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Kyrie Eleison

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  1. Kyrie Eleison


    “In the words of your Grandmaster, Kuat awaits, kill the Sith you find there without mercy. They deserve none.” The cool, reassuring voice of Al-Afdal Dyrrhachium, Maréchal of the Order of Captains, echoed throughout the Republic-Class Star Destroyer. The retrofit Destroyer was designated as Damascus by the crew of Imperial Knight-affiliated pirates that owned her, having come recently into their employ after discovering their exploits at Corellia against the Sith Fleet. Kyrie’s fingers flew across the fletching of an arrow, binding the feathers tight to the shaft with twine she had braided herself from muja-hemp. She balanced the arrow on the notch with her index finger, admiring the blackened head as it shimmered in the weak light from her oil-lamp. With a whisper of words, SPIDER, engraved itself on the head in sloppy Huttese as she named the arrow with its intended target. The Exorcist had little love for the system they intended to retake from the Sith, it had fallen in a slapdash retreat where she had slain a Sith master and died in the process. She had little intent of doing so again. Mercy had made her weak in that fight, and if the Force intended her to fight the Dark Lord himself, the one who called himself Spider, she had little room in such a fight for emotions such as that. She stood slowly, continuing to balance the glinting arrow on her finger. Her forest-green armor picked up a portion of the glow, reflecting a sparkling rain upon the bulkhead she had made her chamber. Kyrie slipped the arrow into her quiver, adding it to the twenty already within. “Twenty-one.” The Imperial Knight admired the number, that had been the original number of her Exorcists when she had parted from the Jedi Order originally. Most of them were now dead, the fate of many a Revanchist. A hunger stirred within her; a tinge of crimson faded her eyes. A desire for revenge was a poison that consumed her daily it seemed, the gift of Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr, the dragon she had consumed into her soul when she had eaten the Sin of Nyrys. The woman raised her hood, letting it conceal her against the lights of the Destroyer. Her fingers worried at the strapping of her armor, touching the leather and feeling its molecular structure. She found comfort in the feelings of textures, and the hood allowed some anonymity amongst the faction she led. Ignoring the rise in anxiety, the Imperial Knight slipped down to the docking bay and to her awaiting TIE-Ugly, an amalgamation of a Y-wing and a TIE-Defender. It was an easily sneered at and abashed design, but it allowed her to fly at the advantage that being underestimated gave her. She slipped the flight helmet over her tangle of braids, taking a comforting gasp of the recycled air it pumped into her, helping her to battle the claustrophobia. Into the Force, she spoke a curse and a challenge as Kuat yawned before them. Her words were of righteous malice. "Come and face me, Spider, you retreated when I defiled your Temple of Sin on Coruscant. Will you show such cowardice again?" War awaited her. A war that never seemed to end. With her came the great fleet of the Imperial Knights ready for war, encouraged by her words. Death to the Sith and an End to Chaos. Imperial Knight Expeditionary Light Defensive Escort: Suppressing Fire |Phobos| Task Force Experience: Veteran (2xp) Star Galleon-Class Frigate Clermonte |3/3| Vengeance-Class Frigate Chartres |3/3| Interceptor-Class Frigate Francorum |3/3| Consular-Class Frigate Tancred |3/3| Sphyrna-Class Corvette Guiscard |2/1| Sphyrna-Class Corvette Dorylaeum |2/1| Paladin-Class Corvette Yağısıyan |2/1| Free Virgilla-Class Corvette Alexandretta |2/1| Imperial Knight Expeditionary Incendiary Artillery Battery |Aeneas| Taskforce Experience: Green (1xp) KDY Corona-class Frigate Hebron |3/3| KDY Dreadnaught-class Heavy Cruiser Tripoli |10/20| Imperial Knight Search and Destroy Cruiser |Antioch| Taskforce Experience: Green (1xp) KDY-Republic-Class Star Destroyer Damascus |25/25|
  2. The woman let out a small breath and released the string, feeling the thrum of energy through the limbs of the bow as it rushed into its transfer of energy, causing the fletching of the arrow to whistle as it leapt from the string. Emerald eyes sparkled as they watched the arrow split the air, cracking to speed as she passed her own energy into it, blessing it with the song. The shaft glistened with white fire as it dashed into the target a hundred meters away, exploding into brilliant wisps of fractal light. Kyrie felt the air pass about her, whisking with it the sounds and smells of the rusting city. She could feel its life in the air. She could see its spirits. The breeze tousled her tangled braids, obscuring her vision with the black hair, the starshine highlighting its ivory streaks. A moment of peace before the storms of war came again. The moment passed as a commlink buzz beat harshly against her ears, causing the Exorcist to turn on her heel, swinging the wooden bow across her broad shoulders. The bite of the string against her neck caused a swift adjustment as she stooped to retrieve the commlink from amongst her discarded robes. A hunger burned within her for a moment, the darkness that stained her soul, that of the Krayt. She shuddered and keyed the buzzing commlink The voice that crackled to life was that of her fleet commander, Al-Afdal Dyrrhachium, Maréchal of the Order of Captains, “Grandmaster, we are being prepped for Kuat by the Rebel command. Do you wish us to participate? I do not bow to these dikut Rebels, thinking they control our Order!” Kyrie nodded sternly, considering his words. The Revanchists that made up the commanders of her forces rarely played well with others, the natural consequences of the Schismatics. She kept her voice cool and kind, spinning a small braid between her thumb and forefinger. “Take on their advice as needed, Maréchal, but we are not under their command. Remind the Emp-… Remind… Raven that she lost our fealty when she resigned and are not hers to command.” A small laugh tinkled across her lips, nervous anticipation of the war to come. Kuat had bitter memories. “Prepare for war, if we need to rid ourselves of these allies we will, but not now. We must unite against the greater enemy, which is, as always, The Dark Side.”
  3. The Imperial Knight stared hard at the corpse that lay beside her, a humanoid female with a tangled mess of dark hair, draped in a white sheet. The woman had perished only hours ago in the underworld, a victim of predation slavery, and was kept biologically alive via bacta and artificial blood-flow. The Azanti sighed, her probiscis flicking weakly at the air. She felt it inside, the fire sat like a weight of molten lead in her belly, flaring out through her veins with every breath. The pureness of the Light Side of the Force held within that fire was contrasted with the corroding and corrupted vessel within which her soul was contained. She shuddered, fear creeping its way up her spine. …Why hide from death? Why fear the burial mound? The Exorcist stared up at the candlelit ceiling, at the phantom-eyes of Il-Andon Rorik, and at her own mortality. Pain wracked her in a shuddering cough. She had barely survived Korriban. She stared into the darkness, contemplating the temptations and the shadows of the past. She held her lightsaber to her chest, cradling its worn handle in shaking hands. Why leave us? This darkness does not bargain. You do not reason. You are rot. The longer you hide from us, the longer our shadow grows. She could feel it within her, wrapping its hands around her heart, tearing into her mind with ravenous hunger. A desire for power. And now you have taken hold. Will you take the seat of my soul, devour me until there is nothing left? Do you want us to? Would all my suffering will be at an end? Would the darkness finally give me peace? Taste and see. The hunger became a primal beat, twisting the song until it was all she could hear. She could see the Jedi fighting her now, her silver blade piercing the heart of Sandy Sarna, cutting the life from her. The reflection of a devilish delight with the woman’s fading eyes. No. Horror came to her then, shocking disgust at her own fantasies. Shame. I will not allow this. She turned her mind to the Sith. To fighting the Spider and its minions. Her fingers twisted the saber spear, her every ounce of strength devoted to one act. She would listen no more to the voices of the underworld. I will go to the bed of demons; I will look them in the eye. I will go to war. Snap-Hiss The Exorcist drove the shimmering, pure, silver blade deep into her breast, piercing the rotting heart below. Black smoke poured from the wound as lifeless fingers dropped the sparking spear. The white sheet moved, and a pale hand caught the falling spear. A tinkling, laughing voice came forth. A new voice. “In the end we all fall, even the gods from their heavens, but it is not yet my time to rest eternal.”
  4. The Exorcist could not hide her disappointment at the lack of Sith response to her prodding, to the trap she had set. She dug a bootheel into the shifting sand and shaded her eyes against the harsh sun, staring hard at Master Sarna. She had no love of the Jedi Order, but this one had treated her differently. An unnatural kindness for those who forsook life itself by the tenets of their ridiculous code. At her feet, in the emptiness of fractured stone, revelation stirred. “Tis… but a world of ghosts. Nothing of any worth remains here for the Sith.” The woman knelt, her probiscis flicking at the dry air, as if beckoning battle to come to them. She placed a hand within the warm granules of sand, feeling the radiant heat against her bare skin, focusing on the physicality of it. An anchor against the darkness in her mind. She let out a small sigh of relief and opened a leather pouch at her side, filling it with the twisting, sparkling sand. It felt like a black weight on her side, as if it contained a revenant. More practice. She turned her face to the east, to the setting sun and walked towards extraction and the U-Wing that would bring the team back to Alliance Command
  5. The Master of the Exorcists could feel the sand shift beneath her feet as she walked, hunched in her cowl against the beating sunlight. The lights were dazzling. She felt incredibly small against the inherent darkness of this place. Even the ysalimiri could not keep the intrusive thoughts of the Dark Side at bay. Do you enjoy the touch of the dark? The sands twisted beneath her feet and she stumbled away from the party, her gaze diverted towards the northwest. Towards the Valley of the Dark Lords. Unnatural temptation. She desired to reach out, to call out in the force. You gaze into the dark, girl. The Imperial Knight stepped to the edge of the lizard’s influence, letting herself regain some strength. The air itself was repulsive. It stank of ancient death. Echoes of crimes and torture clung to her traveler’s clothing, and she shook herself as if to shake them all off her. Her mind formed the lessons of Il-Andon Rorik, her former master. …When darkness stains life, it is at first a slow spread. That of temptation, of lowered defenses, of the sweet caress of vice. Kyrie breathed in a lungful of the heated air, letting it fill her lungs. A simple thing, a touchstone of physicality that would help wrench herself from the psychosis that plagued her. Finally, before you are aware, you are a wanderer. Darkness has changed everything; it has turned your home into a foreign land, and those you hold as beloved into strangers. Kyrie turned her eyes back to her team and retreated into the dampened force. If any Sith had sensed her, it would be that stirring potential of an apprentice, of a partially corrupted thing. She would be a temptation, but nothing more. When she spoke to Master Sarna it was with an almost different voice, a different personality; that of a harnessed lord of war. A dragon in chains, awaiting its opportunity. “Yes… We will stake out the perimeter. If any Sith come, they wont know what hit them.”
  6. She felt small against the tide, pulled this way and that by the emotions and personalities that crowded her mind. There had once been a fire around which they would all crowd for warmth, but now the flame had diminished with the influence of the force-eating lizards that inhabited the shuttle, and the voices had increased to a howl and like wolves they were hunting. The Anzati huddled into the crash webbing, bringing her armored knees to her small chest, hugging herself about the ankles, burying her eyes into the darkness. Her jaw was set , stress and self-hatred boring their way through her defenses to make them grind. Her lips moved in a silent song, one she sang to keep the wolves at bay. You come here… To Korriban? The Imperial Knight winced and brought her head up to stare out the viewscreen apart from her. There was flickering and reflective sand. Flitting lights swam in her eyes, distant cries echoing on silent winds Look around and you will see them. The burned, the tortured, the slain. Here they lie, desiccated in the sands and drowning in the Phlegethon. She could almost smell the burnt flesh. The tormented screaming. Her fingers clung to her crash webbing, white as alabaster in the sunlight. Did you think the dead lie still here? This is not a place of rest. Her torments were fast becoming her elements. A voice cut into her wallowing terror, that of Sandy Sarna. “Well lets hope they don’t just shoot us down eh.” Kyrie turned her head to look at the woman, taking in the reassurance of her humor, the warmth of her smile. It was almost enough to stoke the flames of her internal fire, but the lizard’s influence was far too great. She winced back a forced smile, her stutter pronounced as she pointed to the lights on the sands that only she could see. “Do you see the t-them c-coming? They yearn for life, hunger for it - like a pack of wolves on a hunt…”
  7. Father… Kyrie winced as she felt her father die, the sudden anguish exterminating the joy of victory, washing the confidence from her mind. Harjav Fieldgrey was gone, and with it her last living connection to the galaxy. The grief turned a key and something arose within her. …Did you think we were truly gone, after all this time? The Master of the Exorcists stared into the faces of her compatriots, pain overwhelming her vision with a dark veil. She could feel her flesh screaming as it knit itself together, the natural reaction to something infested with darkness to even the healing touch of the light. …You cannot rid yourself of your shadow… The Imperial Knight breathed out a hiss as the burns reversed themselves retaining their ghostly embers within her nerves. Shockwaves of pain washed up and across her body, but she redirected the expressing of it into a mask, a shy smile. The voices of her youth had returned, blending with that of the Krayt. The Exorcist took a steadying breath and the colors of the world seemed to shift their tone. Amethyst eyes blinked and her probiscis flicked at the air, as if tasting for the first time. She heard music. The woman passed a scarred hand across her vision and bowed the Jedi apologetically and walked slowly to the shuttlecraft they would take to their next mission, slinging her longbow over her shoulder, a strange smile alighting her features.
  8. The tears continued, burning trails of pain dropping to the decking. All she could feel was the monster within her, consuming her fire, deafening her song. It burned. Horrendously. Why does it burn? The Exorcist coughed, tasting the bitterness of ash and soot. ...Do you think you can purify… Me? The basest touch of sin, the impurity of the dark side rose from her heart to her throat with a surge of bile. She shuddered against the unforgiving decking. …I am a Sin Eater; it is my duty to consume in order to purify… She breathed in a ragged breath, sobbing into the deck as she burned internally. …Redemption is yours if you allow it. Or you have death. Smoke curled from her lips. There was a warmth. A kindness. A hand was upon her skin, flooding her with life. With the Force. Kyrie channeled the healing warmth inside of her, like a breath upon the coals of a forge. She breathed in a steady breath and it was like a bellows upon that forge, that fire of the Exorcists, driving her eyes open. In that moment she overcame the immensity of the Sin within, and the Krayt’s immeasurable evil burned like straw. It had chosen redemption instead of death. She drew in the living force around her, turning it into silvered fire that wreathed about her, driving through her flesh to burn the Sin into ash. There was her song, changed. More predatory. The Exorcist’s probiscis flicked at the air as she turned towards the Mon Cal that knelt over her, taking in the smile and the kindness of the healer. She raised a trembling hand and touched the skin of the healer, took reassurance from the purity she found. She had been living in the grey for too long, swallowed up by the ashes of what she consumed. Kyrie flashed Leena a shy smile, burning away any impurity of sin around them with the purifying power of the Light Side. There was another presence, one all familiar to the Imperial Knight, that of Sandy Sarna. She was shining in the Force, stronger than the Exorcist had remembered. The Grandmaster of the Exorcists pulled herself shakily to her feet, the cauterized wounds sending waves of pain through her nerves. Her armor was a mess, burned and shattered from the battle for Corellia. …Our triumph. She held her head higher, her probiscis tasting the air in time to her predatory song. Her words were slow, basic never having been a fluid tongue. When she smiled, it was the smile of a tamed Krayt, a reflection of what she had taken into herself and sacrificed for the will of the Force. Before she had formed the Exorcists, she had been leader of the Jedi Guardians, and it was their training of body that she used now to even keep standing. “I apologize for… my appearance.” The briarwood handle of her saber-spear felt heavier in her palm as she hefted it, spinning it like a baton several times until it rested upon her armored shoulder. “Do I… Have time to… Change… before our next… fight?”
  9. Kyrie’s black and forest green TIE-Ugly, that disorganized amalgamation of Y-wing and TIE-Interceptor broke from the bonds of hyperspace to soar above the criminal world. The Imperial Knight’s breathing was ragged, each rasping gasp tinged with pain. The wounds of the battle with the Sithling were a heavy cost to bear for the victory of Corellia, but the weight of the soul she had consumed was heavier still. Her song was weak. Gwn Marwolaeth. A wicked name. The residue of what she had burned away from the Sith made her feel wretchedly disgusting. There was an almost inhuman soul that was burning within her still, like a great unidentified beast, unconquerable with even her fiery heart. There was another name that was filtering through her song. What are you, unholy darkness? A voice, reptillian and cold …Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr… Draig yr anialwch… Ar ôl difa, nawr am ddim… The Exorcist breathed in another ragged breath, letting the autopilot take her TIE-Ugly towards one of the hidden landing pads of the Rebel Alliance. The ship pitched towards the southern pole as Kyrie began to sweat profusely. She felt cold. Feverish. The fire was burning out. Desperation came then, overwhelming her senses with her consumed sins. Her fire was burning out. Blood leaked from the partially cauterized wounds that adorned her flesh, black and smoking. She tried desperately to summon her flame, to cast it even at her own flesh, but none came. Her song of summer was gone, and with it went the flames. Her mind turned internally as the ship began to shake upon atmospheric entry. Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr. Kyrie could feel it now, a dragon within, writhing amongst the shadows of her mind. The soul of the desert. A Krayt. What did that creature do to me? The TIE-Ugly touched down, and Kyrie dragged herself from the yawning hatchway, half collapsing upon the decking. She cast about in her desperation, but no flame came to her now. It was gone from her, that song that had carried her from Ord Mantell. That song of summer was no more. Steaming tears ran in rivulets down her face, flicking from her probiscis to evaporate on the decking. She was an Exorcist without purifying flame, cursed with the soul of a dragon.
  10. The Song changed its rhythm and the Master of the Exorcists stared beyond the silver orange glow of the saber-spear to a now fallen opponent. She was surprised, in the rush of war she had not foreseen the fall. She had miscalculated and struck out against the Sith without first stretching to feel… There was little darkness left in the darkening Forest, and there was only a slight touch of it upon the wind. The other Darkside presence within Coronet city had been extinguished completely, while the one before her was weak to the point of non-existence. Kyrie breathed in, listening. The air tasted of death upon a faraway breeze, but there was something else beyond the natural smells of a forest, even one that was partially ablaze. Deeper than the aroma of boiling sap. A corruption was what the spirits spoke of. The Song vanished as she exhaled, and the full sound of the Forest swarmed in around her. The crackling of dried underbrush ablaze. The worried calls of nightbirds. The echo of a heartbeat behind her. The Exorcist turned and stared at its source, the fallen Wyrmsteel blade of the Sith Pyromancer. She shifted her gaze to the fallen woman and saw a rise and fall of her chest. The Sithling still lived. The Imperial Knight extinguished her lightsaber with a satisfying snap-hiss and strode carefully to the Sword, listening. It bore a heartbeat, but one as if heard across a placid lake, echoed and formless. A name sprang to her mind as she touched its hilt …Gwn Marwolaeth… A burning hunger crawled up her spine as she ripped the Sith’s blade from the forest floor, and the forest itself seemed to relax. With the relief a wash of pain roared through Kyrie, as her own concentration and adrenaline began to fade. She hissed and looked to the blistered flesh on her arms, and the trickle of blood that leaked through scorch-lined cracks in her left greave. With greater effort, the Imperial Knight hobbled to the fallen form of the Sith Assassin, watching the pained breaths come from the form, accompanied by a mewing cough. Her probisci flicked at the air, tasting and wanting. Hunger. The Exorcist breathed in a staggered breath, holding the sith sword up, her every instinct crying for her to strike the blade into her opponent’s flesh. Starvation. The probisci writhed in her vision and she breathed in another breath, this one more determined, and she spoke aloud to herself. Ardenter, oh, that gluttonous eagerness… The sword rose higher and the Exorcist screamed and forced her probisci to touch the Wyrmsteel May you devour poison! Her scream became frantic as she drew the heartbeat from the sword itself, casting it into the fires of her own heart. Pain rushed through all of her, for it was like swallowing a viper’s fangs. She hugged the Wyrmsteel to her breast and cried, collapsing beside the Sith’s broken form. She took upon herself the sins of Gwn Marwolaeth and consumed them like they were her own. She had to consume to burn away evil. Her screams began to subside as the name was burned into her soul. The heartbeat she did not destroy but purged with her own agony. The sword’s words were of death, but they were also familiar. Long ago her father Harjav had named her sister Hayley as his inspiration in such a tongue, calling her thereafter Awenydd. The Master of Exorcists gave the sword a new name, Llafn Tân, or The Blade of Fire and laid it on the Sith’s chest, wrapping the woman's fingers about the hilt. Drawing from her belt the medkit, she slipped the knives from the Sith’s shoulders, packing the wounds with clotting form bacta. She only had one usable bacta spray and used it on the Sith’s wounds before she bound them with scraps from her Kama. A Sith redeemed was far better to the Force than a dead one. With the Sith medically stabilized, she slipped away, back to her own ship in order to meditate and heal.
  11. Kyrie felt more than saw the Sithling’s sword, the wyrmsteel glistening in the fading light of Corellia’s sunset pass by her, to plunge its corruption into the forest floor. She could feel the forest’s repulsion by the blasphemous incursion as she passed her locus of control about her, feeling for any continuation of the attack. There was none, and the Sithling leapt away. The Exorcist’s eyes fell on the quiver of black-feathered arrows on her side, wishing she had brought her barrowyew longbow with her from her ship. At least then she could have dispatched the Sithling from a distance. The Master of the Exorcists continued to press into Silence, at that bitter wrath and hunger. The Sith was like the Maw, consuming for the sake of power but gaining no life. Such were the ways of the darkside. Eternally seeking power with no longevity. The voice of the Sithling came from the smoke and darkness of the forest, filtering as if from a thousand directions The Sith seemed eternally able to conjure words from her mouth, even in the heat of battle where conversation was both unwanted and loathsome. The words of the Sith were dripping with poison, taunting the Exorcist of her struggle, that unending discord between her own flesh and the fires of the Force. The Azanti physiology of her form had set a profound craving within her, deep enough to touch the bedrock of her psychology. The yearning was devious and was held within her depths, but it was stirred by the Sithling’s words. For Kyrie, the depravity of the flesh was a consuming void at the very center of her soul, and she could feel its touch within the words of the Sith. What was strong enough to stand against that? The Exorcist breathed in and listened, stilling her disquiet. The hunger gave off no song, no fire of life. Against that darkness there was something greater. There was the song, that ever-present heartbeat of the Force. The promise of life. It flowed around her, caressing her with its melody, drowning out the discordant tones of the Sith’s words with its rhythmic radiance. Her locus of control moved to her belt and quiver once more as the song moved from her lips. She seized three arrows with her mind familiarizing herself with their fletching and bodkin tips as she added them to her locus, along with her remaining stillettos. She pressed the song against the Sithling’s influence, her eyes finding her opponent’s. Asperges me incendium, et mundabor, lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor… That was the inherent weakness of the dark side, even a small candle could hold it at bay, and to such darkness, the Master of the Exorcists was a bonfire. Kyrie’s flesh began to glow with wreathing flames of silver. There was intent to the fading evil and the Imperial Knight adjusted her stance to a more mobile Mezza Porta di Ferro, the guard of the middle gate for the circles of the spear. Pain from her burns protested, but through crucitorn she passed it into her internal flame. With the guard of the Middle Gate, The Imperial Knight straightened her back, engaging her core and taking a step backwards with her right foot, letting her left foot lead once more as she rose to the balls of her feet. Her shoulders and arms relaxed, and she held the shaft of the spear loosely, her fingers caressing the briar-wood with anticipation. Both hands moved closer to the balance and she gripped the cortosis-inlaid wood with only the first two fingers on each hand, sacrificing grip strength for mobility. Images cloaked in flame surrounded her, twisted abominations of her past. They felt sick within the Song, and as they approached, she discovered the source of their illness. They were birthed of perversion, warped mimicry of her own flame. To a Master of Exorcists, such aberration was an anathema. Her remaining stiletto knives whipped from her belt, hovering beside her, glowing white with her holy wrath. As the demons closed in, she struck, channeling her power into her legs. From her mobile stance, the Imperial Knight stepped from the centerline once more, spinning and sweeping her saber-spear in a full arc, the brilliant blade of orange and silver protecting her front while the weighted pommel protected her rear. The sweep was easy to achieve from the stance, as the balance of the spear was close to her center of gravity. The defensive arc set off an explosion of as the impure fire met with the pure, and from it, Kyrie leapt towards her opponent, her kama trailing smoke. A splash of pain echoed from her legs, a touch of the Sith's impure fire had burned her calf. She had grown weary of this pyromancer who could turn her own flame against her. The Master of the Exorcists landed in the guard of the middle gate several yards from her opponent, and when she spoke, her voice carried a stutter but a bitter confidence. “Turn from your… Evil… Or be destroyed by it.” A crack in the air indicating the remaining stiletto blades zipping from the raging inferno behind them, her locus of control bringing them up to the speed of sound, angling them for the Sith’s center of mass at converging angles before releasing them. The three arrows she had passed into her locus were used with less finesse, their steel bodkin tips glittering with translucent white fire as they spilled from their quiver, cracking to speed in a whistling swarm, released towards the Sith’s chest. ((3))
  12. The Master of the Exorcists watched her opponent fly backward with the strength of Summer’s Song, listening to the Force as it moved about her. There was no change to the mournful song, no melody that marked the departure of the soul from flesh. The Sithling was not out of the fight, which… Excited her? Battlelust was of the Dark Side. There was the pounding of hunger’s laughter within her. Why did it sound so much like Hayley’s tinkling laughter? Kyrie took a deep breath, letting her flames surge internally while her locus of control came back to within her circle of the spear. It was a simple calming technique, to fall back upon one’s training to remove the worry of the mind. The circle of the spear was larger than the control of the sword-circle, which itself dwarfed the circle of the knife. It was how she had been taught on Ord Mantell, the longer the weapon, the greater the circle of control, and the harder the blow to be delivered. It was simple physics and geometry, the tip of a weapon that was longer than another when moved by the same hand was faster at that tip than the shorter. But why did it sound like Hayley? There it was again, Rage and Hunger. The Song intensified, the words flowing from her lips Redde mihi laetitiam flammum tui: et spiritu principali confirma me... The Imperial Knight’s violet eyes narrowed. She let her fire imbue her flesh once more, knitting into the sinew and muscle. A great intensity of strength and energy washed through her. There was something off. Kyrie’s hands gripped the shaft of the spear as she held the stance of Posta di Fenestra Destra upon the forest loam. The Song of Summer had been perverted This Sithling was wreathed in its own flame now, and it somehow held some of the energies of Kyrie’s attack within its armor. A curse dripped from Kyrie’s lips around the song, seeming to spit from the probisci as they whipped at the air. ...Maledictus magicae! As if to answer her curse, the enemy’s power intensified, and the attack came. It was a great bestial thing made of the perverted flame and wind, bound with Sith magic. It was bound in smoke, which would act like a shield for the Assassin behind. Storm’s light raged in her flesh. The Master of the Sin Eaters let the form of Posta di Fenestra Destra transform, falling back with her left foot, letting the force of concussive blast send her backwards, but she controlled her stance. She closed her eyes against the burning ash, trusting in the Song’s guidance. Kyrie’s armor smoked, the forest-green cloth that made the sleeves of her armor burning away to ash against the Sith’s onslaught, and pain began to creep into her. Patches of the flesh on her arms turned red and black as they were scalded by the Sith's fire. Pain was a base emotion, and one that she had learned to embrace with her mastery of Crucitorn. She passed the surge of adrenaline and its spike in her fight or flight instincts into her flame. She had to sacrifice everything to fight the Sith, even her human instincts. It was what made her an Exorcist. Held as it was by her head, the spear-saber’s balance point in the right hand and the left hand by its pommel, it was relatively easy to control. Her stance continued to transform, and she allowed the force of the Enemy’s attack to enhance her backstep and help her escape the centerline. The Imperial Knight stepped her left foot back at an angle, as her saber-spear met the physical attack. Her saber’s orange blade embraced by its silver lightning caressed the Sith’s dark wyrmsteel that made the forge-bound Gwn Marwolaeth, and there was a shock down the briar-wood handle of her spear. The Sithling’s strength was impressive, but a sword’s strength meant little to the control of the spear. Even against a Beidhänder, The Circle of the Spear was the best at defense. Kyrie’s grip on the balance loosened a fraction and she guided the pommel with her left hand as her stance pivoted into a right foot forward Posta di Vera Croce, stalling her retreat. Her left foot was now carrying the majority of her weight with a bent knee while her right leg was straighter and stretched towards her opponent. She guided the Sithling’s diagonal strike down and to her left, using the Sith’s reckless strength and momentum against her. Kyrie channeled a portion of her flame into the act and the lightsaber appeared to be wreathed in silver fire as it danced. Once the enemy’s attack’s momentum was passing beyond her own centerline, Kyrie flicked her left hand which still gripped near the pommel, driving the blade up and towards her opponent’s chest and unprotected armpit. It would appear as silver and orange lightning, of unnatural speed due to the circle of the spear. Now that the Sith was closer, The Master of the Exorcists applied her fire in a different way. She poured her flame into a war against the wrath and hunger that drove her opponent’s connection to the Force itself, able now to apply Silence, now that she was sure of the Sithling’s source of power. The Holy Flame itself leapt between the two minds, Kyrie attempting to burn away at the Wrath and Starvation as one would set a controlled fire in a control line to defeat the rage of mighty forest fire. She would consume the fuel that gave the Sithling strength. Docebo iniquos vias tuas: et impii ad tu destrui… ((2))
  13. Her opponent took the form of Dente di Zenghiaro or The Boar's Tusk, with a wicked looking blade of Sithmetal. The fulleration in the three-foot blade caught the fading light of the evening, giving the sword an impish gleam. On Ord Mantell, such a sword was called a Beidhänder, and it was not a weapon a woman such as the one before her would normally carry. It made the Exorcist cautious as the Sith advanced across the forest floor. She expanded her locus of control across her body, settling a portion upon her weapons. The wind began to blow through the trees, marked by the rattling of the bare branches of a Thyassup above them, the dark-barked tree having long shed its leaves with the change of the seasons. The Song continued its mournful rhythm, and the Saber-spear reverberated with its words. The faint white glow that wreathed its long shaft became a firestorm of light, flowing from the Exorcist’s hands. She sang with the rhythm, letting the words of the Force flow through her. Cor mundum crea in me, deorum et flamme rectum innova in visceribus meis. With her own blackened boots making almost no sound, Kyrie modified her Hellepartan stance into Posta di Fenestra Destra, her saber-spear igniting into an orange glow, sparking with bolts of silver fire. The stance was one seldom used in the treatise of Vom Tag, but it allowed for balance and control in the defense. Her forest-green kama whipped with the wind as she moved. The Exorcist’s left foot came forward, but a larger portion of her weight she held over the right. Her left hand caressed the cortosis-enweaved briar-wood two handsbreadths above the base of the spear, while the right held the wood loosely and close to the balance which she brought up, close to her pointed ear. Starvation… and… Wrath. Such an amplification of emotions was unnatural to the Exorcist. It was a wicked twisting of her own internal struggle. They began to take on their own flames within her but paled against the Holy Flame within her. It blazed far greater, an unstoppable inferno of righteousness, which consumed all before it. The willpower of the Master of the Exorcists was strong. Her probisci flicked at the air. Tasting. Hunting. The ashes of the sin that she had consumed sat like lump of beskar upon her mind, burning but never melting away. The new fires had left a stain upon her, more weight within her soul, and it drove her to engage. The Exorcist sighed with the mournful songs of the Force as they converged about her. Ne proiicias me a facie tua, et ignis sanctum tuum ne auferas a me. The hunger had an external origin and she let forth a portion of the flame that had been fed by it. The Imperial Knight focused upon the Sithling before her, giving the flame life, bonding it to the wind that moved around them, and letting it go. The brilliant white flame leapt from her saber-spear, taking the unconscious form of an all-consuming tempest, rushing to take the Sithling from her left, where the form of the Boar’s Tusk was strongest. From her locus of control, Kyrie whipped one of the six-inch fixed-blade stillettos on her belt with a simple expression of the force. It cracked as it was brought to a dizzying speed before she released it from her minds control. It was angled at the Sithling’s right shoulder in a wide arc to the right, from which the Boar’s Tusk stance was more vulnerable. Together the attacks would hit on both sides at a forward angle. The Exorcist pressed back into the Hunger of the Song, seeking the influence of her opponent. Now she knew from where this Assassin took a portion of her power. ((1))
  14. As the Imperial Knight walked, the forest’s damp odor began to take on sweeter tones, floral and rich. The humidity caused sweat to bead upon her pale skin, drawing insects to swarm about her in a thick haze. The forest loam beneath her boots became more sticky, black mud clinging to every footfall. The fallen trees about her carried fungal growths upon their bark, overcome like lepers by their sores, driven to destruction by the entropy of nature. When from this land I go, what will become of me? Her proboscis flicked at the air, writhing from her between her lips, filling her mind with the taste of rot and broken earth. The song that passed from her was of her own sorrow, for her future and the fate of all Sin Eaters. A fallen creature caught her eye, its matted fur half-submerged in the dark mud, surrounded by carrion. The rich scent was coming from its rent flesh, nauseating, yet enticing to the Jedi’s appetite. A part of her mind spoke into her, reaching out for acknowledgement. It would be delicious, and she was starving. Kyrie’s eyes narrowed as she halted her footsteps towards the rotting creature, willing herself to focus. She threw her starvation into her flame, burning away as much of the feeling as she could manage. She stared at the Kath Hound, willing herself to see. Its flesh was moving. Still alive? Another step, No, the carrion had started their work. The fur was moving from the wriggling of maggots beneath. Lidless eyes were swarmed by flies. The mud was strewn with unraveled viscera. The Force began to scream about her, the reflection of her song was that of warning. There was a deeper hunger here, and it streamed from a nearby being. The Exorcist wheeled her stance into the Hellepartan variation of Vom Tag, angling the staff of her lightsaber towards the mud at her feet, her grip on the cortosis-touched briarwood loose and wide. Her right hand touched the weighted pommel, caressing the beskar that had been inlaid into the dark wood. She extended out her locus of control, touching the world about her with fire. Strange words streamed from the figure as it stepped through the mud, the dwindling light obscuring her full vision. It was of the basic tongue but spoken swiftly and in the bubbly form of a preteen. The little she understood spoke of hunger. The darkness that streamed through The Song made the origins of this figure unmistakable. Sith. A wrapped protein bar flew from the Sith’s hand, an offering, for the creature must have sensed The Jedi’s hunger. Kyrie cast out a net within the force, capturing the offering within it. The words of the Exorcist came stumbling from an unstable tongue, filled with a reserved malice. “Tenet insanabile multos peredo cacoethes…” (The incurable desire to consume affects us all...) The probisci flicked a challenge, and the protein bar was consumed in bright white fire. The Exorcist began to pour her own emotions into her inner fire, building up her flame for battle. Fire wreathed her exposed flesh, imbuing into the handle of the lightsaber, causing a faint glow in the twilight. The song became mournful once more, Eternal happiness far away, must my portion be...
  15. The Force, that beautiful and haunting song that crawled through the mind of the Exorcist, broke into reverberating cries of pain. The Sith had arrived. Kyrie steeled her psyche against the eruption of emotions that spelled the Sith’s arrival. It was as if the force itself was in mourning for what was to come. She channeled the misery into her internal flame, letting herself grow bright with fire’s touch. The cockpit of the TIE-Ugly began to glow a faint white. The Song began to return in her mind, a deep and animalistic thing, a reflection of the natural beauty of space above Corellia. The Force moved. The Song changed its rhythm as more voices were added. Her Watchers had awakened, and they sensed the Dark Side. In the harrowing of her soul, there would be salvation. The Imperial Knight sucked in a breath from the flight helmet, letting the air fill her lungs, spreading its energy throughout her body. She let her fire grow, stoking it to life within her veins. She would need it to devour the sins of those she was to fight. A mournful cry. There was another song, one speaking of a dark future. A sick intention. Flipping the control yoke of the TIE-Ugly, she sent her starfighter into a spin towards Coronet City. The darkness would strike at the heart of the Rebellion, its citizens. Those unfortunate innocents that were always destroyed in war. The Dark Side was reaching out its hunger, telling of its desire to consume all life. Her own hunger echoed it. Kyrie did not know what the attack would be, nor its soldiers, but while her fleet would battle above, she would fight on the ground. Her lips parted and her breath left, the words of her song forming inside the TIE-Ugly’s cockpit, transmitting to her Watchers. A land of deepest shade, unpierced by human thought… A crashing shook the starfighter as it ripped into the atmosphere, a sonic refrain following it. According to her readouts, the Starport was heavily fortified, but the numerous large leisure parks were undefended. She angled the starfighter toward the massive botanical garden complex that made up the centerpiece of Coronet’s Diamond District. The sudden pull of gravity set her head swimming, and the autopilot took over as she released the control yoke. Slipping from her crash webbing, Kyrie leapt from the yawning cockpit of the TIE-Ugly, landing on the soft loam of the forest. Even through her boots, she could feel the softness of the moss and the spring of the soil beneath her. She ripped her flight-helmet from her head, shaking loose her multitude of ebony braids before sweeping them back behind her pointed ears. The breath of the fresh air spoke to her of pollen and rotting vegetation, of mud and entropy. Of life. Her probisci reached from her cheeks, striking against the air, desiring the soup of life. A hunger rose along with disgust and she breathed it away, feeding it to the fires within. Unclipping her saber-spear, she began to walk through the trees, letting her somber song reverberate across leaf and stone. That weary region of the dead where all things are forgot…
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