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Darth Nyrys

Cathar

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...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?" 


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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

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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.))

 


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"...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.


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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.” 


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“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..."


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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.))


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"...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.


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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.


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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.


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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.))

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“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."


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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.

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Posted (edited)

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

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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.))


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To feel Hayley's touch was refreshing for Shiro, the Force swirling around his Master in a cold vortex as his body heated against it's own wrath. He feasted upon the moment, taking in the nutrients like a parasite to quell his thirst. He had never known such power, and yet, at the same time, it came with great exhaustion. His form felt wrecked, the pain nearly unbearable, and he barely stood upon his own two feet.

 

And yet, with Hayley, he felt rested, exhilarated even as her power flowed around them. He could feel his energy returning, siphoning back into his form from upon her own, rejuvenated. And as she touched his latest of wounds, he boiled in beautiful agony, rejoicing in the pain that flowed through him. He grinned.

 

“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.”

 

He nodded in response, his chaotic gaze shifting from the one he left alive to her, and then back again.

 

He could feel the storm bearing down upon them, the wind alone threatening to sweep him off his feet as the lightning littered the beach with explosions of scorched earth. And a part of him wondered if he could do what she asked. Until now, he had fed off his own rage, his own anger to sustain him, but it had become animalistic, overwhelming to the part that he was losing control. And a portion of him still feared losing control, losing himself to this power.

 

But by now, the storm had grew. What once was his advantage now became his turmoil. The waves and rain were cutting to his form, the wind reveling in it's own wrath as it swept in from the sea. Thunderous explosions and lightning flashes were bearing down so closely that he could feel the static charge in the air around him just before each strike. Shiro closed his eyes, letting the moment surround him.

 

"Peace is a lie, There is only passion..."

 

Shiro muttered under his breath as he felt the air around him begin to start clinging, like a pull upon his skin, hair, and cloth as he stood there. He could feel the man's horror, his urgency to live, his desperation to run. And in that moment, Shiro accepted his own fate. With an exhale, he focused his rage and anger, letting it boil within himself. He could feel the heat in the pit of his stomach begin to flow through his veins. And upon his exhale, the coldness of the air penetrating his lungs and cooling his form, he felt his skin tense and sturdy its self for what was to follow.

 

"Through Passion, I gain strength..."


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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.”


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“Do you truly think you can understand the depths of The Force through an adherence to codes?”

 

“We all achieve definition in conflict, it is there we find ourselves or find ourselves lacking.”

 

Shiro could hear her words echoing through his mind over the sounds of the storm as it raged on. He had thought the mantra of the Sith would quell the storm within him, quiet his mind so he could find focus, but now he saw that it only aided his focus in its brief quotation. It was her words that truly struck a nerve that he had yet to ponder.

 

"Conflict?" His mind thought across its entirety as he pondered the meaning. Conflict was all that he knew. It was the very thing that forged him. But would it continue to forge him farther? He wasn't quite certain. Forged of blood, guilt, and war, his wrath had became his power. But this darkness within him, this power granted by gift and by touch, wasn't born of it like he was. Was this truly the problem he had been facing this entire time? 

 

His gaze shifted toward the man who fought against his Master's will, the entire conflict tantalizing as it was fruitless in the man's endeavor. He was but an instrument in the overall lesson Shiro was meant to learn, even as his will fell before her own and all that was left was a husk with the only desire left being that of death. Standing there, pelted by sand and debris, Shiro's mind opened wide.

 

He had been too accepting of this gift, letting it's draw hypnotize him with its power rather than bending it to his own. It was a powerful ally, this Force, but without guidance, it was uncontrollable and unpredictable. He was letting its instincts control him, rather than honing it and controlling it to fit his needs. He could see it now, even as the moments of its uses flooded his mind. And in that moment, his wrath turned inward at himself. "Pathetic". His thoughts echoed.

 

 

“Now, strengthen your flesh and fight the wind. Let us see what echoes your conflict produce.”

 

Shiro struggled internally, his form becoming feverish as he sought for control. Sand cut against his form, leaving rash and abrasions against his uncovered skin as debris pelted his form with slivers and gashes, tearing even through cloth as the storm bore down its hardest. He would control this power. It would bend to his will and be his domain. He had already decided it. But as he fought, so did the darkness within, his bronze skin growing red with its feverish heat.

 

Falling to his knees as washed ashore limbs flew across his form, leaving bruises, he continued the conflict within, bellowing in anger as his wrath grew intense. It was time he was the Master of it, not it the Master of he. It was time for the shackles to break. He would be the dominant power. Or he would fall in trying.


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