protested for the first few moments of her internment, but her cries continued listlessly onward. They hit neither wall, nor ear, and would not return no matter how much the Twi’lek willed. But she didn’t worry for long. The black obfuscation that clouded her wakeful eyes parted to reveal cold gray. Shafts of light poked through a corroded ceiling, but the light was deceiving. Neons hung nearby and emitted enough light to pose as a crude sun. So it was extremely difficult to tell night from day. But, the scene focused on a shrouded figure that scurried along, grasping at the shadows. A smell hit the formless twi’lek and, oddly enough, made its way to Keenava’s disembodied receptor. It was potent, but, almost indecipherable. It contained trace amounts of sweat and blood. But there was another element that Keenava couldn’t see. And, before she could focus on the sensation, the moment passed by and the smell danced away. The shroud skirted amidst the shadows and Keenava, slave to the performance, continued to watch. What felt like minutes passed; then hours. Keenava began to realize that she couldn’t hear anything. Where before, sitting beside the little girl, Keenava could hear the keening wails that echoed off the stone. Now, it was as if her ears were stuffed with wads of bound cotton. Everything was muffled. Everything seemed to come to her through the length of a small tube that was sealed at one end. As the time wore on, the shrouded figure moved ever onward. It stopped here and there to look at blank signs. It stopped to listlessly shake and wither at directionless antagonism. With the dying glimpse of a neon figure, Keenava saw the shroud move into a building and vanish, leaving nothing but the void in its wake…

What is death? Is it emptiness? Is it sleep everlasting? Is it...nothing? What is life, without death? And what is death without life? Regardless, in the end, time makes fools of us all… Wracking sobs... From the timbre of her voice, Keenava could tell, the girl was young; maybe twelve or so. Something about her seemed familiar. But she was a blur; an amorphous shadowy blob of indecipherable size. The only thing Keenava could make out was her cries. The rest of the world was a muffled cloud. Smells seemed far away as if they came from a great distance. She couldn’t tell. Everything came like it was being pushed through a thick wad of cotton. What was an immutable silence, dark as boundless shadow and vast as space and time, was now filled with icy unmistakable sound.The shrill sound of the little girl’s cries shook the eerie silence of the world and made it something unbearably vulnerable. Keenava knew little girl cries. They possessed a clarity of emotion that no fully grown person could come close to. Qato? < why > The girl’s face, or what looked to be her face, stared upward. Keenava shifted her gaze but saw only emptiness. The girl's fragile question broke upon the bastion of darkness and despair with little to show for it. Ohk eti kukoz ar ohk loo? < was it supposed to be good? > Ohk eti kukoz ar ohk si'mori? < was it supposed to be bad? > The girl seemed to move back and forth, mumbling to herself. Keenava tried to draw closer to her, but every step seemed to drag her further away. Distance seemed immaterial. Light seemed immaterial. Everything was fuzzy except the sounds of the little girl. Her voice was crystal in a land of rock. And her cries tugged at Keenava, begging her to respond... Do huhsi... sahak ktan. Do karau sei tirva < I just… don’t know. I want my mommy. > A lance shot through Keenava. A primal urge drove her fruitlessly toward the little girl; moving forever on a metaphysical turntable. It was useless and frustrating. Keenava fell to her knees, a moue of pain barely crossing her cold lips. The girl’s cry stopped for a second. The blur - that composed what Keenava surmised was the little girl’s physical form - cocked its head to the side, listening to the muffled silence that surrounded both of them. Keenava’s face was a painting of confusion. Ki'uk? … Ohk ei uru circoo? < Hello? Is anyone there? > Keenava cocked her head, mirroring the blur’s movements. Then she waited and nodded her head silently as if she thought the blur could see her. She hadn’t spoken in her native tongue for quite some time, but she still remembered the motions. Ka eoh uru, Do ohk circaa. < Yes little one, I’m here. > Jinqa ohk dan? Dan koo... vorcuban? < Who are you? You sound… warbly? > Keenava was about to respond but bit her tongue. Why was she doing this? This girl was weak. Why didn’t she try to find a way out? And, how was she supposed to respond? “Hello, my name is Keenava and I’m a Sith Lord, pleased to meet you?” No. Whoever this was, she didn’t need to know. Ohk dan sei nirsiban muchi? < Are you my imaginary friend? > Keenava grinned ruefully, thankful for the child’s imagination even in a moment as painful as this. Ka, Do ohk. Narsu, bee san, qa ohk ji sisalei'a? < Yes, I am. Please, tell me, what is the matter? > The blur seemed to stop for a moment, bending toward the ground, choking. It seemed to stiffen, in spite of its previous impassioned display. Soft sounds of sobbing, followed by heaves and coughs filled the silence before the little girl thought to respond. Do... Do sahak ktan. Uru, korjin tlaran san ar arosv yinme vil lik san. Cei korjin jet san ar a kas vil onelan ar cuev san. Korjin rey ho san vil rekak ho san bo ceu si'inerki debis. Korjin dos san goh vil cei tuev ea... jirut circoo. Do karsan... si'klic. Do karsan... Do karsan... Do sahak ktan qaon ar karsan. < I... I don't know. First, they took me to another room and beat me. Then they bound me to a chair and started to touch me. They laughed at me and smiled at me with those hateful faces. They called me names and then shoved things... down there. I feel... wrong. I feel... I feel... I don't know how to feel. > The blur squirmed uncomfortably and sobbed intermittently between breaths. Her head was bowed and slowly the smell of desperation wormed into Keenava’s waiting consciousness. Livid ice pooled upon the surface of her conscious brain. She had a myriad of warring emotions in the span of… seconds? Time didn’t seem to pass even though it clearly was. Keenava almost threw herself through the blurry vision. Her body yearned to embrace the poor girl. The fire in her heart flamed to be with her in her need. But Keenava’s care was impotent. She could be there no more than anyone else could… Do ktan qaon dan karsan. Do fic karsan eti cla... < I know how you feel. I've felt it too… > Dan ohk vorcuban vil penisla. Dan sahak ktan qaon ar karsan. Kay dan laboo ar cao kue. Dan laboo karawn. Dan toyid go jid korjin tlaran cea or dan. Dan ohk ji ceinireae ar fiyet onhso bo circaa vil gue dan toyid nie eti. < You're confused and scared. You don't know how to feel. But you need to hold on. You need strength. You can't let them take that from you. You are the way to get out of here and only you can do it. > The girl rallied briefly but sunk toward the far side of Keenava’s field of view. Do... Do sahak ktan qaon. Do ohk cei penisla. Qa ko korjin elan tohsi tilsa sei zen'ka? Qa ko Do ohk go kuces? Qa ko Do anasan eti? Qa cahsinark iniban ar san? < I... I don't know how. I'm so scared. What if they go after my family? What if I'm not enough? What if I like it? What will happen to me? > Cahsinark dan kumsara bo san? < Will you stay with me? > Keenava’s mind raved. What should she say? What could she say? She was starting to feel like a motivational poster. She was starting to get mad at herself. But she couldn't’ do anything. Her rage was like an impotent fire, burning in a glass tube. It had just enough oxygen to smolder, but it couldn’t reach beyond. Do cahsinark... Do cahsinark nie qa Do toyid. Kay dan toyid go omr ktan qa dao. Filkejan sah vil tao ar tuev kue. dan ohk t'an loo ir korjin. dan ohk t'an loo ir cea y. < I will... I will do what I can. But you can't possibly know what comes. Harden yourself and try to push on. You're better than them. You're better than this. > The girl sniffled in the dying sounds of Keenava’s vision just as muffled footsteps echoed off of the sound-bubble they shared. A scruffy voice pierced the veil for two seconds before Keenava was roughly pushed back into the dark void and left in darkness once again. “Hello lovely, I know a few boys who’d love to getta hold of you! … “ Noooooooo…. The scream was swallowed by the emptiness. Keenava was alone again.

Midday… or around the time of high sun on Korriban. Smells: death, Yakkis bisporus caps, Varina hyphae, Arictha radix, Atropa belladonna, and pungent solvent odors mingling amidst the stale dry air of the Praxeum; these experiments reek. Sounds: shuffling feet, hasty breaths and faint heartbeats; to be expected. They still look for me. The sound of stone grinding against stone echoed off the spartan chamber walls. The sight and smell of blackened pulp were all that could be discerned from the hall. The smells were atrocious. Dead rodents and small creatures lined the chamber and added to the musk that built in her wake. She was careful to mar any grunt or vocal expression of effort, but some sounds were to be expected. After all, she’d been diligently attending to her project for the last few hours. She had one more test. A small emaciated creature that attempted to survive on the barren planet of Korriban, squirmed in its small rusted container. It looked up into Keenava’s cold red eyes as she dosed some cheese with her volatile mixture. But, despite witnessing the poison, the lust for food was stronger. The rodent-esque animal resisted its bonds, eyeing the snack with its beedy gaze. It frothed and chittered, but only when Keenava lifted the lid of its trap, did it seize its bounty. And, only when it had fully enjoyed its meal, did the little creature regret its decision. With a small screech and gurgle, the bundle of fur plopped to the table. Joylessly and mute, Keenava put the furball back into its cage and watched. She counted silently to herself and watched as the cage sat still. The mild air of Korriban whistled as it passed through small holes in the stonework. The pitter patter of acolyte’s feet wisped past, paused, and then reconsidered entering a room smelling of death. Yet, the rodent stayed still. The smell seemed to get worse, possibly indicating that the rodent had fully passed. Keenava cursed to herself and punched the lab table, shaking her hand afterward as stinging sparks prickled up her wrist. *scrip* The sound was small but undeniable. Keenava’s red eyes lit with excitement and she streamed back to the little cage, watching as the little critter got back to its feet and started to resist the bounds of its prison once more. Success! Now, all I need for humanoid trials is a viable subject to draw on. And I need to redo my calculations. Bigger aliens, more or less potency... I could… Wha? It moved like velvet. Dark eyes, pools of liquid obsidian, peered into the small chamber and studied her. It’s form was blurry and obscured. And the low-light of Keenava’s room did little to illuminate it. The Twi’lek stirred at its entrance, but could do little to prevent it. Where did you co- You think you can run from me so easily? Chutes of pain scraped against the scars on Keenava’s back and abdomen. Keenava recoiled, reaching for the saber at her hip, but fell squirming to the cold stone. That won’t work this time little one. Hmm… What’s this? The dark presence moved further into the lab and hovered over her work. Experimenting? Is that… Nightshade? Interesting. The dark presence fell from its place near the ceiling and oozed into Keenava’s wriggling mass, suffusing her with its essence. Keenava stopped twitching and lay terribly still for a few seconds. The frigid hand of death clasped her waking mind and drew her back to a standing position. Her eyes, normally vibrant and red, were a cold black. Not even the whites of her eyes stood out from the liquid ebony that glinted only lightly in the low-lit room. On invisible strands, the Twi’lek grabbed at the mixture she’d been preparing on the table and then moved it closer to her mouth. There was a moment when resistance built against the hand, but strange phantom glee filled her as the bowl touched her lips. Then acrid stench tickled her nose and warm semi-solid liquid dripped down her throat. After that… everything faded away. The room seemed fuzzy. The world seemed fuzzy… And then something hard hit the back of her head.

... Two exits. One is never acceptable. No windows. Sith didn't need windows. Heartbeat, always good. Small footsteps, echoing off the stone; probably Acolytes. No light. Only shadows... Keenava tilted her head from side-to-side as she emerged from the bacta in adequate condition, letting her lekku fall and twitch as she stretched. Whispers of pain tingled in her back and abdomen, but little else remained of the wounds that nearly cleft her body in twain. She brushed her fingers over her bare skin; a silent test. Nothing else claimed her shell - nothing unexpected at least. The Twi'lekk flexed her hands, feeling as her warm lifeblood surged through her cold frame. She breathed. Each movement - each articulation - was a choreographed routine. It was familiar. The only peculiarity was her metal foot, which was becoming more and more typical as time wore onward. The brisk air of Korriban's dead washed through the hall of Assassin's and whisked past Keenava as she dressed in plain clothes. Note to self: find someone to fix my leathers... She settled her small armory at her hips, crouched, and then quickly made her way down the hall. Many acolytes thought to stop her for questions. They wondered why she'd returned when it seemed she was dead set on leaving. But, just as their questions were posed, their quarry had vanished. They were left dumbfounded in the middle of hallways and studies. It wasn't until she'd reached one of the Praxeum's many libraries that Keenava re-emerged. She stopped for a moment and took a small supply of books on poisons - both mundane and magical - from one of the shelves, and then vanished into the Assassin Wing once more. Every other hour Keenava appeared on a balcony reading quietly to herself. Just as an acolyte thought to approach her, however, she would vanish and re-appear in another alcove or balcony.

Well, here you are again… Bacta, your second home. The amount of time you spend in bacta tanks should win you an award or something. In fact, I’m surprised they even let you in here after what you did. Will. You. Shut. Up… Seriously. I’m just trying to help you. No, you aren’t. You’re my inner monologue and you’re almost always negative. After what I’ve seen, I don’t need more negativity. Leave me alone. Well, you need to stop talking to yourself then. Yeah, I figured… Keenava lay, sprawled out in a tank near the Assassin wing. Her eyes were closed, but small tendrils of lightning licked the tips of her fingers. Her body leaned to one side in a pose that suggested severe pain, but her expression was serene; impossibly, happy.

Coward… How dare you look at me like that! You filthy whelp! As an acolyte, you must obey… Her clothes, seemingly impervious to damage, were torn to shreds. The leather of her vornskyr armor was slashed in several places. Her knives triggered and whip-like were dragging their blades on the ground behind her. Her saber scored and crisped, still clung to her hip. Her body, a rainbow of cuts and bruises, still soldiered on, using the weight of her metal leg to support her march. Gashes that were impossibly large, stood out in the center of her back and across her abdomen. They were healed by the force but left hideous scars. And yet, despite it all, her eyes kept forward, staring toward the Praxeum. Days she spent, wandering the wastes. The taste of food had long left her lips. The salvation of water was nothing to the barren sands. There was nothing but sand, and death, and dark. And, in the depths of that relentless darkness, voices would worm their way into every pocket of your mind, denying you rest and the naive fragility of hope. They muttered whispers: whispers of trial; whispers of murder; whispers of power; whispers of death; and whispers of despair that echoed in the dark. They were ceaseless reminders of inaction and failure; of peril and fright; of weakness and death... Why are you here? What do you have to gain? Why? These were familiar questions. These were questions Keenava had asked her captors when she was taken into slavery; these were questions she asked Furion when he saved her. And these were questions she asked when she joined the Sith. Your purpose is aimless, your vision is lost… You will fail. You are doomed to fail. We shall purge them from the galaxy. They will know our wrath. He’s not here to save you, little girl. No one is… There it was, another reminder that he was gone. Of course, he’s gone, I know he’s gone. I’ve killed him. I hope he never comes back. But you still need him…? No. I don’t. LIAR… The buzzing of insects was all Keenava could compare it to. Their words did little to melt her mind. But, after days of deprivation, battle, and exhaustion, eventually, even the stupidest phrases would seem appealing. The soft caress of sand against your face as you laid down to kiss the galaxy goodbye… The warm feeling of being consumed so that you may prolong the life of a large beast... The allure of cold death as it clasped your body in a loving, hypnotic embrace... But the fire never went out. It never did. And it never would. GO HOME AND DIE ALONE! YOU SYCOPHANTIC NERF! ROT AND DIE. DIE SO THAT ALL THOSE WHO KNOW YOU, FOR ETERNITY, WILL CEASE TO MISS YOUR FRAGILE CORPSE. FOR THOSE WHO SEEK POWER, DEATH IS ALL YOU WILL KNOW… “Well then…” Keenava said, a wickedly indifferent grin set upon the paled ebony of her dark skin. Her march didn't slow. The sandblasted texture of her leathery body cracked a little as she moved. It failed to show her exertion, even as the dim light of Korriban’s sun hit her, as she stepped into the perimeter of the Praxeum, making her way toward the Assassin’s wing. The usual sheen of sweat and effort was muted by violence; the violence of the elements and the violence of her soul. The Sith Lord adjusted her neck with a loud crack and her ruby eyes glinted with hidden malice. “... I’m already doomed, aren’t I?” It’s so good to be back home...

Comm to Exodus - - The call cuts off with a lot of static, implying that the call ended due to interference instead of disconnection.

Keenava wore a face of indeterminable scorn when her apprentice asked a question she answered only moments before. But, knowing how foolish and naïve she’d been when Furion found her, it seemed commonplace for raw minds to hear things multiple times. “We are heading straight through the Caridan system; flying casually. We are going to ping to verify that my lead on the Hutt is solid. Then, when or if our quarry comes into view, I am going to transmit an encrypted tight-beam communication to their vessel.” Keenava stuttered a little trying to find the proper words to convey her intent. And part of her wanted to keep the truth from her apprentice. But, considering that her apprentice’s life was in danger, the Twi’lek owed her an explanation. “We are strafing through the Caridan system in a casual flight pattern. Because, if we enter the system with any other approach or intent, we will be shot on sight. If you need to understand why, you can access the Holonet archives and elucidate your present confusion.” Keenava grunted as she maneuvered to the comm terminal. The task before her was somewhat simple - in part due to a video she watched on the Holonet about it. It wouldn’t be pretty, but she’d be able to rig a simple communication. The piloting maneuvers would be the risky part. She was a fair hand at the yoke, but she was not an experienced combat fighter. And any added stress would not do well for her potential prospects. Which was a shame; this was a nice ship. Still, no distractions. Keenava screened out the mechanical whirring of the computer systems, the vents of the ship and every other little beep and click that exploded to life around her. Her ruby eyes zeroed in on the comm system and her hands shadowed the technician she watched. Each button was drawn from memory, each toggle switch and each electronic mechanism were triggered with echoed precision. Everything was one half-second behind, but the timing was not critical with this phase of the plan. The transmission was set, the wave was pared down to a tight beam and would trigger on her cue. And her cue would come the minute that there was confirmation of Dordjooba’s presence in the system. The only registered transponder that Keenava could find attached to Dordjooba’s records was that of his Yacht, the Dornja Kajin. So, if they found his Yacht, the communication would hit the ship's comm array and then they’d blast out of there like nobody’s business. It was risky, but there wasn’t another way that she could see. Every other option ended in death. “Apprentice, this will be rough. We’re going to power through the Caridan system and right past the Imperial Capital. We are probably going to get hit, but I will do whatever in my power to avoid getting shot out of the sky. However… Seeing as this is your ship, let’s see you in the pilot’s chair and I’ll assist with defensive maneuvers.” The obsidian Twi’lek smiled, adrenaline pumping through her veins. When she firmly settled in the co-pilot’s chair the operation went into motion. The Dark Edge came out of Hyperspace and sped past Carida. It pinged the local orbiting satellite, which would likely draw Imperial attention, and located the appropriate vessel. Keenava’s comm shot in a tight beam to the Yacht with heavy encryption. It was messy and the beam wasn’t perfect. It was likely that this slight miscalculation would draw more attention, but the message was sent. Now all they had to do was get out. ________________________________ Dordjooba nodded and chuckled when the Moff mentioned the uniform. "The Uniform will not be needed unless you feel it is. I will wear it if it is protocol, but I will not ask you to accommodate in such a way for me unless you wish it. As to your request, I will do whatever in my power. Kalimore, Hegeiron, Kesdjicc, Judack, and Gabbac - according to Kaldena - are the only clans participating in the slave trade in the Outer Rim at the moment. Kalimore is the only one notable on my home planet, but that doesn't mean he isn't working with the others. This has been a project of mine for a while and it appears I need to finish what I started a long time ago. Oh, and the stocks are welcome, thank you." When Dordjooba was finished with his speech, Kaldena got a small chime on her ear device. The sound drew the Hutt's attention and he momentarily turned to look at the Zeltron, incredulity laden in the folds of his face. The audio signal was short, but Kaldena nodded her assent and walked over to Dordjooba to confer with him for a moment. When she was done, Dordjooba nodded once more and sent her on her way. The Hutt turned back to Moff Weyler with a hesitant smile that slipped into dismay. "I have received news. It appears more of my business interests in the Outer Rim are starting to slip. I've sent Kaldena away with Vlahjik to handle this issue. I will accompany your fleet as you move on Nal Hutta if you'll have me."

Good... The grim vice that held Drilcea in place began to loosen. Keenava released the wild emotion she'd harnessed back into the ship as it shot through hyperspace. And the glow of her fiery crimson eyes dimmed until nought but smoldering rubies remained. A marble-white toothy smile heralded the Assassin's return. It was the first part to appear, and it preceded the rest of her body as the Twi’lek regained visibility. Her smile was sharp; predatory. “That is the first sensible thing I've heard you say.” The red of the Sith Lord's eyes, pierced through the thin veneer of thought that clouded Drilcea’s mind and documented her family drama for later use. Then, with casual grace, she bowed. “You shall call me Master. For to you, that is all I should be.” With a nod, the force hold disappeared completely from Drilcea’s throat and Keenava walked off toward the cockpit to check on their progress. Just as she departed, however, a small shrill tweeting noise caught her ear nub and persisted until she brought the incessant device to her attention. “Yes?” Keenava purred with lethal fervor into the small transmitter of her comm device Vidaya Langarmie’s voice was a bright and pleasant alto; a balm to Keenava’s wearied mind. << There’s been a development. >> Keenava’s brow furrowed slightly and she looked intently at the melting white lines of space as she stepped beside the captain's chair. “What is it?” << Dordjooba was spotted on Carida. >> Keenava frowned. Carida meant the Imperial Remnant. And the Imperial Remnant meant certain death for a Sith. If this information was solid, she would need to proceed with caution. “Is this a trustworthy source?” Keenava hedged, trying to find some hole in her lead. “Cause you said earlier…” << Yeah. I remember. But Farsha just called a little while ago. She's a facility maintenance worker in the Imperial HQ. She saw Dordjooba in the halls and confirmed it was him through some creative eavesdropping. >> Urgency struck Keenava like a harsh blow with a blunt instrument. “Did you tell anyone I was or you were looking for him?” << Not specifically. I put the word out to my friends that I was looking for some information on Dordjooba; not why or for whom. >> Keenava’s intensity backed off a few notches, but wary skepticism still hung to the vestiges of her doubt. “Whew. Alright… Well, it's the only solid lead I have. Thanks Vidaya.” << No problem >> Keenava heard the click as her comm device went silent. She sighed deeply to the open air and hung her head a little lower, letting her lekku drape toward the floor. Apprentice. Change of plans. We’re headed to somewhere outside the Carida System. Keenava said to Drilcea through the force. The ebony Twi'lek pushed a few buttons on the navigation terminal and took the ship out of hyperspace. Then, grabbing on the yoke and turning the ship around, Keenava found the autopilot function - after a little trouble - and registered new coordinates in the ship’s computer. This is going to be a bumpy ride.