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Fieldgrey last won the day on July 23

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  1. Fieldgrey


    The Sith Lord bristled at her apprentice’s mutterings. The Code of the Sith. Those feeble and meaningless words. He seemed to believe in such mantras. Peace is a lie. There is only Passion. Darth Awenydd’s eyes rolled back behind her closed eyelids, Through Passion I gain Strength. It was true that the power of the Dark Side could be channeled through passions, and such feelings harnessed for strength, but it was meaningless without conflict. The storm raged about them, the surf raging in white peaks, surging about them both. The waters were cold, sapping the warmth from her flesh as she sat upon the bloodied sands. With her own wrath she drilled into the mind of the captive before her. All his fears became exposed, and she utilized them to get deeper into his psyche. Within the veil of the Force, a myriad of swirling images began to manifest, beasts, horrors, nightmares, all for the torment of the man before her, his shrieks of terror becoming lost in the howls of the wind. She would keep his mind from the embrace of catatonia, she needed his fear fresh for her apprentice. Her own words were those of a rebuke, but a gentle one. “Do you truly think you can understand the depths of The Force through an adherence to codes?” She fed the fear into the storm, thunderclaps echoing the man’s screams. The strength of conflict. “We all achieve definition in conflict, it is there we find ourselves or find ourselves lacking.” To emphasize her point, her own battle against the will of her captive was won, the man’s struggle for freedom against the stuncuffs changing its rhythm into something else entirely. The shadow of his mind wanted only the freedom now to slit his own throat. Her apprentice would find his power, or be forever trapped in its pursuit. “Now, strengthen your flesh and fight the wind. Let us see what echoes your conflict produce.”
  2. Fieldgrey


    The Sith Lord looked up as her apprentice surged away, a blossom of energy within the Force. The warped vibroblade shot away, propelled like a slug from a scattergun into a target. She could not see the actions of her apprentice with her eyes due to the curves of the dark dunes, but the echoes her apprentice made in the Force made it all too clear. She began to channel her own wrath, her rage against the chaos. Terror, Pain, and then nothing. He was killing them faster than he could utilize their emotions, but that was to be expected. He was a shining supernova of energy before her senses, but he was dimming swiftly. The way he used the force and the echoes that he cast about him in the sand were sloppy, like the splashings of a child in a tantrum. Darth Awenydd’s own hands continued to draw in the blood-soaked beach, the waves casting themselves around her, but not dissuading her actions. Her scars soaked up the blood, oblivious to the cries of the storm and the sucking of the waves. Pain. That emotion was beginning to echo the loudest, overpowering all others. Her apprentice had been wounded, but not fatally. Anarchy and Entropy were the reverberations within the Force, bleeding away the power from her apprentice into uselessness. As the captive was dragged over the dunes towards her, Hayley reached out with her wrath, that settled and deliberate anger, striking against the chaos that threatened Shiro, that cauterized wound upon his chest. With blood-soaked fingers she withdrew a handful of sand from the waves. From the captive she bound terror, drawing it out of him as she amplified it. She would let the seeds of insanity grow, fed by his worst nightmares. To the captive’s mind, the beach became littered with corpses. Breathing in the man’s panic, she expelled into Shiro’s charred flesh, slapping the sand into the wound, transforming them both. The sand was debased by her rage, falling into its pure silicate form, and bound itself into the wound, knitting the cauterized flesh with a living glass, a true horror of Sith magic. The winds howled their own rage, echoing her actions with lightning, bolts of light shattering the sand about them into glassy spikes, buffeting them with its thunder until the glass pillars became windblown shards. The Sith Lord had to shout to be heard above the turmoil. “I will torture him, you must feed off those emotions to survive this storm. Bind the power of your rage into your flesh, harden it against that which is to come.” With those words said, Darth Awenydd began to carve into the captive’s mind, using her own body as a catalyst for the corrupting power of the dark side. For the captive there was no hope, only the discord of the worst of humanity. ((OOC: The Sith Warrior makes a barrier of their flesh, utilizing their own rage to be somewhat impervious to light damage. You are a novice to this, treat it as such.))
  3. Fieldgrey


    The Sith Lord could feel the Soldier’s manipulations in the Force, a sudden surge of passionate energy that swarmed about the man. He applies violence like an artist, taking a color from the palette and giving it a macabre life. The snapping of vertebrae cascaded over her, for a moment drowning out the sounds of the storm. She let out a small sigh. Yet his brushwork is clumsy, like the futile stabs of a toddler splashing his paints… It was one thing to cast about the force in grand movements, such as in the ending of a life, it was another entirely to act with precision. She stared over the dunes at the remaining soldiers who were setting about camp. They didn’t deserve their fates, but their sacrifice was a vital lesson for a far greater cause. Such were the fates of the weak, eternally the playthings of the strong. Driftwood began to scatter upon the sand, the true power of the coming storm almost upon them. The Sith Lord nodded slowly, watching the Sold-, no her apprentice. “Take them as you will. Use as little strength as possible, and be as precise in your actions as you can. Learn your control. Let their fates foster the strength you will need to weather this storm. The Sith Lord began to draw upon the sand with the blood of the fallen, the crimson pain seeming to creep up the scars in her fingers, like the roots of a great tree soaks up the dew. Her voice was harsh then, "But...Bring one to me alive for the next lesson.”
  4. Fieldgrey


    How easily men are corrupted by power… Darth Awenydd watched as the Soldier killed the two men, his former soldiers without so much as a hesitation. Her sulphuric yellow eyes took in his baptism in blood, with dispassionate interest. The way the Dark Side moved was always unique in its new believers and was worthy of study. She filed away its corrupting influence on the Soldier before her. So often the Dark Side moved its Warriors to meaningless slaughter, to purge everything around them, and to leave them alone among the ashes of their own inconsequential triumphs. What use was that? Why did the Force move men to slaughter those they could easily rule, or at least dominate to their own will? Her own master had not killed without reason, only to feed his hunger, but he was Krath, not Warrior. Lucifer had killed without so much as a thought on Mykryr and he had named himself a Prince of Warriors. So this was the Warrior path, to always fight to show one’s strength. The Sith Lord rose from the sand, the sand falling away from her tattered robes and tunic in wet clumps. She brushed a scarred hand through her auburn hair and stared at the Soldier, taking him and his choices in. “If the force commands, do it, but do not slay without reflecting on the reason…” She stepped to one of the dying men, listening to his feeble, gurgled screams. She breathed in, letting the emotions fill her. The Storm was coming, and she could feel the beats of its wind upon her back. “Pain, suffering, terror. Those passions feed our darkness, let those victories add to your strength. Take within yourself such things, let it nourish you.” ((OOC: Let the emotions of those you kill fill you, feed you for the next victory. It must sustain you for the next fight. Channel this victory to conquer telekinesis and demonstrate it. You are still a novice in this and it will require great concentration.))
  5. Fieldgrey


    The Krath could feel the storm. Before her was pure rage, but it was uncontrolled, and a pale reflection of the true power of the Force. As inferior as it was, she could feel the echo it was creating. This place amplified and distorted the expressions of the soul, as through a mirror darkly. Around them a hurricane was forming, inky black clouds warping and reforming into a massive stormfront. There was something else at its heart, a gnawing hunger. Footsteps… The soldier’s concentration began to wain, even as he had shifted to the knife she held. Even so, she could feel a small tug upon it, enough to upset its balance. Darth Awenydd watched the blade wobble upon her finger, letting a grin twist her countenance. He touched it, he has potential beyond just the swirling of the force. Reaching out, she snatched the blade from the air as it began to fall, turning her attention to the shocked troopers on the dunes beside them. Another test for the man. Old loyalties or power? Frustration was building inside of him. A deep well of untapped potential. The Krath slipped out her own wrath, letting it wriggle across the dunes towards the soldiers like a wave of devouring snakes. The dark sand shifted beneath them and she dragged them before the sitting Soldier. Their cries were stifled by thunder as light cut through the sky above them. Her voice was like that of a sand-panther, a concentration of mocking danger. “What would you do unto them? What does the Force command?” The fallen blade hovered between them, an electric sheen shimmering across its blade. Into it she willed her own Wrath, hallowing the blade for the will of the Dark Side. No matter his choices, he would gain his first true lesson. The blade began to warp and darken, like a sheet of flimsiplast thrown into an ironsmith’s forge.
  6. Fieldgrey


    The Sith Lord watched the soldier as he became immersed in the tides of his emotions. She could feel the swirling energies of Rage, and the familiarity of Wrath, that unholy demon that lurked in her own soul. The girl flipped the vibroknife from hand to hand, watching the man as he let the Force fill him. Hunger… Beneath the surface a gnawing feeling began to eat away at her sensation. There was a draw of power in this place, and the acolyte in her lap was drawing attention within the veil of the Force. Fieldgrey could feel eyes upon her, lecherous, wanting. She shuddered, spinning the knife into a whirling blur. The soldier moved to face her, and she caught sight of the power within his eyes. There was a reflection of the hunger within them. They were crimson, flecked with gold. Just like Sheog’s. She closed her own eyes against the thought. His hunger was always there, waiting. Power draws power. The more they touch, the more they want. The Sith Lord stretched out an arm to the soldier, letting the tattered tunic fall away to reveal the scars of torture. She leveled the knife to his face before opening her palm and balancing the blade by its tang on her forefinger. The vibrating blade wobbled in the wind. “Take that storm…” She spun the blade on her fingertip, it staying impossibly balanced “Cast it out like a net. Capture this knife as if it were a fish, and draw it to you.” ((OOC: The seemingly simple act of telekinesis is not as simple as it is in the movies, take your time binding your power into an object before you attempt to move it. Fail, once.))
  7. Fieldgrey


    The Sith Lord listened to the soldier with a slight smile, watching the man fight in his internal dialogue. The struggle between one’s personal dogma and the will of the force was eternal. Her own challenge of struggle and power was continuously at odds. She slipped her fingers into the wet sand, hiding the scars that patterned them from the oncoming storm. Her voice had a purring tone to it as she burrowed her fingers through the sand around her “An eternity of war and rage…” The Krath tipped her head back, letting the wind whip her hair about her, a reflection of the storm’s ferocity in auburn locks. The storm was almost upon them now, the gale engorging itself with brine, mutating the waves before them into murderous whitecaps. The dark ocean became bright with the swell, driven by the chaos of the storm. It was a foretelling of the echo they would create together in the Force. Immense enough to break the force itself. Hayley hated it, chaos. That disgusting disorder which brought death and dismay to so many. She had to fight it, to bring the vicious cycle of conquer and entropy within which innocence was devoured. Wrath burned, she could feel it within her veins, rousing her into power. It was like a drug, giving her such power, but every feeling was stained by it, that bitter hatefulness. She would that addict's end one day, that she knew. “Feel that rage within you… Take it into yourself. Hold it to you like an ember and give it life.” She breathed in slowly, and repeated herself with emphasis. Perhaps the man would find some power within himself. “Take it into yourself. Make it a fire. Make it a wildfire.”
  8. Fieldgrey


    The soldier seized in her arms, and the Sith Lord let the man’s weight carry them both into the sand. The boy could taste the power, and he desired to devour it all. He could sample, but could he use it? But oh was it a different beast it was to wield a power like this... She smiled down at him, her sulpheric yellow eyes filled with profound sadness of such depth it would be like looking into the maw itself. Loss. “As they say, Shiro, Chaos is a ladder…” Her mind turned to the old days under Sheog’s domination. To those like Geki and Ar-Pharazon, or to Lucifer. They had created chaos under a similar guise, they would set the galaxy on fire and reap the harvest. A dark visage crossed her face for but a moment, she could feel the inherent power of this man. Would I dare unleash him upon the galaxy? The Sith Lord cradled her apprentice’s head upon her lap, shielding it from the waves that swelled around them. Her ears were filled with the crashing of surf, but her eyes could only see fire. Who would rule in the ashes of such a galaxy? If he desired such power, she would have to mold him. He would create such disorder, and such discord always created echoes in the Force. Would those echoes be enough? “And what comes after your war? After your rage is all but spent?" ((OOC: Try to use it. To show me the power of that rage, but you must fail the first time. Two to three posts of failure should be sufficient. The Power of the Force is illusive until you can create your foundation.))
  9. Fieldgrey


    ...Murderer… The Force taunted him. It drew him into the rage of the past. The Sith Lord closed her eyes, flicking the blood-slick knife between her agile fingers, spinning drops of blood into the sand where they left flecks of crimson in fragile trails. The surf came and consumed it, washing away the lifeblood with a quiet indignity. “You fought injustice and were branded as a kin-slayer, a murderer…” Matter of factly. The last word she spoke with bemusement, as if the title meant nothing more than a nutrition label on an imperial ration. Her words turned as cold as the wind, “This world has twisted you? Have you no responsibility?” The knife flicked at the air, making a soft whirring as she spun it. “You wash your hands of their blood and blame it on your past.” The knife stopped and touched the cauterized flesh of Shiro’s missing limb. A warning. “Focus!" She bit back her words from a yell. Rain pattered across the sand and a cold wind blew, splattering the sand and bodies without care for their training or the dignity of the dead. The blood around them began to steam. "What does the rage desire?"
  10. Fieldgrey


    The Sith Lord sunk into the sand beside the Imperial Soldier, letting the wet, dark sand grind against her skin, watching the darkness overtake him. This Shiro was different from the one that had come to this tomb of a world before. He had begun to surrender to his passions. At long last. The Krath’s pale lips tugged upward into a grin as she watched the trooper commit murder through her sulpheric yellow eyes. His blade had taken them both through the throat, and she caught his muscular arm in both of her slender ones. With a quick twist she disarmed him and then let him collapse into her arms. He had expended too much power for too little training, and his body was not yet used to the feeling of the darkness. It called to them both, but unchecked it only added to the chaos of their surroundings. She stared at the two men he had cut down. Their crimson lifeblood leaked into the sand, mixing with the surf to turn it into a froth of blood and foam. “Let’s bring it back to the basics, apprentice.” She added the last word to check him under her own power. She would take him on as Sheog had her, molding her to power through a path of discovery. Hayley extended a hand before him and smiled faintly. “I feel the force and its strength when I immerse myself in wrath. It is a sin, one of the seven, those baser passions that the Jedi would deny.” Anger rose within the Sith Lord and she passed it into Wrath, that strong and uncomfortable passion that so easily twisted her. “I want you to meditate and find that focus. Feel it in the blood you spilled without seeing it. Describe all you feel to me. Leave nothing unsaid. ” ((OOC: It should take you two to three posts to truly meditate and touch that power. You cannot control it yet, but it must tempt you.))
  11. Fieldgrey


    A Sith’s strength comes from their internal focus; their inherent passion. Whatever it was for the Sith that tempted them to the darkness with a promise of power. It comes not from long lost arts or visions, that is but a facade behind which demons lurk. The false prospect of strength that lies outside the self. ****** ...Lineages. The Sith Lord watched the Imperial trooper lose an arm, and yet harness the force like a Master. And not even as an apprentice. It made her angry to see the man so full of power he had not earned. The Force was swirling around him like a swarm of locusts, feeding off the power of the place and the man’s raw energy. She spat into the dirt. Disgusting waste. Wrath was tempting her now. Such raw power was so easily spent into chaos and bloodshed. She had now before her a choice, to strike this Shiro down before he became a problem, or to train him as a tool for her to use. No one would miss a lowly Sith trooper and his squad. Hayley stalked up to the man, tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder, before ramming her other hand into his wound. She had no interest in the man dying of blood loss, if he was to die it would be by her hand. To the Nightsister she spoke softly, “Use his blood in whatever ritual you need, I feel this mission was a waste of time. That is my responsibility and I beg your forgiveness for it.” Forgiveness was not of the Sith, but she felt she needed to ask it. The distaste of failure sickened her stomach. Wrath turned the illness to flame through her foci of pyromancy, her rage catching fire, and her hand cauterized the Trooper’s wound. It was a sickening animosity, one borne of her abuse and she bit back tears in its usage. That shard of her soul was not often used. “Take my ship and return to the order if you must, I release you from this quest.” Her words were tinged with the bitterness of failure. The perfume of burning flesh and ichor swirled about them in the seabreeze, a salty and pungent aroma of death. As the wound was sealed, she drove into the man an intense pain, alighting his nerves with agony. She collected some of his blood in a vial for future study, as a Krath the study of genetics and bloodline was of great value “Wake up, fool.”
  12. Fieldgrey


    ...Does the Maelstrom cry for the ships it drives upon the reef? Does the saber-kath hold itself back from the death-strike? Nature’s charter is written in strength, it does not weep for the weak and the dead. Why should a Sith? ***** The Krath’s hair whipped about her face with the power of the rising storm, cloaking her visage behind a curtain of auburn braids. Salt and sand reflected the power of the Sith’s energies, nature itself in rebellion to the wound in the Force. A vortex around which the dynamic evil of that place raged. The crystal, in its mottled ochre luminescence, hummed and shrieked, engraved with the discordant terror of the Force. ...I am the Blooded Drexl. Her concentration shattered, and so did her crystal. All her hope turned to dark vapour, to be scattered by the wind. A small distraction, a heresy to the darkside, and all her work undone. No lens through which she could wield the full power of a genocide. No... Pure malice raged through her spine, seething through her body in a bitter mimicry of the waves behind her. Hayley grasped at the fading energy, attempting to lash it with her soul’s anguish, but her own flesh was a lamentable focus. One life is not enough. The Sith’s sulphuric eyes fell upon the Drexl’s squad, wrapped in their pathetic mortality. The waves moved and the wind cracked. Salt and sand whispered into the Drexl’s mind, preying on his delusions of grandeur. Every creature believed their lineage to be a prophecy. The whisperings would begin, crawling through the sands as if out of time and born of memory. “...power to make the universe right. To be the best of the Armageddons.” Darth Awenydd gave the whispers a tug, to bring the attention to the Nightsister’s work. The voices became male and commanding in their suggestions, as if tapping into ancient historical knowledge of long-dead scholars. “Such runework can only be done through lifeblood. Such a girl should know that. Such weakness.” The Sith Lord concealed a smile with a painful groan
  13. Fieldgrey


    ...What do the Sith do with the weak? Those born into infirmity and retardation? What does the Kathari den-mother do to the runt? Does it allow it to howl with the pack at the majesty of the light of the rings? No. It is crushed and trod upon. To allow such life to continue is to defy evolution, and the strength it brings. ***** Rage and Sorrow A species boiled away in the waves by a cruel tempest of fire birthed from the inhumanity of victorious pride. Dispassionate extermination of the weak. Abstract holocaust. The brackish water burned her tongue filling her nostrils with wildfire. There was such power in the emotions of the river. A rebellion against death. The destruction of this place by the mandalorians had been almost sterile, but it had left a wound in the force nonetheless. Why were the emotions of the weak overcoming her? There was a light in her mind that pushed against the darkness. A ghost that lurked behind her subconscious. Kyrie. The Krath brought her own emotions into the river, with a rawness she had only reserved for her nightmares. She screamed without voice into the darkened water. Why did she live and her sister was left to rape and torment and dishonourable death? The mute girl who had sung her to sleep had been left to rot on that rusting world. You survived because you are strong enough to overcome chaos. Black water filled her eyes with grainy soot. Her nostrils smelled not the water but the blood of her mother on the carpet. Her ears heard not the rushing of waves as the river met the ocean, but the belaboured cries of her sister’s torment. The Sith Lord cried. Her ugly tears combined with the water, merging into the pain and sorrow of that place. Pain was replaced with a dark mirth. The delicious taste of survival. Her cries became laughter. She rose from the waves rebirthed. The darkness of the river rushed into her, drowning the ghost within. Upon her tongue she formed the ocean, casting into it her weakness as a smith applies flux to impure steel. Awenydd dragged herself from the waves, as haggard and maddened as the storm that grew upon her tongue and within the skies above. She dropped beside the nightsister and vomited upon the crimson sand. Purified. Water and bile the colour of a squid’s ink splashed into the sand, bringing with it a deep malice. A crystal of tainted seafoam formed from it as the Sith applied her wrath. Ochre it was in color, the light consumed and scattered in clouds of red and black. It shone in the sand with the flames of that place. It cried for massacre.
  14. Fieldgrey


    What are you thinking? I can tell… You’re afraid. Your doubt, that weakness is like the shadows of your steps. That darkness, it just builds and builds, growing stronger until it overshadows your soul. You might try ignoring it, but it’ll always be there waiting until you’re at your most vulnerable… It’s suffocating. ***** Coward. The Sith Lord's battle against the darkened water grew feebler as her doubt began to overcome her strength. She could see nothing in the inky darkness. She reached out to the Force but it did not form to her as it once had. Why would the Force answer you? Her clawing hands found purchase, the arms of the soldier Shiro. He had come to her in the water, to pull her to the safety of the bank. He felt then like someone else, a stranger with an ancient power. She wanted to vomit the water in her lungs and stomach, but something held her back. She wanted to breath. A Mandalorian mask. A stench of death. Heroism forged from witnessed horror. There was a lightness to the presence that offended her very soul. Her fingers grasped the Sith soldier’s armor as the water swirled on the bank. It was repulsive. The weakness of heroism. Jeedai. Revanchist He had to find his own strength. To rely on ancestors was weakness. Her lungs burned for air. She wanted to strike out, to rend the flesh from his bones, but still the Force did not answer. Why would the Force answer to weakness? The Sith opened her eyes and stared into the mud but she could only see one thing: Her own insignificance. She was nothing against the power of the Force. Embrace it. A stream of darkened water dribbled from the Sith’s mouth as the Nightsister wrapped a towel about her shoulders. Hayley did not feel its touch. Embrace it. She could not feel the Force here, because it was bound to the suffering of the land. It was broken here. She only felt the force through Wrath, but that was only but one lens through which to see the force. Embrace it. It was wrath. That was her weakness. She had only felt the force through the cardinal sins. Her master’s greed and gluttony. Furion’s Sloth. The Lust and envy of Ar-pharazon. Her wrath and pride. Tears burned her eyes, but she could not fight them back. Embrace ME. And she did. Agony. Pain. Sorrow. Raw emotion burned into her soul as a new fire. An endless suffering worse than death. The river erupted behind her into a frothing nightmare of power. Backwards she leapt, dragging her two companions into the heart of the brackish river.
  15. Fieldgrey


    …What do you do when you find weakness in yourself? Do you try to conceal it from the galaxy? Even if it’s shrouded in your very soul, your weakness will be found by that which lurks in the darkness. If you hide weakness, you build your foundation of strength upon a flaw. The hardest battles are fought in the mind… ***** The estuary loam was uncomfortably lukewarm as it began to envelop The Sith’s kneeling form. Hayley was a woman of extremes, stim needed to be scalding and bathwater frigid, so the mediocrity of the water provoked her wrath. The anger focused her meditation, and the Krath concentrated it on the misery of the beachhead. The corruption that lingered in this place was like the smog that had choked her slum on Nar Shaddaa, everpresent but ethereal. I can feel the evil... The Krath tried to grasp it within her mind, yet it slipped away. She beckoned the waters to rise, but there was no change to the rush of the cloudy water. ...but why can’t I hold it? The Sith Lord’s pale fingers clutched at the mud beside her, dragging fistfuls of the clay against her chest as she spasmed in an uncontrollable physical manifestation of her frustration. Am I not strong enough? There was a change in her, an open door; and doubt rushed in. Her eyes were closed, and she could feel the tears welling up from the burning in her sinuses. Had she brought the Nightsisters on a wild Mynock chase? You are a failure. Rotten. Weak. Cursed. A small, pathetic whimper rose in her throat, strangled back by reluctance of a broken spirit. Why are you so fragile? Pale fingers tore into the blackened mud and the inky rush swept her up in a surge of savage power. Suddenly she was choking on silt as the river took her from the shore without even a splash. There was no personification to the barbarous power of it. Go on, feel sorry for yourself, drown in your weakness. Brackish water strangled her, seared her nose and eyes. The currents forced her down to the depths of it. She clawed desperately for purchase.
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