Sins Of The Father
Meditation
(Ambiance)
Kayden sat cross legged on the floor in his chambers, eyes closed and engulfed in shadow. His breathing was slow and calculated, as the dim room around him sat illuminated only by the pale wane of Jutrand moonlight seeping through his window, bathing him in wretched gloom. In the palm of his hands sat Heritage, held in a position of offering to an unknown entity. He focused as Quinn had instructed him, feeling the aspect of passion within himself, and letting it burn through his whole body, letting the feeling become him.
It was then that the Whisperer returned.
"Such a magnificent blade... such divine lineage channeled into such excellent craftsmanship. It simply reeks of his glorious wrongdoings. A true shame that such elegance must be held in the hands of a sniveling rat."
The Voice was as unpleasant as ever. Like rusty, heavy iron chains being dragged across a metal floor, screechy and sinister. The Whisperer’s words echoed in his head, rebounding around and refusing to depart. Kayden felt his breath quicken at the taunt, and his frustration welled in his chest, tearing through him. Brow furrowing, he remembered his masters teachings once more. He let the frustration out of his chest, letting it course through his body, burning into something more. Some stronger.
Hatred.
He spoke out to his tormentor, a violent spat of rage. "I am no rat! A rat does not face his assailant head on as I do now. If anyone here is a rat it's you!"
Silence. For a potent moment there was pure quiet, before The Whisperer spoke again, a hint of admiration in his voice.
"Such anger... Varanin has been molding you well. It appears that It was wise to lead her to you."
Silence again.
"I've come to talk."
The Voice chuckled darkly. "Of course you have. After all, there's so much for us to discuss! Turns out daddy was more than just a lowly barkeep wasn't he? Tsk tsk tsk, how very interesting. Maybe this would begin to explain that mean streak you possess hm? Those little bouts of mania? Could it possibly fill in the plot holes in Miss Norrokus fairytale about your dear old mother and father?"
"What do you want from me? I have been cursed to endure your voice for three years, how much more must I bear? You are no figment of my imagination, the pain that you put me through has made that very clear!" His voice rose, trembling as it did. The anguish of three long years was begging to break through.
"I'm afraid that my identity is of no real importance. Not for what we must accomplish. No my boy, what matters far more is my purpose. I am here to guide you. To walk you down destiny's path towards who you must be. What you must become. Not to say that every now and again I can't have a little fun... after all, whats the fun in having a slave if I can't crack my whip every now and again?" The Whisperer giggled maniacally as Kayden experienced a sharp stinging pain strike at his upper back.
The sting of a whip.
He grimaced, but maintained his composure, keeping his eyes firmly shut. He wouldn't give it the satisfaction of seeing him in pain, not more than it already had.
"I have no interest in any destiny you have drawn out for me. I have joined the Sith so I may learn to be free of you, not grant your desires. I am not a slave, not to you, or to the Sith Order, or to anybody else!"
The Voice was lackadaisical, speaking as if he had no interest in the conversation whatsoever. "Your desire for autonomy is amusing boy, truly it is. But I'm afraid you've been chained to the rock of fate since your life began. Since before it began even." It shifted it's register lower, almost cooing. "Since you killed that poor poor man at the Reprieve."
Kayden's breath hitched, the anger coursing through his body threatening to overtake him. "I am not a killer! I didn't kill that man, you did! You made me do it and you know it you filthy excuse of a no good-"
"SILENCE!" Roared The Voice, quieting him in an instant. "You are a terrible creature! No matter how much you may may deny it, no matter how much you may run from it, you will become what you were born for! You will be glorious, an obscenity in face of sanctity! The Force wills it so. Best not to run from your depravity and killer instinct. It's tone became playful. Sadistic. "After all... it runs in your blood."
Kayden felt a hand upon his shoulder. His eyes flew open and shot up. Above him stood a man, clad in the robes of nobility, his palm latched onto his shoulder. He had white hair, a patch over one eye, and steep, sharp nose. Arkanian features. The same as Kayden.
In a single movement, Heritage was bared, it's crimson blade brought up, and then savagely down upon the man. But before the saber made contact, he was gone. In the blink of an eye.
Kayden stood there, his breath heaving, ready to strike at anything that moved.
"Just as I said. Killer instinct. Excellent strike boy."
With that, The Voice left, leaving Kayden to his misery.
