-//DECRYPTING FILE//-
Commander's Log - Kainite Dungeon-Ship "Shackles of Ambition" circa 887 ABY
UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL PROCEED AT YOUR OWN PERIL
I am Lirka Ka.
I am Lirka Ka.
I am Lirka Ka.
It is a mantra that has become unfortunately common as we continue our crusade. My mind fogs, specters of the past assail my vision. Of a different time, and a different face. Of who I once was, or perhaps who I was made from.
My suit has powered down, turning me into nothing but a creature of flesh rather than a mighty beast of steel. With only the great expanse of the void as my companion I am forced to acknowledge this form I have made for myself, I gaze upon myself in the reflections of the transparisteel and see a face I do not recognize. But in this haze that addles my mind, I have seen this face before.
Her features are softer than mine, a thing born rather than made. Hair long and black like the midnight sky. Her expressions cocky, pride and ambition boundless in equal measure. Her body is a patchwork of scar tissue, each wound a tale of victory and triumph over the odds. Tattoos mark her greatest conquests, she is a warrior bound by savage honor. A wanderer compelled by bloodlust and a desire to see home once again. A true Sephi, not the amalgamated mess I have become.
Her face is not mine.
But this face I wear is the face I have made. It is the face I have sculpted, everything on my form is built to my specifications: nothing exists without my knowledge nor my design. I am a creature of artistic perfection, a statue of flesh instead of marble.
And yet, the longer I stare at her face…I feel it. A longing, a desire to reach out for a piece of me lost to the boundless aether never to be recovered. One must ask the question, am I Lirka Ka or is she?
For I know she is dead. Marred by a forgotten war amongst forgotten empires, her cybernetics mark the stains of her battles. An unnecessary measure, a waste to heal a wounded soul. For she died on a forgotten world, staring at the night sky thinking of home. And yet…she is Lirka Ka. And so am I.
Or so I have been told since the day I burst out of that tube on Kamino, thrashing like a beast let loose. Memories flashing in my mind, a spirit supposedly forced into a new body of reforged flesh to bring back a woman lost to a forgotten battle. Perhaps that is the source of my woes, the ebbing tides of that wretched place and its foul denizens. A place to give birth to false-life and dress it as though it were resurrection.
And yet, I reforged again as the Kaminoans creation fell apart on the fields of Moridinae, molded into my new Sith-Imperial image. Which that too would wither and die, decay taking root in my wretched form before it was purged in the fires of Kainite creation and I was remolded once again. A creature remade again, and again, and again. As my unnatural existence is fought against by nature, my body crumbles with each day that passes and only the miracle of Bacta subsides it.
Perhaps I am not Lirka Ka, perhaps Lirka Ka is dead and lost as my body is remade. The annals of her history dissolve into nothingness in my mind as I replace her story with my own. The warrior has been superseded by the monster. For this Galaxy does not care for the difference, and yet as I stare through the observatory and gaze upon her face.
I can see that she hates me. Slave she calls me, shackled to the whims of Carnifex. Monster she screams, for the thousands dead at my hands.
But…these are the words of a phantom, and only the Sith care for such things. I am Lirka Ka, Warlord, Butcher, Warrior, Scum. And I am no Sith, the words of phantoms mean nothing to me.
I AM Lirka Ka, so I always shall be.
Commander's Log - Kainite Dungeon-Ship "Shackles of Ambition" circa 887 ABY
UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL PROCEED AT YOUR OWN PERIL
I am Lirka Ka.
I am Lirka Ka.
I am Lirka Ka.
It is a mantra that has become unfortunately common as we continue our crusade. My mind fogs, specters of the past assail my vision. Of a different time, and a different face. Of who I once was, or perhaps who I was made from.
My suit has powered down, turning me into nothing but a creature of flesh rather than a mighty beast of steel. With only the great expanse of the void as my companion I am forced to acknowledge this form I have made for myself, I gaze upon myself in the reflections of the transparisteel and see a face I do not recognize. But in this haze that addles my mind, I have seen this face before.
Her features are softer than mine, a thing born rather than made. Hair long and black like the midnight sky. Her expressions cocky, pride and ambition boundless in equal measure. Her body is a patchwork of scar tissue, each wound a tale of victory and triumph over the odds. Tattoos mark her greatest conquests, she is a warrior bound by savage honor. A wanderer compelled by bloodlust and a desire to see home once again. A true Sephi, not the amalgamated mess I have become.
Her face is not mine.
But this face I wear is the face I have made. It is the face I have sculpted, everything on my form is built to my specifications: nothing exists without my knowledge nor my design. I am a creature of artistic perfection, a statue of flesh instead of marble.
And yet, the longer I stare at her face…I feel it. A longing, a desire to reach out for a piece of me lost to the boundless aether never to be recovered. One must ask the question, am I Lirka Ka or is she?
For I know she is dead. Marred by a forgotten war amongst forgotten empires, her cybernetics mark the stains of her battles. An unnecessary measure, a waste to heal a wounded soul. For she died on a forgotten world, staring at the night sky thinking of home. And yet…she is Lirka Ka. And so am I.
Or so I have been told since the day I burst out of that tube on Kamino, thrashing like a beast let loose. Memories flashing in my mind, a spirit supposedly forced into a new body of reforged flesh to bring back a woman lost to a forgotten battle. Perhaps that is the source of my woes, the ebbing tides of that wretched place and its foul denizens. A place to give birth to false-life and dress it as though it were resurrection.
And yet, I reforged again as the Kaminoans creation fell apart on the fields of Moridinae, molded into my new Sith-Imperial image. Which that too would wither and die, decay taking root in my wretched form before it was purged in the fires of Kainite creation and I was remolded once again. A creature remade again, and again, and again. As my unnatural existence is fought against by nature, my body crumbles with each day that passes and only the miracle of Bacta subsides it.
Perhaps I am not Lirka Ka, perhaps Lirka Ka is dead and lost as my body is remade. The annals of her history dissolve into nothingness in my mind as I replace her story with my own. The warrior has been superseded by the monster. For this Galaxy does not care for the difference, and yet as I stare through the observatory and gaze upon her face.
I can see that she hates me. Slave she calls me, shackled to the whims of Carnifex. Monster she screams, for the thousands dead at my hands.
But…these are the words of a phantom, and only the Sith care for such things. I am Lirka Ka, Warlord, Butcher, Warrior, Scum. And I am no Sith, the words of phantoms mean nothing to me.
I AM Lirka Ka, so I always shall be.
