Jump to content

Cathar


Darth Nyrys

Recommended Posts

 

Kaiseng the olive skinned beauty in her early twenties watched the plight of the Sith Lord with an increasing feeling of dread. Did she not know that the force was so dangerous? Were they all to be swept up into some foolish endeavour that would release gods and demons without thought? And if they were trying to summon something didn’t they need a circle of fire and totems? Were these people mad? 

 

She had long been told to stray away from the inherited ignorance of her people but this seemed insane. There were very real demons here. She could hear their whispers! But her curiosity, not yet tamed by the years of ritualistic abuse that had plagued the old sisters kept her feet walking her closer to the stream. To sister Awenydd and the man Shiro. 

 

Then they were seized bodily by the demonic and her pale blue eyes went wider still. They began to falter in the water, the forces there pulling upon them like a thousand arms dragging them to their deaths. Did they not know how to swim? The man attempted a rescue but faltered as well and Kaiseng  stripped off her hide outerclothes and dove in after them. Keeping her connection to the spiritual realm very much closed. 

 

She seized the man and dragged him and the sister out of the waters onto the relatively unmuddy bank. There she sat, silent, judging, and nearly naked. She pulled three fibrous towels from Sister Ar-Pharazon’s pack and wrapped them around each of them. The man too of course, she couldn’t be that rude to someone she didn’t know. 

 

Her soft finally spoke. Addressing the two of them like a mother would address a disobedient child. 

 

"Are you mad? The river is full of them." She wiped at the brackish water with her towel and scowled at no one in particular.

 

_______________________

 

The force roiled in the stench of the planet. There had been massacre here, the mass death called from the edges of her subconscious. Beckoning to be called upon, to be used, abused, brought under the dominion of someone strong. Was it really so bad to take and sup from such a cup? The question was an honest one, for there existed such a divine power that needed only to be used, what was the harm in doing so? Could it be utilized to help her people? 

 

She held out her hand to her companion. Breaking the girl’s concentration. 

 

“Enough of this, return and retrieve the salt for a circle.” 

 

The girl gave a grin and took off running towards the camp as fast as her bare feet could take her in the mud. Tel watched her leave and then knelt back down in the sand and water. Letting her mind settle. Even as the cries in the force came beckoning over the waters to her over the centuries and millennia. It was a cold furor, colder than the water that lapped at her thighs, colder than the cries of Halyee in her struggle against its power. But suddenly there was pain, a whole lot of pain, delicious agony, that furled out like a banner in the wind from the Sith near the stream’s head. 

 

But almost as soon as the problem surfaced it had been solved, leaving the agony that remained that of the ancient dead. But as her apprentice came at a dead run Telperien considered the wisdom in drawing such agony from the planet. It would be worth it. She knew it. She reached into the silt and sand and grabbed an old stick, fossilized now by the wind and salt, but it had been here. Her touch on the old grey wood brought a shock of pain in the force. 

 

Perfect

 

Wiping the water from her knees she stood and awaited the young girl’s return. She held up the ‘Y’ shaped stick and tossed it underhanded to the girl who gasped and dropped the bag of amber coloured salt. 

 

“Scry.” 

 

  • Like 1

Tel.png.2b2713b149ad183d24a4b9a423368e48.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Madness....

 

The Sister of the Intrusive One spoke of it, her words a mere echo in his mind as he fought against the tides of darkness that attempted to snuff away his conciousness, water still rattling in his lungs as he laid on his side and coughed harder, trying to throw up what remained as his mind searched the memory for answers. And yet, none was found.

 

He felt the lips of Saldana press against his own, felt compressions upon his chest as she and Dunstan had rushed to his side in an attempt to aid his near drowning experience, and yet, as his lungs finally filled fully with air and his conciousness began to return from the fade, he felt a tight grip pull him back in even as Dunstan and Saldana attempted to reach for his frightened grasp.

 

Only this time, as he laid beneath the waves of this murky grave, he had begun to feel his death calling, a part of him accepting it with undo resentment, a art having to come to terms with the possibility that he would not survive, unaware of the events surrounding him. And the other half, the spirit of life within him begged to question why? Why so easily? Why so peacefully? Why lay down without a fight?

 

Shiro laid there floating beneath the murk, feeling its presence, its power, edging him to give up and become a silent part of its story. And yet, another story reached through to finish its tale, the memories, the emotions, the truth remained here even after its owner left. And as Shiro's heart began to slow, the water attempting to reclaiming him, a voice entered his head. "Every Warrior has a tale, and in their tale, a universal truth."

 

The man from before stood before the Jedi Council, an unknown face reaching up to cut the braided silver lock from his hair and placing it within his hand as he ignited what appeared to be a blue bladed cross guard lightsaber in his other as one of council members spoke a welcoming recognition of the man's obtaining the rank of Jedi Knight, calling the man Leonis Armegedon. Shiro convulses, realizing the man's name like a distant memory, but also their shared last name.

 

And yet, the story does not end there, Shiro unsure of what is going on or how long he has been imprisoned by the brackened river as it flashes forward through countless battles spanning numerous worlds, some Shiro recognized, others he didn't. And with each new addition, Shiro could feel this kindred spirit asking the same questions, feeling the same emotions, that no matter what, there was always another battle to fight, another war to give into, another life to take. 

 

And Shiro watches this Armegedon grow, feels his emotions sway, a kindred spirit seeping into his pores like destiny. Then they return to this world, emotionless soldiers until they see this barren land. Shiro watches as each of these being look toward one another in masses, anger filling their hearts until the visage before them holds up once again the Mandalorian Helm and cheers rerun rampant as the semblance of her death to protect the few fill their veins with fire.

 

And in that moment, Shiro feels the fire within himself burning, his skin boiling amidst the murky fluid enveloping his form, his eyes opening to reveal crimson and gold within. And in that moment, Shiro yells, the water and the presence around him rippling with it's own darkness just moments before the darkness of unconsciousness takes him, leaving a whispering tale in a single sentence. "Peace is a lie..."

 

Moments later, Shiro awakens on the shore, something within changed as he sits up and wraps his arms around him warm legs, the coldness no longer lingering, as his crimson and gold gaze stares toward the brackened water alone.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

 

Telperien followed the girl as she concentrated, holding her scrying stick in front of her like it was a wand. It was in this configuration that they walked, for what felt like many miles but was very likely no more than a kilometer over wet and gripping sand that clung to their bare feet like grasping hands. Amethyst eyes never wavered from that stick until it dipped, then flew from the girls hands into a large expanse of red coloured sand. The girl went after it at first but Telperien shooed her back and knelt, reaching her hand slowly towards the sand, letting the force flow through her to guide her path. 

 

There is blood in this sand. 

 

Maybe it was a visual or spiritual expression, but when she dug the tips of her fingers into the wet sand they came back a crimson black. Curiosity overcame her stupor for a moment and she pushed her hand fully into the sand and felt the watery blood creep up her arm as she pressed even farther into it. And when she withdrew her strong arm, the mixture sucked at it, attempting to bring her back into itself. Perhaps the sand, being so diluted with the wellspring and oxygenated from some kind of decomposition  was playing at a type of quicksand. Not a dangerous mixture, like the swamps of home, but a curiosity to be sure. 

 

She reached once more into the depths of that blood red sand, until her fingers chanced upon a hard object. She withdrew as fast as she dared before plunging her arms in again to prize the object from its grips. It was a knife. The long wicked blade had no handle, the wood, bone, or bakelite grip having long ago withered against the aggressive motion of time. But the blade itself, forged of mandalorian Iron, was warped and bent, the metal having been bubbled away in a section. 

 

So it was here. 

 

She let the knife drop back into the sand. The point fell first, then red muck slowly swallowed it again until it was lost from her sight. She looked back to her exhausted sister, her voice kindly. “Now go grab the Sand that you have dropped and bring it here.” Telperien reached into her belt and fished a flare gun from her survival pouch. She thumbed the colour wheel on the crude mini datapad at the rear end of the device until she selected and emerald green. 

 

With one hand raised to the falling night sky she depressed the trigger and sent a signal flare up, and up, and up until it starburst into green flame. Like a turbolaser falling through a boiling atmosphere. Whatever the other two had found was of no interest. For she had found the-

Massacre 
 

Tel.png.2b2713b149ad183d24a4b9a423368e48.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

...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.

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

There was a coldness to his gaze as he stared across the blackened water, as if his mind was lost upon its torrential current, swirling across each liquid vortex in a dance of depth and understanding. And within his eyes, the gold and crimson that formed within spoke across millennia of truth, for he had saw it all in a singular glimpse. His ancestors, his bloodline, it settled upon him like a haunting reality, and he could feel it tearing at his soul. Peace was indeed a lie. So what was the truth?

 

His stomach wrenched, causing Shiro to lunge forward into a crawl as the waters of the river rushed forth in return. Arching his back with heavy heave, each one grew drier than the last, until he saw his reflection in the darkened water through his glossed gaze. This place had changed him, made him realize that reality was not what it seemed, made him question everything. And he saw this change in his reflection, felt it in his heart, and his memory returned to his training.

 

"Peace is a lie, there is only War. Through War, I gain Truth. Through Truth, I Rise." Shiro spoke openly, remembering the Mantra of his Battalion, believing it at first to be a play on the Sith Imperial Code. But as he wiped away the drool and snot from his face in the reflection, he knew better. It was the truth of the Galaxy, and now it was bored into his soul. "Through my Rising, I see the Horizon. I am born of the Master of Truth. I am the Blooded Drexl."

 

Rising from the puddle Shiro left in his wake, he began his trek upstream quickly. He sought the Sith that had brought him here, questions swelling his mind as much as precieved answers. Dunstan and Saldana met him as he cleared the foliage, but stepped back when his determined gaze met their worry as he strode by. He could not understand why, but he felt himself pulled toward where the Intrusive One had disappeared to, the river's mouth where truths were to be spoken.

 

And when he arrived, Shiro said not a word a first, simply looking upon them through his swirling crimson and golden gaze before he dropped to one knee and planted his fist within the mud, lowering his gaze as he bowed to his betters. He was beginning to see the truth in their ways, and in the ways of the soldier, a combination of humility and strength, they the key to his rising from the ashes of his former. Like the Drexl, he had been wild and untamed. But the Blooded Drexl was a different beast altogether, focused and wise. His path had been laid and the seed of this place planted.

 

His head still bowed with his gaze looking upon the mud, his fist buried beneath, he felt the drawl of this place pulling at him like a piece of a forgotten puzzle. Dunstan and Saldana stood in the distance, overlooking Shiro's actions but unable to hear as he spoke to both of the Sith before him. "I am the Blooded Drexl, and your command is my will."

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

Telperien stepped to the side as the Sithari girl vomited a stream of what looked like blood near where the other nightsisters were drawing runic circles in salt. She leaned down and pulled the girls hair away from the puddle as she vomited again and with a soft hand wiped at her mouth with a scrap of linen. Then she pulled the girl out of the seafoam and watched as the force moved without the girl even trying. 

 

Telperien sighed and sat her down in the centre of the runes, letting her continue her powerful spell, free of the inhibitions of the planet itself. No foam or bile would touch her, and the runes would amplify her power a hundred fold. 

 

It was then that the Sith solder appeared, coming like a dog to its vomit. To lap again at the font of power of which he had no right. She would have struck him then if he had not mumbled something. A slew of words that caused her to pause as she tried to sort them out. Basic was not her mother language, and the words he spoke made no sense. 

 

A blooded drexl? What? 

 

She slapped him upside the head. Hard. Hard enough for her girls to giggle. 

 

“You speak nonsense boy. Speak when spoken to, or when you pipe up say something that makes sense.” 

Tel.png.2b2713b149ad183d24a4b9a423368e48.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

...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

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Saldana made an approachable movement as the Sith smack Shiro upside his face, but Dunstan quickly grabbed her and pull her back just as Shiro's hand rose and motioned her to stay put as blood drizzled down his face from the gash that painted his white crimson. He smirked as the taste of metallic mixed in with his saliva, the Intrusive One boasting in her own weakness. Such was her nature, as he was beginning to see, power inherited, not gained.

 

The Elusive One, however, was a kinship. Her power was fought for, gained by developing, powerful. He could feel her pain radiating through her eyes as well as his own through mere glimpses of contact. And he knew it. The Intrusive One would never accept him, he knew this. But perhaps the Elusive One, perhaps she would be the one to show him the way, show him the path he is destined to walk.

 

A chill crossed his spine as he considered this, the redness of his blood blinding his right eye with a fiery sting. He felt his form begin to wrench against its will as memories of the past flooded back to his mind, and as he attempted to stand in a panic, he felt something grip his buried hand with hatred and malice. And so, he fell into the darkened abyss, the sands of time rolling backwards, his presence salt upon the wound. And in darkness, he saw the truth of it.

 

A world of fire, cries echoing of its pain immense, so strong that it could be heard across the stars. And him, the silver haired ancestor stood before him, gazing upon it, feeling the hauntings of the past as if he had stood there during it. Anger tore at his heart and rage filled his lungs. Darkness crept into his mind, and became his soul, his green gaze turning golden as the past swept him away. And then he gazed back, toward Shiro, with a knowing smirk upon his face as the gaping maw of the darkness consumed him. He was the First Disciple.

 

"Walk in the Darkness as I have, and know the truth of our lineage. You are among the first, and remain as the last, binded by that solemn truth."

 

A voice echoed before the sands of time rolled back to the present, Shiro's gaze meeting the darkened sand just a mere breath before the maw of the sands took his right arm from its socket and his form fell backwards into a pool of his own blood, Saldana and Dunstan rushing to his side to pull him away. His vision fought against the darkness as he felt their touch, but the voice and its truth remained echoing in his mind. He was meant to feel this pain, to know it with all his being. To understand that through sacrifices, could he gain the power he possessed, the same pain he seen in the Elusive One's own gaze. It was the law of the Force. Something had to be given for something to be gained.

 

Equivalent Exchange

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 3 weeks later...

Would the boy ever stop being insolent? 

 

She struck him again in anger as he said nothing in response to her, and there was a murmur in the force that seemed entirely self indulgent. She cocked her head as if she was listening to the wind and let a grim smile cross her cracked lips. 

 

Was the boy force sensitive? 

 

She considered it. It was true that most of the Sith lords of Memory were male, and though she did not carry the traditional nightsister prejudice towards men she let the anger of it slip into her mind. 

 

So she struck him again, hard enough for a jolt of pain to shiver up her arm. 

 

“Speak boy. Tell me what the force whispers.” 

 

Damn him for hearing it so easily 

 

She struck with a foot that would connect with his ribs with jarring force and looked up to his men. Daring them with her eyes to intervene. 

 

“Speak you fool!” 

 

Then she turned to Awenydd and gestured a shrug. She motioned to the two Sith soldiers and indicated them to join the other Sith Lord before leaning down and hauling Shiro to his feet. 

 

"If you carry the force in you, then we have a task for you. A test as it were."

 

And her yellow eyes gazed at the two Sith Soldiers. A smile on her lips. 

 

 

Tel.png.2b2713b149ad183d24a4b9a423368e48.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

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.” 

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

A breath hissed from her clenched teeth as Telperien observed Darth Awenyyd’s desire. A quest was coming to its end, a cup of bitterness dranken to its gritty draught. Her semi permanent frown twisted itself unnaturally to a smile that looked more like a grimace, but her eyes made up for it as they looked softly upon her friend. Even in failure, the adventure had been a success, allies had been made, and perhaps, if luck held, a friend had been made. 

 

“I need no blood of such weak lineage, but my sisters will collect it none the less...There are rituals that may purify it fr use in the future. I look forward to our next meeting.” Her gruff voice took on its forced smile. “Friend.”

 

Her gaze hardened as she looked dismissively at Shiro, then with a military click of her heels, she turned and with a gesture, her sisters and her departed for the shuttlecraft. Then towards Korriban.

Tel.png.2b2713b149ad183d24a4b9a423368e48.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

It was like a dream that had befallen him, surrounded by darkness as he fell into its bottomless abyss. The voice echoed as he fell, his grasping only finding air to grasp at in all directions. He parted his lips, but nothing came from them. "Among the First, Remain the Last" His mind felt foggy, his thoughts disoriented, fear swelling inside him.

 

And then there was pain, his gaze falling on a blurred vision of the Intrusive One's face, anger embroiled in her gaze. She wanted him to speak, to tell her what the Force said. But like in the darkness, words were unable to be spoken, only the escaping of air. Weakly he reached for Dunstan's hand, but felt another kick connect his ribs, sending him off the ground and back down hard. Laying in the blooded mud, part of him prayed for release, the other building like fire in his soul. And when the girl reeled him to his feet, for a moment he thought he felt it.

 

The darkness, it was quiet and peaceful, endless and voided. A smile crossed his lips as he felt the pain disappear and for a moment, he was blissful. The fear washed away, and he embraced the eternal fall with open arms. "Walk in the darkness as I have, and know truth." Shiro's eyes blazed open as pain riddled his shoulder, the feeling of the Elusive One's hand entering his flesh freely as words were whispered.

 

"No." Shiro shrieked weakly in a vague response to their words. "The mission... it.... must... go...."

 

Darkness overtook him once more, the ever pulling of its bottomless abyss seductive and embracing. The mission, the truths he had to find, his lineage, the first and last. He had to continue. He had to know. In darkness there was truth. In their powers, he was able to see. This place, this planet, it called to him, it woke his soul. It ignited his passion.

 

"Wake up fool"

 

These words protruded his unconsciousness, waking him from the abyss that threatened to imprison him as pain wracked his body. Saliva spewed from his mouth as he grabbed at his shoulder and sat up with a roar from the pit of his stomach, rage and wrath filling his gaze at the two who knelt before him, and before thought could pass his mind, slit their throats with the blade from his boot.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.))

  • Thanks 1

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Shiro's eyes widened with the realization at what he had done, Dunstan and Saldana laying before him, their dying gazes set upon his own as they gasped for air through the thick blood bubbling up through their necks. Horror filled his mind as he could only sit there, watching their faces drain of their life, both attempting to reach out to him for help despite what he had done, his own still outstretched with the blade in hand.

 

That's when he felt her, the Elusive one, embrace his form with her own, warm and inviting as she disarmed him. Shiro tried to yell out for a medic, but the words just fumbled like waves from his mouth as exhaustion took hold his form and he fell back into her lap, his gaze shifting to the sky as the memories of Dunstan and Saldana's lifeless faces ingrained themselves into his memory.

 

"....Apprentice...."

 

It was her words that brought his mind back and quelled the turmoil he was feeling, seeing her out reached hand and reaching out his own to touch hers as his gaze shifted up to set its sight upon her face, confused still by what had happened, but eerily comforted by her. Her touch was as cold as steel, fragile and yet firm. And her gaze was empty, yet assured. Shiro had never noticed it before. And as she spoke, he found himself drawn by her words, like Death's knock at one's end.

 

And so Shiro closed his eyes, unsure how to meditate, but still needed her words if only to feel this moment of comfort longer as he embraced what he truly was, the echoing voices ringing through his head from his first time to now. Murderer.

 

"I feel anger." He started out saying, the memories of his homeworld and what led to his arrest. The memories of his enslavement and being forced to fight simply to survive. This world, and what it brought out in him, the proof evident in the corpses laying at his feet. "I avenged my family's demise and was branded a murderer. I escaped custody and was sold a slave. I fought to win my freedom and was made a Soldier. And now this world has twisted me and I killed those under my command and will likely be called a Traitor. I feel enraged, and it feels right."

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

...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?" 

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Shiro laid there quietly as his words settled in his mind, the realization that he had made as he described his past stinging as he thought upon it. It felt right. But how? Why? Sure he was a soldier and such was his duty. But this way beyond duty. It was almost enjoyment. Even as the rolling surf flowed beneath him and Hayley, it was almost calming and relaxing to understand, the warmth of the blood just as the warmth of the sea still fresh upon his senses.

 

Was he truly such a primordial beast? Finding enjoyment in innocent slaughter of random victims? He could not tell. Only that even as the imprinted faces of Dunstan and Saldana crossed his memory, he felt no true remorse. And what he did feel, the shock and the horror, felt false. Almost as if it was simple reaction disguising truth. A lie that he made himself believe. So what was the truth he hid from himself?

 

Her words broke him from his questions, their tone emotionless as she questioned. Anger quickly boiled inside himself as she patronized him. If not his past or this forsaken world, would he have committed such acts? What did she expect of him? What did she see in him that he could not? Had exhaustion not overcome him so, placing him at her mercy, then he surely would have corrected her. But he was limp in his stature, his form unable to move, even the subtlest movements causing him to wreck with pain.

 

And when she touched his cauterized shoulder with the blade, the forcefulness of her tone drowned out by the pain, the truth revealed its self.

 

Pain, Hate, Anger, Vengence, War, Murder. Everything flowed through his mind in that moment. The pain of his father's berating, the hate toward those who shunned them. The anger he carried for years within, festering like an open wound. The vengence he sought when his family were cast aside and their lives ended like trash, a blight ridden for those Shiro slew in the end, and the war that followed in his life even before he became a soldier. It all led to this singular moment in his life. And as Shiro's form convulsed intensely within Hayley's arms, Shiro saw the truth.

 

He could sense the blood around him seeping into sea and sand. He could sense the lifeless forms of Dunstan and Saldana laying at his feet. He could feel the planet's hunger for more, its passion toward him unwavered by his own, but by that which he had spilt. And more importantly, he could feel his own mind shift. No longer did he care what an Armegedon was, only who he was. And before him stood a figure, a wrathful spirit with a devilish grin.

 

His eyes shot open, his lungs gasping for air. His gaze shifted to Hayley with a weakened grin. He felt warm despite the coldness around him, laying there with truth in hand. Such power, such potential. He had held a taste, and desired more. His past may have shaped him, may have created him. But like the being he envisioned, the one who walked this world before him, his destiny was his to forge.

 

"You ask what my rage desired?" The cockiness apparent through his weakened tone. "Order through Chaos, War."

Edited by The Last Armegedon
Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.))

 

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

"...Chaos is a Ladder"

 

Shiro gazed in her eyes, the swirling of crimson and gold meeting her own in a moment of silence. There within, was such depth, such loss, that Shiro felt swept away by it, carried to another plane of existence by it, seduced by promises and disappointments.

 

"If Chaos is a ladder...." Shiro questioned himself in silence, his thoughts turning to her words as the cool waters ran across his sweating form, almost tantalizing against the soreness of his form. "Am I meant to climb it?" Shiro's good arm reached up and touched his missing one with his finger tips, the stinging pain from touch and movement causing his whole form to flinch and ache, but he continued exploring the seered flesh nonetheless. "What sacrifices would it incur?"

 

It mattered not.

 

Shiro's gaze stayed fixated on Hayley's, even as she voice her concerns of his rage and what would happen after his war, a small chuckle erupting from his lips. This Galaxy, the Jedi, the Sith, Imperials and the Republic Rebels, even here on Cathar where the wounds of wars from millennia ago still fester, had taught him anything, was that there always a war to fight. Whether it be within one's self or thousands of beliefs, it was always one to be fought. Violence begets violence.

 

"War is eternal..." Shiro spoke with a cough, the young humanoid attempting to pick himself up from her lap, only still finding himself too weak to move. Slamming his fist into the surf and sand, his eyes boiled like the temper within as he tried again. "And so shall my rage be.

 

A foundation is only as good as the bones sacrificed to build it, and Shiro held firmly in his beliefs. His rage would fuel him, empower him from this day forward even if he was only meant to be a soldier, his loss of limb would not be in vain. He would rise from these ashes of surf and sand on his own, for what had not killed him would only make him stronger. And with each attempt, his anger would only grow more, empowering his determination and resolve. The Force will set him free.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.” 

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

 

“Feel that rage within you… Take it into yourself. Hold it to you like an ember and give it life.”

 

Shiro's steadied into a fixation upon her own, his face flushing with anger and rage as he kicked against the sand, his fingers gripping at it like a wild animal. The pain, it was crippling, consuming his will even as he fought to bend it and shape it in his own. And as the pain intensified, so did his rage, his wrath.

 

 

“Take it into yourself. Make it a fire. Make it a wildfire.”

 

His exhaustion, the loss of blood, the pain, it all fought against his will to rise. And yet, his will, his rage, his determination fought with him. Every few breaths he held were spewed in the moment that he forced himself to breath out as he fought against his own body to surpass its self. To go beyond its limits and push even farther.

 

And then it came. Just as the waves crashing around them, tearing to erode the shore line, like the rain that poured down upon them threatening to sink them, like his mind echoing to burst under the pressure of his fight, it came. Not like an ember, not like a wildfire, but like a storm inside his soul and in his heart. When darkness threatened to overtake him, to perish his consciousness like before, Shiro felt the spark.

 

And rage fueled it. Wrath spoke it. And his mind became clear like the eye of a storm. With a loud roar that echoed through the Force its self, Shiro lifted his form from upon her lap and cloth, pushing his body past its limits and beyond. A new found strength rushed into his pores, numbing the pain to a subtle dull. And before he knew it, he sat before her, his crimson and golden eyes gazing behind a sinister grin.

 

"Become a Storm..."

Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.))

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

"...And Conquer it.

 

Shiro could feel the power flowing through him, beastial in nature, wild and untamed. It wrecked his thoughts and concentration, his body reveling in its euphoric. He felt possessed, able to see, but unable to move as wave upon wave of the power shivered up his form.

 

And then it subsided, the pain returning along with a hint of his weakness as he slouched just to hold his form sturdy. By now the others, having heard his roar, could be heard rustling to his location, his gaze shifting briefly to the corpses of Dunstan and Saldana. Yet, his sinister grin remained, his thoughts afloat upon the sacrifices needed for the power he had felt.

 

"Murderer, Muderer, Murderer"

 

Shiro could hear the chanting voices through his mind, echoes of times long past and possible futures as the Elusive One held the blooded blade before him, urging him to continue, to follow the path she was presenting, and the power that came with it. A part of him wanted to flee, to not face the consequences of the actions he had took. But the other knew his truth, wanting to accept the path laid before him, and the spoils that came with it. 

 

"Take the Storm..."

 

Her words edge him forward, Shiro feeling a shift within him. Fear was not of his personality, he held no purpose to run. With what she was offering him, he could overcome anything that stood in his way, and bind them to him. He was a soldier, and yet something more... much more. This world, it called to his heart and beckoned him. And he would hear it out.

 

“Cast it out like a net. Capture this knife as if it were a fish, and draw it to you.”

 

Shiro heard her words and understood. He opened himself up to his rage, feeling his body warm again against the coldness around him, his gaze shifting from her scars and knowing the pain he would inevitably endure. Knowing this only enraged him more, his wrath echoing of her own wounds and those who marked her so. But instead of focusing it upon himself, he turned it outward, the boot steps growing closer and louder as he angled for the blade, his focus only blurred by his rage.

 

"What happens here, stays here."

 

His gaze shot toward the first of those to arrive, but the blade did not follow. The two privates looked on in horror and dismay as their eyes shifted between the corpses and Shiro sitting there bathed in their blood. His rage bellowed within him, his intent not willed into existence as the blade toppled from her finger.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

The two could only look on with stifled voices and horrored eyes as their forms were drug before Shiro's blooded form, the swirling of crimson and gold glowing against the statically charge air igniting around them horrifying in its wake, freezing them in fear as the grin only widened. Thoughts entered their minds, fear sweeping at their hearts as the blade hovered before them and between. It was almost tantalizing for Shiro to witness, to behold such a look. But the pain, the enfueled rage that had grasped at his heart was more.

 

“What would you do unto them? What does the Force command?”

 

An euphoric shiver crossed his mind at the thought, the possibilities that he could endure unto them at the sound of her words. But he still had yet to gain the power, to control it, to focus it into his will. He could still hear the banter, the chanting of his past nibbling at the back of his mind, distracting and calming, as he realized his truth nature, that he was truly a murderer by different names, the outcome the same no matter which path he chose to walk.

 

And it this moment, it felt right. It felt like freedom, a taste he had longed for so long. And so he let his resistance go, feeling the rage and wrath within flow freely. The pain subsided and dulled, his stature once again able to move with its ebb and flow, and he stood. His gaze shifted down toward the Troopers under his command with malicious intent as his remaining arm twitched before grasping at the beings throat tightly, his enjoyment in the horror of both as they gazed back.

 

The being gazed back as he felt his breath begin to slow against Shiro's grip, the panic in his eyes growing as his face began to heat from the cut of blood flow and shifted toward his comrade. His comrade could only look back in horror and then to Shiro as if pleading, not for his comrade, but himself who was likely next. Shiro chuckled beneath his own breath, the selfish simplicity of one's own self preservation over another, a sight he knew all too well, a sight he saw when he slew his first. And it was in that moment, he knew.

 

"Focus"

 

The voice echoed within his mind as his gaze shifted from the onlooker toward the blade, its origins unknown and yet its clarity familiar. Was this his wrath? Was this his power? Shiro closed his eyes. He felt the fear, the horror, the blood that was beginning to be coughed up by the one he was strangling and held back by his clenched hand. But more importantly, he felt the darkened blade, its will intensified by that of the Force as it called to its mind. And when Shiro opened his eyes, he grinned maniacally as the hovering blade slit the throat of the onlooker and he crushed the throat of the one he grasped.

 

It was in that moment of their end, their gazes connecting as they drowned in their own blood simultaneously, that Shiro enjoyed the most. He could tasted their remorse, smell their selfishness disappaite in their final breaths, and watch as their forms fell upon the brackened beach and turned the waves red with their lives. But more importantly, he could feel the power within growing as his rage turned toward the rest. Four had fallen and four remained. With a snorting chuckle, he answered his Master.

 

"Slay them all. Leave no one alive to witness what we've found here, and let their blood finish what you began."

 

When Shiro turned to face her, his blood boiled red with his Wrath. There was no place for selfishness and greed in the path she offered, no place for the weak.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.))

  • Like 1

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

 

“If the force commands, do it, but do not slay without reflecting on the reason…”

 

Shiro nodded in acceptance, his gaze following her as she went to inspect his handy work and revel in his moment. He knelt before her, watching as the life forces of the two slowly left their forms, their blood streaming across the sands and mixing with the tides as they crashed and sprayed behind them. Oddly, he felt his strength returning, the pain still vibrant, but the tiredness subsiding, and he wondered upon the reasoning.

 

 

“Pain, suffering, terror. Those passions feed our darkness, let those victories add to your strength. Take within yourself such things, let it nourish you.”

 

"Yes Master."

 

Shiro replied in response, his mind preoccupied with the meanings of her words, the feeling of rejuvenation rolling across his form like the steam of a refresher as he gazed upon the handy work that laid around him, two to the left and two before him, feeling what could only be called an echo of their deaths rolling across his memories. He felt their weakness, their selfishness and greed, their useless caring for their fellow men, their fear of the Sith. He held no need for such things around him. Even as a Soldier, he knew this.

 

His memory rolled back to the Battle of Coruscant, their feebleness to face what laid within the prison ship of the Republic, their reluctance. And he remembered meeting his Master, the Elusive One and the power she held at her will. This was their crime, and he was their punishment. Such weaknesses could only end up getting one, if not all of them killed, and as such, a cleansing was needed. And it would be his hand to cleanse them of it. It would be a Purge, a purification that the Force demanded, and Shiro felt that he was the mere instrument called upon. It had been laying in the back of his mind since he fell into the brackened water. And now the moment was drawing upon him.

 

His gaze shifted to the fellow soldier, blood still pouring through his fingers as he attempted to stop its flow from the shallow cut he inflicted. Shiro's temper flared at the notice of life still remaining within him even as the other feel into death beside him. This would not do. His calling would be answered, and it would be a swift purging of the remaining ones.

 

“Cast it out like a net. Capture this knife as if it were a fish, and draw it to you.”

 

Her words echoed in his mind as his wrath grew at such insolence, and Shiro closed his eyes. He could hear the slowing of the soldier's heart beat, feel the echo of his panic and his urge to live. Shiro took a slow deep breath, focusing on his will to purge, and when his eyes opened, he drew his arm upon the man he gazed. And it was in that moment, he felt it. He felt the man's throat within his hand, even though nearly a meter separated them and the man's hands were over the wound. He tightened his fist, feeling the pressure of his squeeze as his focus grew and the man struggled against it with eyes wide open. And as he closed the fist completely, he felt the snapping of the man's neck within his hand just as the man fell forward to meet his comrade in death.

 

It was that moment, as Shiro withdrew his hand and gazed upon it, that he knew the power within him was real. And from that power, he felt what his Master called nourishment as he felt the life of his former comrade enter his own. Standing up, Shiro walked past his Master and looked over the dunes toward the others. It was time to finish this so that she could finish the ritual she came for.

 

"Let their deaths end their weakness, and from it, let us find strength."

Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.

  • Like 1

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Shiro could feel the death, the destruction, the power, the justification, the rage and wrath all around him, seeping into his soul as he gazed upon the remaining four. It was tantalizing, empowering, euphoric to feel and embrace. And at his back was a storm brewing, the thunderous clap of lightning erupting and striking the surf, spraying his form with salt, water, blood, and sand as it echoed about. The time had come. The moment was upon him. He could feel it tugging at his soul, his roots upon this soil deeper than any bloodline. And in that moment, he reacted.

 

It was a symphony of a perfect storm, the darkness that laid in the soil of this world echoing the cries of the storm that raged. The wind bellowed his coming, and the lightning illuminated his strikes upon the unsuspecting. Shirtless, his bronzed form topped the hill as the four at the camp cheered his arrival, thankful their commander had returned. But horror soon filled their faces as the blade whizzed past his form and struck one in the throat, piercing bone and flesh almost completely through. Stooping down mid stride, Shiro grasped at his second blade, readying his aim as the remaining three made the realization and brought up their arms against him, his grin turning cold as it disappaited.

 

Crimson bolts matched thunderous booms as the rain began to fall heavily, saturating the soil like the blood that would be spilt this day, including Shiro's own as one landed near his ribs. Pain flickered through his thoughts as rage boiled heavily within him, dulled only by the heat of the moment and his determination to kill. Blood seeped from the freshly cauterized wound as the burning sensation faded away into his soul, the swirling of crimson and gold intensifying with wrath. It was their day to die, not his.

 

Shiro slide beneath the second, his hand moving quickly with the first slash to the right calf before turning its focus to the left, and finally as Shiro rose, the blade found its resting place at the base of the neck before Shiro grasped the gun and spun the body before him as a shield, returning fire as the winded air rushed about them, his gaze hazed by rain and quickly returning exhaustion. He needed to end this quickly, or he would fall back into the powerless world he was raised from.

 

As he fought against his exhaustion, he kept his focus as his empowerment, feeling the world that beckoned his heart, eating at the emotions of fear and desperation. His sight threatened to fade, but he closed one eye to sturdy his aim, flipping the gun's switch from burst to full load, and unleashing its fury along with his own. Crimson bolts danced amidst the rain as the storm intensified its torrent, laying claim to the first of the final targets.

 

But as the final death befell the target, the other took off in an attempt to escape, the moment of the battle subsiding as Shiro leaned his head down and took a bite out of the flesh that was his shield, tearing meat, muscle, and blood in an almost animalistic nature, the taste of the blood focusing his vision just enough to begin the chase.

 

Shiro grinned, the moment he had been pleading for arriving. The funny thing about retreating in such a manner was that you didn't focus your fire, fear taking hold and your only desire being to survive. He had seen it too many times on the field of battle and in the Arena. It was the most enjoyable moment where you realize that your opponent is doomed. But as he closed the gap and tackled the soldier, beating upon him like a crazed animal, his Master's last words echoed through his mind.

 

"But...Bring one to me alive for the next lesson.”

 

Bruised and defeated, weapons thrown to the side, Shiro struggled for the stun cuffs upon his belt and managed to restrain the Private just as his energy gave almost completely out. Struggling to his feet along with the man, Shiro would begin the long walk back to his Master, only one left alive as the calm of the storm began to settle in around them.

Edited by The Last Armegedon
Link to comment
Share on other sites

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.))

awenyddsmol.png

Link to comment
Share on other sites

×
×
  • Create New...