Resilience and Retribution

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Kiskla’s twirling sabre succeeded in its distraction, although batted away by [member="Darth Vornskr"]. It clattered away from the locked pair noisily, skittering across the duracrete with momentum that suggested there would be no stopping until it smacked against the extended leg of a small fighter. The blonde was hardly conscious of its travels, too consumed in her fleshy target. When her blade struck true, she drove it forward, twisting the plasma against his innards and closing whatever distance there was left between them. Kiskla was so close that she could literally smell Kaine, aside from the physical scents, and the mixing of their hot breath, she felt as if there were fear there. That she could almost smell fear, if that were possible. He permitted her no time to wonder though, and immediately reacted with a primal rage that caused Kiskla to yelp in surprise as her slender frame was forced downward, involuntarily relinquishing her grip on the sabre that pierced through the Sith Lord’s lower torso.

A coveted gasp escaped her throat before no such luxury was afforded to her. The hilt of the blade flattened between them, disengaging the moment Kiskla stopped applying pressure to its power source. Her hands, stained with the spillover blood from Kaine’s stomach, flew up to wrap around the Sith Lord’s large knuckles in an attempt to pry him from her neck. The first thing he crushed through were those borrowed goggles, the plasticine shattering into both his fingers and her neck and the frame bending into her as well, threatening to puncture her thyroid. Heels slid against the duracrete desperately, though it looked as though she were trying to get a grip while on ice. Her long legs scrambled beneath his crushing weight, and she attempted to leverage her situation by using her heel as a main pivot point to buck her hips upward. But Kaine was a mammoth and she was a mouse. Her shoulders wrenched back, and she strained her neck to attempt to fill her lungs while his thumbs pulverized down on her larynx. Pathetic gulps of air were attempted as the animalistic Panathan King inflicted genuine desperation into the Kiffar Princess. Choking was something Kiskla had never been good at defending against — perhaps it had been a small mercy that her interactions with [member="Mikhail Shorn"] were only verbose exchanges, rather than telekinetic ones.
At this time, leverage was not on her side either, and this could not be won by strength alone — or at least not her physical strength which was piteously reduced from the norm. Her elbows dug into his biceps in an attempt to buy herself more time, and reduce the strength from his throttle. But passion was his fuel.

Kiskla had to use this proximity to her advantage. He’d established physical contact, and she was gripping onto his hands for dear life — she had to use that. She had no choice.

The Force was her weapon, and although her vision was beginning to cloud she could see his metaphysical shadow so clearly it was as if it were on a microscopic level. His blood was pumping, and pouring. She could feel the heat of his blood against her own stomach, soaking through the fabric of her shirt and moistening her skin. Hot. Hot blood.

Kiskla’s legs continued to scrape, but her focus was not on leveraging her body to flip him to get his body off hers. It was on his internal landscape. The blood within his body was warm, as it was with most sentients in the galaxy, but with her focus of the microscopic view, she increased the rapidness and quivering excitement of his cells. The increased movement would heat him from the inside out — thinning the life-giving fluid to the point that it would desperately pump and seek an exodus from the cauldron of his body. The strain of focus, and physical pressure caused unwanted salt to appear at the edges of her almond eyes, surfacing to intermix with the sweat and blood that already painted her face. Her fingers moved to squeeze against his wrists, inserting her thumb against his palm to continue and try to push him away while she ferociously focused on her prowess with Art of the Small to overheat him from the inside out. The darkside was eating him alive, and as a Master of the Force, Kiskla also turned her attention to that. The deterioration of the shadows was a long process, and with fading perception, she keyed on that, willing The Force to claim its prize before it’s projected timeline by accelerating the deterioration process of Kaine’s physical body.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

His hands were now slick with blood that pooled over from the hole in his gut, and a thick red haze had fallen over his vision till he saw nothing but absolute hatred that burned with the intensity of a thousand white-hot stars, and was the only thing that drove him forward now. Reason had long abandoned him in his frenzy of malice, and he had truly given over to the animalistic nature that had laid dormant within his soul for over thirty years. He could no longer speak, and only frothed a harsh, guttural snarl that came from deep within his throat, bubbling past his lips as his grip on Kiskla's necked tightened with every passing second. His nostrils flared as the red haze thickened as he could feel the woman kick and thrash beneath his weight, and he only increased the intensity of his assault, pushing down on her harder, and his fingers now digging into the flesh of her throat, drawing small drips of blood as the skin broke beneath his nails.

Then, the red haze began to abate as his skin grew warmer and warmer, becoming hot to the touch, and the Sith Lord broke out into a furious sweat as the warmth quickly began to increase until it felt like there was a raging inferno in his chest, licking at his rib cage and his organs to his extreme discomfort. He could feel his blood begin to boil in his veins until they eventually popped from the heat, and various shadings of black and crimson began to appear all over his body, and that was when his hold over Kiskla's neck truly loosened. The heat continued, unchecked, until his insides ignited with combustion and his skin began to turn black as coal, crags opening all over his charring skin as he began to deteriorate. He opened his mouth wide, and a haunting wail of agony exploded forth from his throat as the fire within his belly was stroked up to a maelstrom of flames and torment, burning away at his lower body with no signs of stopping. First his hands broke away as the flesh and bone holding them together crumbled like sand, splattering Kiskla with their ruin, and then came his legs.

He toppled over to Kiskla's right side to land on his arm, which exploded in a cloud of soot and charred flesh, and then went his stomach and groin, crumbling into nothingness as the Sith Lord's body was devoured by not only the fire started by Kiskla, but also by the Dark Side finally coming to claim it's just reward. Gradually the decomposition of his body faded, and all that was left was his ruined upper torso, half of his right arm, and the smoldering ruin of what once was his face. Miraculously one of his eyes survived the inferno, and he still had the capacity to speak, and his remaining eye fell upon Kiskla and he spoke in a voice ruined by fire, barely a whisper.

"This... this was the death I saw in my dreams..." He sought the words as his life faded rapidly, his body now crumbling under it's own weight onto the ruined floor, his eye searching frantically as it did. "My power... will ripple across eternity..." And with that, the rest of his ruined body crumbled into ash before Kiskla's eyes, and the dark spirit of Kaine Zambrano was dragged down into the Netherworld of the Force, damned forever to fight endlessly as he had in life.

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Desparate, convulsive gasps intermingled with [member="Darth Vornskr"]'s primal, harsh growls — but she pressed on in her defence. Her pain would be a focus if she made it out of this hangar alive. And that was only providing her mystiques with the metaphysical worked. This struggle continued for too long, and Kiskla’s vision was beginning to fade. Her kicking stopped altogether and her gasps were more drawn apart. When she felt like she might not make it back from the brink this time, she felt his grip loosen.

What?

That was all she needed to amplify her intensity, and her hope. A driving force that caused his grow to turn into sputtering gurgles. His howl caused her eyelids to flutter while his grip continued to loosen. Then the first repulsive drifts of ash evidenced, and intermixed with the tears and blood already staining her cheeks and lips. With nothing left to constrict her inhalations, she drew in air desperately, her lungs crying for more as they greedily filled themselves with whatever Kiskla could suck in. The intake was overwhelming, and she thought she was going to vomit for a second time today. Instead, her body gave way to a violent fit of coughing, pushing back out the air she had worked so hard to offer it and causing her bruised, raw throat to pulse angrily. The Sith Lord then lost his balance, facing the blonde Jedi as she scrambled to right herself, releasing him and clawing at her neck and chest in confusion. Shards of the goggles were still visible in her skin, along with the other puncture wounds from his nails. The sight before her, however, meant she was unable to look at anything else. He was decomposing in hyper speed by her hand. She had undone that tether he had to The Force, and she had done this to him with nothing more than her will and knowledge. She was transfixed by his undoing, staring at the supernatural devil as he became nothing more than ash.

Had she more air to waste, she would have made a comment about being his dream girl, or making his dreams come true, but she couldn’t. On top of being starved for oxygen, she was also too horrified. She stared open-mouthed as the once enviably massive form of Kaine Zambrano was reduced to nothing more than dust.

Instantly, she kicked with her heels and distanced herself from the mound of ash that the flames had created. Her eyes were wide in shock, stricken to the core that her mortal foe had been vanquished by her ministrations. An eerie breath was withdrawn from the hangar in that instant, and there was an obvious recoil of darkness in the proximity. Even as she clutched her chest, heaving to regulate her breathing, she could feel that.

Kaine Zambrano, the god-king of Panatha was dead.

Kiskla had killed him with her bare hands.

Bits of his body still clung to her, and she was soaked in a cocktail of her blood and his own. But she was still alive, and starting to breathe again. Her entire body was overtaken with a deep-seeded tremor, overwhelmed with the trauma that had just showcased.

It’s not that Kiskla hadn’t killed before, she’d even done it in a blind rage when a Padawan — but to this magnitude, and without a warrior’s weapon? She was afraid. She pulled her palms from clutching her breast and looked at them, stained in his blood and dirt — slightly spattered with the residue from his disintegration. Her mouth was dry as she observed, still shaking.

Kaine knew there was darkness ahead of him. In death, he knew what he would face. But here? Now? She was now the reason this planet was without a ruler — did she have time to do anything about it? She should have jumped into action, but she was stuck. Stuck and surrounded by the cement block over what she had just done.

That was not a Jedi way to use Art of the Small. She had implied to Darron Wraith, when she had first returned to The Order that she would never use her abilities like that again. But she had. She just did. And she'd done it in enemy territory and left them without a leader as well. All in the blink (or multiple) of an eye.

The Jedi sat there for a moment, deliberating what she was to do now. She was weak, beyond exhaustion, famished and out of touch with a lot of the galaxy. Her celestial presence was flickering after that expulsion, which would make her unable to detect by even those closest to her. Kiskla Grayson could easily still be presumed dead, or a lost cause. But Kiskla Grayson was never a lost cause. This was an opportunity. She kept her eyes on the place the dark Lord had taken his last breath, and pushed herself upward to slowly stand. Once erect, her hand waved to call the distanced hilts to her hands. They took their time, but they heeded her command as she holstered them to the make-shift belt still slung around her hips.

Gingerly, she pried the shattered goggles from around her neck, pulling them over her head and wincing at the combination of the movement required to complete the action. They fell to her feet as she steadied herself, feeling her midichlorians begin to populate with life once more. There were other prisoners here. Other prisoners that had suffered as she had -- and now could possibly be their only time for liberation. Now could also possibly be the only time she would have to escape this dreaded chasm of darkness.

But was he really gone?

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

She moved silently to where Kaine's discarded sabre rested. Dropping to a knee, she picked it up and weighed it in her hands for a moment before clipping it to her hips along with her own blades. A token of this engagement.
Staggering steps advanced her from the grave spot of the fallen Zambrano. When she reached the curve of the entry way, she paused, stretching her hand agains the arch for support before falling to her knees again with an aggravated groan. With a single palm supporting her reduced weight, she reached up to touch her throat once more. She was not a healer, and remedying the crushed windpipe would not be an easy feat. For now, she'd have to be incredibly wary of her exertion; and live with raspy breaths.
After a few moments of woozy discombobulation on her hands and feet, she slowly stood once more-- avoiding the crutch of the wall and forcing herself to resume her typical upright, commanding posture. There was a reservation within her, that suggested she shouldn't return to the bowels of the castle; but she couldn't just leave with the benefit of her own freedom. There were others that had been taken by Vornskr-- those who had suffered a similar fate as her. Perhaps worse, considering they didn't have the privilege of being an obsession to the voice of the Dark Lord. So her decision to descend passed through her conscience with the usual valour of most actions. When in doubt, do. Incrementally, she made her way back down the twisting stairways and plateaus from the tip of the spire where the ultimatum for [member="Darth Vornskr"] had just reached reality.

It was dark down here-- and Kiskla was surprised that she'd adjusted to the light so well. Then again, everywhere else was fairly dim as well. Once she was exposed to the outdoors, she resolved that would be an entirely different story. Good thing she already looked blind to most people, what with the white irises and all. She reached to her hips, unclipped one of her Sabres and ignited it as a make-shift illumination piece. Cerulean light spilled over random ridges, showing the presumed laboratory wing -- soft groans echoed from some of the tied up guards she'd rendered unconscious. For a second she weighed the idea of their release, but decided against it since their captain was no longer around to inform them of her treaty with the guards. Soft whimpers down the halls called her forth, and she could feel flickering taps from The Force down that way. Jedi.

Her exploration yielded fruit. In a single chamber, quite a ways down, and still several floors above where Kiskla's isolation had been, there was a handful of frail bodies slumped in a single room. One would suppose with their collective energies they could do some damage--- but even to the naked eye it was apparent there was no energy to be spent from these individuals. Concern spread across the Grandmaster's visage, and she leveraged her blade to sever the lock and push the door ajar.

Tired eyes tracked her, hope hardly evident in their fading gleam. Their cheek bones protruded, other bones threatening to poke through their thin coat of skin. Maltreatment would be an understatement, and Kiskla dropped to her knees next to the healthiest looking Jedi, although it was a face unbeknownst to her. This Jedi must have been lost before her time as chief administrator, as she'd done her utmost to have a familiarity with those who were taken under her control. A blood-bathed hand reached out, and the Jedi shrunk away- obviously broken.

"I'm not here to harm you," Kiskla whispered reassuringly; partly because she didn't want to shock their ears with the noise, and also because she couldn't speak much louder without hurting herself. "I'm here to bring you home. To get you out of here."

The Jedi shook her head, her expression still miserable. "Nobody here remembers what home is. We hardly know what this world is, if we are in life or death."

A single, curious brow quirked at the latter part of the elder Jedi's explanation. "What?"

"I'm dead."

"You're right here, look, I can touch you." To reassure the position, Kiskla reached out for the woman's hand and took it in her own, hoping the stains wouldn't be a deterrent. But the woman was resolved in the fact that she was not alive-- which suggested to Kiskla that she could take liberties with this situation considering words were getting her nowhere and pain followed each syllable. With the contact established between their palms and phalanges, Kiskla dove into the history of those hands. Seeing the recent stories and history in a way only time surfer could. Kiskla was ypinked from the present and observed the woman's recent actions through her own eyes; not as an observer as she would have if she were flow walking. Vornskr was there, and the woman was looking down at her weak and bloodied body. Instruments of torture were strewn about and then all was black. This confused Kiskla, because she also felt cold. Then, the woman blinked to life and saw Vornskr's face. This happened a few times, and Kiskla ascertained that if she didn't have the Force she wouldn't be alive now.

Horrified, Kiskla withdrew her hands and looked at the sad prisoner's face. "You've been murdered and resurrected multiple times," she determined in a breath, looking confused.

"Sith magics have us lost in what world we are in now." The woman nodded, moving in a way it was obvious she didn't want Kiskla touching her again.

"But you're survivors."

"Not by choice."

"But by the Force."

"No, by magics. We want death."

The blonde jedi shook her head. "No. No, you're all getting out of here."

"Kill us."

"No. You're alive, and you can be healthy again. Come, please, all of you. We can get you help." Kiskla was the first to rise, very aware that nobody had taken their eyes off her this entire time. A hand extended to the woman who was resistant. Behind her though, a masculine voice spoke up.

"I had a family." The Kiffar turned to seek the speaker, and saw a middle-aged former warrior crumpled in the corner. "I still might. If you're promising help, I'd like to see if I can know them again." Slowly, Kiskla nodded-- she knew that feeling. She hoped her friends were still alive, though. That was the problem with having fighter - relationships. Every day the war efforts drew everyone closer to death; and Kiskla had been cut off from the Force for a year. She wouldn't have even been able to feel if [member="Marcello Matteo"] was still breathing. Thinking on that, she slipped to a momentary panic; but refocused quickly to the situation at hand. Dwelling on the unknown could draw her to a dark place.

"We'll make that happen. I have more power in Republic space, but I have allies within the fringe." Kiskla had never been personally off-putting to members of the Fringe council. Save for [member="Lucien Cordel"] perhaps, when she tried to swindle a deal from him-- but that wasn't her. That was as Lady Freya-- but that aside, no other reasons to clamp down and withhold her wishes. "There are safe planets here where you can recuperate and find the means for travel back to where you came from." He didn't look ecstatic, but he nodded. A few others synchronously following his lead. Her hands reached to wrap around his wrists, and with leverage on both their parts he was successfully hoisted to stand.

"How are you down here. Vornskr will surely end you for infiltrating and escaping."

"He won't." Kiskla whispered (not that she'd been much louder than a whisper at this point anyway) "He won't harm any of you again." She turned to assist someone else when he asked her how she knew this. She was focused on her current task, but delivered her answer; "I killed him."

"Y..you what?"
"Who are you?"

"Fellow Jedi, my name is Kiskla."​

 

[Marcello Matteo]

Alderaan - Some Time Prior

Marcello's glacier-blue gaze remained fixed on the holographic image. A brief transmission of despair that was already twisting his intestines into knots of...concern, fear. He knew how the rest of this story was supposed to go. Shun all emotion to keep from feeling anything and, therefore, making yourself susceptible to the machinations of darkness. Marcello hadn't ever really been so whimsical in his interpretations.

Now though...he could feel it with every bone in his body. It was like a virus quickly spreading through him, contorting itself into outright anger along the way. Though his face was serene, emotionless, his soul was literally on fire. Yet...in a surprising anti-climatic display, Marcello doused the fire within him. Sure the smoke of his irritation still simmered beneath the surface but whatever greater danger had previously existed...was gone now.

Given the reduced communication frequency with elements of Republic Intelligence, Marcello had come to know of Kiskla's capture officially roughly six months after it had happened. In the preceding months, he'd not felt the death of [member="Kiskla Grayson"], but the comfort of her ethereal presence had faded all the same. The warrior had simply been too busy fighting a losing battle to spend much time in contemplation. This was the reality of their loves, and they both accepted their love would, unfortunately, be second to the greater needs of the Galaxy simply because of who they were.

"Master Jedi, is...everything alright?"

Marcello's brilliant blue eyes focused on the orator before offering a solemn nod. "Fine. Assemble your command staff. I want to discuss tonight's operation one more time. We cannot afford any further missteps."

Kiskla was always getting herself into trouble...but Marcello had accepted the reality that it was her job, their job. His soul longed for her and yearned to set out on a personal crusade to find her, but his mind and body were needed on Alderaan. Little did he know it was merely the beginning.

Panatha System - Present

Years had passed...several of them. Alderaan had finally been liberated and reclaimed, but Marcello was not entirely confident it would remain as such. He was honored to serve with the many freedom fighters there. By the time the lengthy operation had completed, much had changed in the Order and the Republic it would seem. [member="Corvus Raaf"] had stepped up in the wake of Kiskla's disappearance. Marcello thought the woman to be...competent, but he knew little else about her. It was just the same, politics did not interest him.

Seated in the cockpit of his N-1T, Marcello gazed at the volcanic planet before him. It had taken time to identify who had been holding Kiskla...but not terribly much once his previous commitments had been complete. There was still plenty of work left for the Republic, but Marcello had been very clear he would not be involved in the usurping of worlds that did not want to be part of the Republic of their own accord. A Liberator he was, a Conqueror he was not.

The problem presently before him, however, was that he knew little of the planet's defenses. Marcello had arrived blt with grandiose fanfare or some massive fleet, but a support vessel with the requisite staffing did remain just outside the system. One of the Praxeums, per usual.

He still could not fully sense Kiskla's presence, but he refused to believe she could pass from this existence without him knowing. Certainly that would crush him beyond repair. "R9. Take over and punch us straight through that atmosphere, then guide us towards the largest structure on the planet, low profile."

R9 gave his usual series of massive protests.

"I'm going to be focusing all of my energy on keeping us alive. Now go." In an instant, the nimble interceptor shot forward while Marcello closed his eyes and immersed himself deeply within the Force. The Jedi Master fought against a strong current in the seemingly endless sea of darkness surrounding the planet. Wrapping the power of Force around him like a protective entity, he forced his alternatively brilliant presence to cut through the dark, shining like a massive comet in the night sky.

If he sensed a shield, he would systematically alter its composition in a large enough area to allow the small interceptor to slip through. Once in the atmosphere, Marcello kept note of any other defenses meant to destroy or otherwise delay him. To that end, speed and a very low altitude would help to mitigate the more...conventional opposition.

Sensing their approach towards the center of the planet's every dark feeling, Marcello slowly opened his eyes. His heartbeat was tranquil and his breath even.

"Into the breach... I've got the controls, R9."

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

The hoard of amblers navigated through the rooms uninhibited. They were limping and frail, and the girl leading them wasn't in much better shape -- though she projected otherwise. She'd been through many things in the recent years, this was just another thorn on the rose. More dirt for the lotus to rise from.
As they moved, more were added to their congregation of wounded. All persons who had suffered from [member="Darth Vornskr"]'s demonic machinations. "Make your way to the hangar, it's at the top of the spire. There are several ships up there. Divide amongst yourselves -- have you any idea where your weapons are contained?"

"Destroyed, most likely. We've been here for years."

Time wasn't to be wasted. Although their leader was gone, there was likely some fall-back plan. Unless Kaine truly thought himself immortal. Which was entirely likely. She'd have to test that theory, in order to buy these refugees some time. With their understanding of where to go, she peeled away from them toward where she would have thought the main command and control room were. Of course, she had no awareness of the layout whatsoever so there was a lot of fumbling around while still attempting to remain unseen. All the while, she was thinking how best to handle the planet without a ruler now. She knew Kaine's son. She had helped him on Anaxes. Being a bastard son of Kaine's must give him some sort of entitlement by blood? [member="Montross Zambrano"] likely wouldn't be difficult to track down, he was a mopey kid but not a tyrant. She'd seen the fear of those soldiers, how many Panathan subjects mirrored similar emotions?

How many more prisoners were there? Prisoners. Kiskla's breath hitched as she entered a long foyer, likely leading to a ceremonial throne room -- an assumption made by the (presumed) traditional Epicanthix carvings on the wall. She followed the art. Prisoners. Nui was a prisoner to the vong. Kaine was affiliated with The Vong, likely almost intimately considering his rankings within the One Sith. Was Michael Sardun here too? She closed her eyes, requiring ultimate focus to trace back a thin link that had been established months ago.

"Where are you." If [member="Nui Akona"] was here, she would help him. If he wasn't, and if he were still in pain and knew the root of his person, he would help her. She'd need it for the prisoner's safe passage through Fringe space -- especially if she was going to do something for Panatha on her lonesome.

She continued moving through the throne room, feeling strange at her freeness of movement within the confines of the castle. Her footing stalked the obvious route until she stumbled across an intimate looking room, dark and heavy with a weight of the darkside. Curiosity was still an omnipresent quality, and she pushed the door ajar to enter the presumed quarters of Vornskr himself. A chill crept through her body, tickling her bones like the creeping of a spider.
Her pouted lips curved as if she were going to say something, but not a breath escaped her as she scanned the room, eyes darting about to find something worth focusing on.

This was weird.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

He hadn’t been a prisoner for a long time now, at least not in the conventional terms of what it meant to be a prisoner. Traveling from here to there across Fringe and other spaces had brought him small measures of peace and the distinct idea that he was doing something… good and useful for the Galaxy, sometimes Akuna found himself with Ordavo, sometimes it was with Tal. But always was it in some kind of way interesting and liberating, that was then.

But now was now, and now as the days that he had found out about Grayson capture at the hands of Vornskr and his soldiers. It had not taken very much convincing on his own part to return to the Sith, he had led the charge for them on Kashyyyk - a planet lost anyway, his contribution had only caused its fall to quicken. Nui didn’t feel guilty about it, what was one more planet when his friend was captured, tortured, maybe killed in the dungeons of the Black Iron Tyrant? After Kashyyyk he had reconnected with his old brothers and sisters of the Slayers, they had decided to supplement the Blackblade armies on Panatha… keep order on the capital of one of the oldest Voices.

It was here that Nui was to this day, slowly, but steadily increasing his access towards the Fortress, the neverending black hole of misery in the metaphorical deadcenter of the capital. That was until [member="Kiskla Grayson"] suddenly made contact with him herself, he had been playing cards, doing the thing one more time to get some rest from the common slur of day.

Nui didn’t show his distress, at least not in the usual sense of the word. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to something amusing, he put down one of his cards and called the bet. His companion had never been a good bluff, but immediately after that he retraced the flinter thin passageway that led him through alleyways, beating houses and others, until it finally ended at the Citadel itself.

A single flash of a dark quarters, the Darkside strong and it was gone again.

‘I am here.’ Nui answered, and she would know where here was. Because he would show her.

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

The packet of information concealed in her palms could host a wealth of Sith knowledge. Everytime she squared off with the villain he seemed to know something new, or have acquired some sort of new device from an ancient enemy. Perhaps this journal had insights into the Sith's dealings. Certainly something that would be of interest to the knowledge seekers within The Organization. Instead of just liberating the presumed diary, however, the young woman's fingertips grazed the surface thoughtfully before diving into the prologue of its contents. Vornskr had been obsessed with her. She'd been a prisoner of his for a year or so, his voice being the only human thing she'd heard. His mind was like a medication for her now, despite her self sufficiency and her own ability to get this far from the dungeons. But when her white eyes soaked in the information, she read it in his voice. Word by word through the entire entry. Based on the contents, she ascertained this was written sometime during her confinement in the dungeon. Alarmed, Kiskla pulled out of the internal musings from the dark lord.

Her mind hardly had time to shift before [member="Nui Akona"]'s gentle imagery intercepted her brainwaves; tailed by his voice and assurance of location. A small, almost malicious grin crept through her lips with the satisfaction of knowing he was both alive and able. His voice was stronger than the last time they'd connected. He had been doubtful before, unwilling to divulge information to her (likely because he didn't know which way he wanted to continue on his personal path). She'd wanted to rescue him, to pull him from the clutches of the One Sith but that had...not gone as swimmingly as she would have liked. Obviously. But now they were both in a position of self and crowd liberation. Kiskla was aware that stating she was alive was redundant, that had been established. She wasn't well, per-say, but she was functional.

"Good." She permeated relief into that single syllable, though it was a harsh word. It was good that he was here, she'd need him. If she were just herself escaping, she could slip away mostly unnoticed. But there was more to this, there were beasts in that dungeon, a legion army, prisoners, miserable civilians, etcetera. Not a defeatist, but needing to collaborate, she stood and mouthed the words as she thought them. Normally there would be no indication of this ethereal conversation, but Kiskla was Force-starved; and it was a two-way street between herself and the metaphysical to get back up to par. "I don't really have a plan."

A pause.

Something crept into her, slipping through the cracks of the paragon; seeping through the dents in her armour. Damages created from not having the Force for a year, and being exposed to nothing but the black. Instead of mouthing these words, she spoke them aloud as well as transmitting them to that golden thread back to Sardun; "I want this place to fall." Retribution.



[member="Darth Vornskr"] | [member="Marcello Matteo"]

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

There wasn’t much to say in regards to that, Akuna had been wholly prepared to simply infiltrate the fortress with his Slayers and destroy everything in sight until he had found Kay - but some small distant part of him had stayed off on that course, mostly because he hadn’t really been sure how she would react to the collision forces once she was out again. So he had played it more safe, slowly integrating himself and waiting for an opportune moment for a precise strike assault, it seemed the moment had finally come though.

She didn’t have a plan, but that was the thing, no? Some of those old days still vibrated through to him, old memories of better days. He had been her right hand, her… friend perhaps and he had been the man with the plan. Always the General with optimistic ideas for the future on how to bring all of the Galaxy closer together against the ever-looming threat of the Sith. How quaint fate had spun out of control then now.

‘I got a plan or two.’ the amused smirk was almost palpable through their connection, it was a callback to their times spend together pondering and discussing the various matters, wars, unification, all the crap that Akona no longer really cared about.

Gently refocusing away from his connection the Vongified Warrior looked around the table, he pondered for a while and the men were becoming shifty, on edge as they waited for him to say something. Feeling the tension a blood-thirsty grin spread across his expression.

‘It begins, ready the men.’

Going back to Grayson, Akona would share his sentiment with her.

‘It will fall.’

 

[Darth Athora]

Cyrus paced through the library of the keep before sulking into a chair when, in almost an instant, he could feel a disturbance in the force. It was enough to draw his attention away from whatever tome rested in his gloved hands. He looked up at his personal guards and they looked back at him. Cyrus slammed the book shut and threw it to the floor before pushing himself up from the chair with great force and rushing out of the library.

The disturbance in the force called him to his father's quarters. As the crown prince of Panatha, Cyrus was followed by several Kingsguard of the Empire. They stayed close behind the prince, armed and prepared for an encounter.

The doors to Kaine's quarters were large and thick. But, Cyrus forced them open with ease. He was breathing heavily somewhat due to the extensive distance between the library and this room. Cyrus laid his soulless green eyes upon the woman within.

"Who are you? A vagrant? Some assassin? "

[member="Kiskla Grayson"] [member="Darth Vornskr"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Kiskla had been wondering how long she could tromp around undisturbed in this foreign realm. She stood with the door blocked, listless expression painted across her features. This being was not as unknown to her, as she was to him. Another of Vornskr's sons --- he'd littered them all over the place. This one, he's chosen to keep for some reason or other though. Which sucked at this present point in time.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was reminded by the bruising and wounds on her neck. The soreness that accompanied the residue of the Panathan king's body that still also clung to her skin. His blood soaked against her stomach too. So, unable to speak, Kiskla afforded [member="Cyrus Zambrano"] a shrug.

There are prisoners who need an out. Let's leave room for them in this plan.

[member="Nui Akona"] | [member="Marcello Matteo"]

 

[Marcello Matteo]

As the Jedi Master opened himself up more and more to the power and every shifting of the Force, he became acutely aware of how terrible of an idea this was from a tactical standpoint. The amount of presences that littered what he could sense of the large fortress ahead of him was...almost daunting. More importantly, he was quite certain that he was really only sensing a small part of the problem.

However, even with the choking potency of darkness that seemed to make up the planet's very core, Marcello could pick out that which drew him and drove him in all things. When the needs of the galaxy could quietly be put to the side, [member="Kiskla Grayson"] occupied his every thought. Even when the needs of the galaxy couldn't be put aside, she was his only real desire...the only thing he wanted to tend to. Alas, he had long ago committed himself to a lifestyle and a path that was neither popular nor conducive to the maintenance of any semblance of a real relationship. It was a path he walked with reserved pride, a quiet professional.

"R9. Prepare both launchers and then immediately reload the secondaries." The Jedi Master's attention was still so intently focused on the monumental stupidity of the task before him, that he intended to utilize the astromech's assistance more than he typically did. In fact, R9 usually just sat there and beeped random annoyances into Marcello's headset like the smartass he was. Marcello probably only had himself to blame for the droid adopting certain elements of his personality.

Once R9 singled all was prepared, Marcello threw the nimble interceptor into a sharp bank to the left. Instead of dipping the wings back to the right to level off, Marcello snap-rolled the N-1T another one hundred and eighty degrees such that his cockpit face the direction he'd just come. Pulling sharply on the controls once more, the Jedi Master pulled back the thrust lever ever so slightly to bring the interceptor to its cornering speed quicker. As it approached, Marcello reapplied thrust as his heads-up display indicated they were roughly four kilometers from the target.

Leveling the N-1T, Marcello pulled back sharply on the stick for approximately two seconds before rolling it inverted and pointing the nose at what he'd assessed to be something of a hangar bay near the top of the spire. As the vessel rocketed towards its target and destination, Marcello immediately fired off the two loaded proton torpedoes one at a time.

As instructed, R9 immediately processed the reload sequence with two of the three remaining torpedoes. A long beep signaled they were ready.

Now two kilometers from the hangar bay, Marcello fired off the remaining torpedoes at actuators to either side of the hangar. A hail of laser cannon fire followed behind as Marcello's black and blue N-1T rocketed towards a very hard, unpleasant welcome of...the hangar deck. The Jedi Master's only intent was to, you know, not have a welcome party to contend with until after he'd exited the spacecraft.

Once the N-1T was within one kilometer of the hangar bay, Marcello idled the sublight engines. Activating the forward RCS propellant normally used to assist in maneuvering in space, the Jedi Master gave the fighter...an almost laughable amount of reverse thrust. It was enough in conjunction with the speedbrakes as Marcello leveled out the interceptor and began to rotate the control column back towards his chest to keep the vessel from climbing. Just before his descent rate turned into a complete stall, the Jedi Master applied approximately sixty percent of thrust to the repulsors and retracted the speedbrake.

From there...it was merely a little finessing of the controls required to keep the spacecraft under control and nestled on to the edge of the landing pad. The canopy was open less than two seconds after the N-1T's extremely rapid descent was complete. Marcello leapt from his seat and withdrew the hilt of his lightsaber simultaneously. For now, he left the weapon deactivated as strands of blonde hair settled around his face and shoulders. Reaching into a pocket of his leather flight jacket, the Jedi Master withdrew an earpiece communicator and placed it into his ear to maintain communication with both R9 and the Praxeum outside the system.

[member="Nui Akona"] | [member="Cyrus Zambrano"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

The Liberated Jedi & Misc. Prisoners​

When the Jedi Master had left them, saying she was going to find some flight controls or something for their passage, the liberated prisoners had followed her directions to walk up the spire. It had been a long time since many of them had the freedom to use their legs, and to escalate up this many stairs was daunting. They were also subject to the vortex of the darkside moreso than usual, considering all they’d been through and it was all the ethereal elements of Panatha had to offer.

In hindsight, Kiskla probably should have stuck with them for protection and identification.

Nevertheless, she’d given them hope that they could be rid of this forsaken planet and they followed the instructions dutifully, quietly quelling the buildup of the dark side that permeated around and within them. The aspiration of being reunited with the galaxy and those that mattered within the stars, drove them forward and upward. Those who were the most well of their group sandwiched the cluster, leading the way and protecting the back. [member="Darth Vornskr"] was a paranoid ruler, with a legion under his belt that would likely soon wise to their exodus. They stepped as hastily as possible, assisting each other along until the first few reached the opening of the hangar. There was little evidence left of the battle that had just taken place here, but there were a few ships they could use — but they would be useless until they received confirmation from the Jedi who had promised redemption.

“Wait.” One of the younger Jedi, a more recently introduced member to the torture schematic, spoke up looking backwards. A precognitive tingle raced up his spine. “Stop the advancement.”

Sure enough, a plume of smoke and debris erupted without warning from the mouth of the hangar and he turned his back, pushing back on the prisoners who were filing upward. Some coughing ensued from the cluttered interaction, dust filling the air and mixing in with the first few person’s hair and clothing — which was already disheveled at best. Grooming wasn’t a top priority in survival.

A fist balled in front of his lips as he coughed into his hand, peering as much as he could through the dust to see what they had been sent into. Perhaps it had been a farce all along, and that blonde woman hadn’t been on their side after all, but rather a ruse from the dark lord to further push them down the path of torment. Still, he decided to risk it as his precognitive senses had adapted to feel a presence unlike the rest of the darkness that enveloped the citadel.

Dare he use the woman’s name? He cast a wary glance to his companion, who seemed to share the sentiment while the clouds rolled to clear.

Okay. Do it. What had she said?

“We’re with the Jedi.” both hands lifted as he stepped forward, his dark-haired companion edging along with him. Was this part of some bigger plan? They weren’t really afraid of death anyway, even if it was. They’d already died. Several times at the hands of the dark magics. In fact, they craved eternal solitude rather than this strange limbo of the unknown between life and death. The undead. “...Er.....Kiskla."


[member="Marcello Matteo"] | [member="Nui Akona"] | [member="Cyrus Zambrano"]

 

[Marcello Matteo]

Marcello moved with purpose through the hazy aftermath of his actions. At the current point in time, he had precisely no idea who he could or could not trust. Further more, he had very little concept of the interior defenses within the sprawling fortress. If the exterior was any indication, however, he could count on the remainder of this...liberation requiring equal amounts of creativity and flexibility.

The sensation of approaching lifeforms prompted Marcello to quickly dart behind a, now heavily damaged, spacecraft. For several moments he was still and silent as the Force washed over his very being, granting him sight where his eyes could not see. The large Jedi heard a distinct voice emanate from beyond the gradually settling debris. However, it was the name uttered by this voice that truly engaged Marcello's attention. Needless to say...he was aware this could have been a trap, but if he refused to take any risks due to the possibility of failure, he'd never accomplish anything in life.

Emerging from his position of cover ever so slightly, Marcello's glacier-blue gaze focused intently ahead of him as he moved slowly through the smoke. Eventually, the Jedi could make out the outline of a body, then two. As the outline turned into full corporeal form, Marcello's eyes registered several more outlines attempting to hide in various areas further beyond the two before him. Gazing down at the two men with no discernible expression, Marcello's deep voice rolled across the hangar. "You'll excuse me for not taking your word for it."

A pause.

"If you can..." Marcello paused, gazing around the area for a moment. Eventually, his attention settled back on the man that had spoken to him. "Find a vessel suitable for transportation of a large number of people. We may need it. Get it ready." Honestly, Marcello didn't much care if they elected to attempt to fly off on their own. That would indicate to Marcello they did not require his help, so be it. He would never rob anyone of their right to choose how they live...or die.

Without any further discussion, Marcello took off in the direction the large group had come. As he moved through corridors, Marcello was careful to keep himself open to the Force, stealing glances around corners before exposing himself to new corridors. His advance was not an all out sprint, but it was not painstakingly slow either. The increasing warmth of [member="Kiskla Grayson"]'s presence was the only thing to truly spur him forward.

[member="Cyrus Zambrano"] | [member="Nui Akona"]

 

[Darth Athora]

Cyrus was insulted by the women's mere shrug at him. But, there were more important matters. The guards reported a Jedi in the halls of the keep. Cyrus realized all was lost and that it would be best for him to escape while he could.

And so he did. There was a secret corridor, known only to the Zambrano families, that lead to the secondary hanger at the rear of the keep. Cyrus escaped there and boarded his ship before taking off.

[member="Marcello Matteo"] | [member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

That was certainly an experience parallel to any encounter with the young Prince’s father. And Kiskla was surprised at her ability not to escalate the situation when the Kingsmen passed on whispers to the Epicanthix heir. He deserted her alone in the quarters, and she waited for a moment, feeling his presence rescind. The heir to the throne deserted the castle, leaving Kiskla and [member="Nui Akona"] to plan its downfall as they saw fit. Mountains would bow, and the rivers would kiss her feet. Panatha’s palace may have wished her life to be one it kept, but alas.This place would be rubble by the time she made her final exodus. She dwelled on this idea while tucking the Dark Lord’s diary against her hip by tightening the make-shift belt she’d liberated from the guards. She then surveyed the room, rummaging about for some sort of internal blueprint of the castle’s structure. She’d need both the communications epicentre, and the generators — of which she assumed wouldn’t be on the same level she had been. When it came to architecture, Kiskla wasn’t the best despite her consultative assistance with the reforming of the Kiffex prisons. But without reference? Terrible — her navigation altogether wasn’t the best. Nevertheless, she found something akin to what she was looking for, and decided it would have to do. Despite the departure of the only owner of this territory, time was not on her side, she could feel her physical capacity rescinding from the mass expulsion from the past hours. Her steps hastened, and she reached the doorway, leaning against it for a moment before stepping into the breach once more, glancing at the reference in her hands. She could feel the recoiling of the Zambrano presence, and even to her dulled senses, she could feel a beacon that was wholly opposite to the planet’s core composition. Like a brilliant arrowhead cutting through a mire of blackness. That was all she could ascertain in her bleak state, but correlated that sensation with the hastened leave of [member="Cyrus Zambrano"].

Associations and links worked in her mind, and she focused on expanding her own energies. It was more brilliant than anything she’d encountered with the prisoners, they were all weak. It couldn’t be Nui either, because of the Hydra Queen’s modifications to him. The only other options would be Jedi from The Order coming to her aid — which she did not want. They didn’t have the sort of bandwidth to expend on her behalf.

Thankfully [member="Marcello Matteo"] only had so many corners to creep behind until he could exposed himself to the same corridor the former Grandmaster was in. While she still tried to complete her set objective, of course. She couldn’t have Sardun having all the fun!

That swell of brilliance was overbearing. She usually would have spoken out to it, demanding an announcement of presence, but alas her voice was still woefully hoarse and restricted so she could only creep along soundlessly. Not that it mattered what noises she could make, because the sight of the unexpected rendered her speechless. He must have been the reason for the Prince’s swift departure — because despite how terrifying she looked stained in blood and flesh remnants (her own, and Vornskr’s) her energy levels probably projected less of a threat than usual. But fresh blood, and someone as..demandingly present as Marcello would be fear inspiring. All these thoughts of course happened, but she couldn’t quite accept the reality that he was here. On Panatha. Her mobility was voided, and she entered a temporary stasis of shock, gripping the make-shift map as tightly as she could to make sure this was indeed a reality. It didn’t matter if it was, she was beyond comprehension now — slender fingers quivering with anticipation and surprise that reached to cover her mouth as she took ginger steps forward; opposite movements to any other time she’d seen him. Kiskla was tender and delicate on rare, rare occasions. Apprehensive never. She hadn’t seen him in over a year, except in twisted visions fed to her by [member="Darth Vornskr"]. The swell of realities were a cacophonous clashing in her sternum, and while she likely should have not moved toward that which had been a primary core of her mental torment for months, she couldn’t help it. There was a reason he had been so securely locked in her head, that even when she wiped her own memory of the Order's most prestigious assets, despite the potential to bring pain to the Naboo native, or even herself via whatever mental witchcraft Vornskr used, she couldn't void his impression on her. Her trepidation came from the understanding that this was not the first time she had seen him materialized -- although it was the first time she was moving on her own free will toward him etcetera.

 

[Marcello Matteo]

The sight of [member="Kiskla Grayson"] as Marcello dipped around yet another corner was...unexpected. He could feel her presence, yes, but it's perceived strength had convinced Marcello that he still had...thousands of meters to descend before they came face to face. For several moments, the large Jedi was motionless. His hesitation was not born out of fear, apprehension, or disbelief. In fact it was quite the opposite. Marcello fully believed that he was seeing Kiskla in as real a form as could be mustered at the moment.

However, he immediately felt and overwhelming sense of guilt. How many times had she been available when he'd truly needed her? All the time, really...be that through physical presence or something as simple as the memory of her. Conversely he had thrown himself at the mercy of monsters and eternal darkness without a moment's hesitation. Certainly her predicament was her fault...and her ridiculous contention with [member="Darth Vornskr"]. He'd warned her of this multiple times, but none of that mattered in the particular moment.

Marcello's almost-pathetic self-deprication was rather swiftly washed away by swelling pride and a happiness that held more warmth than any sun. She had prevailed, and she'd done it on her own. When he'd been enticed by the darkness, he'd given in...even if briefly. Say what you wanted about size. The greater strength was clearly vested in the lithe frame before him.

As soon as Kiskla began her approach to him, Marcello clipped the hilt of his weapon to his belt. Large, swift steps closed the distance near instantly before Marcello gently swept the Kiffar into a firm, warm embrace. Lifting her off the ground slightly, Marcello allowed his head to nestle against the side of her own. "Don't you dare let this happen again."

There were no tears. Marcello resolved himself to be strong for at least...

5

4

3

2

1

Well...the watering of his eyes clearly indicated his resolve was supremely outweighed by his love for her and the pure joy of seeing her after so long.

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Reference: http://hypem.com/track/2akvd

A combined wince and smile manifested when her skinnier-than-usual frame was eclipsed by the Jedi Master’s embrace. She was involuntarily rigid at first, but the warmth of reality prevailed over the mental torture that she’d endured — any time she’d reached out when he was but a spectre of her imagination, he’d dissipated in a most gruesome fashion. Now though, he didn’t seem to be deteriorating in the slightest. Her breath hitched in her sore throat when he offered a scolding, and she shook her head against his own cheek, tightening her feeble grip around Marcello’s shoulders.

The hug likely could have stretched on forever without much second thought, but they were still but two firebugs amidst a swarm of locust. The invitation to scamper about the halls unhindered was wearing short. Her croaky voice manifested as her feet touched the ground once more, and stained fingertips brushed the slightly salted crows of her companion, offering a faint smile. Facial muscles that hadn’t been used in well over a year. “But that ruins my schedule for next week.”

Still, despite touching the ground once more, she dropped her arms to just around his waist, clinging to that familiarity while tiny whispers and demons echoed in the back of her mind. The reality of the physical was a tangible refutation, however, and she was using that as her primary Exhibit A to quell the argument of the dark prosecutors [member="Darth Vornskr"] had instilled. She would not bow.

‘Did you see a group of Jedi on your way out? There are many prisoners here, this place is an epicentre of demonic experiments.’ Her thoughts paused. Thankfully, her and [member="Marcello Matteo"]’s connection was deep enough for her not to over-extend her capacities, but speaking this much would have hurt her crushed throat more than she could handle. ‘I want them all out before this place falls. It’s a symbol of suffering that will be brought down.’ She was still pressed against him as she communicated, a tone much harsher and vindictive than the former Grandmaster had used in the past. She was usually a diplomatic young lady, offering redemption at the forefront. Exposure to the darkside for so long however, and her nerves being worn (and severed, if you really want to get into it) had curdled her pleasant demeanour. The well being of the innocent was still the precipice in her mind, but the rotten would crumble.

‘Michael Sardun is here with a handful of soldiers to help that happen, too.’ Although her mental speech was more crass, it wasn’t an anomaly for the young woman to have planned something, or be taking a sort of action (positive or otherwise) even in her disadvantage.

She frowned slightly against his shirt, and adjusted the position of the make-shift breastplate she’d liberated in order to not poke him anymore awkwardly. ‘You didn’t just come in your little fighter, did you?’ Did he expect to liberate in his trusty Nabooian fighter? The guy was always cruising around in that thing. Although it had been proven they could both fit in there, under entirely different circumstances, Kiskla wasn’t sure it was the most optimized of vehicles for a Panathan escape.

Then again. He was the practical one.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Kiskla Grayson"] [member="Marcello Matteo"]

In the meanwhile Nui hadn’t been sitting on his lowers and twirling his thumbs, this moment had been exactly what he and his slayers had been waiting for. Slayers. The vongshaped former prisoners of the One Sith, Jedi Masters, Jensaarai, Dark Jedi and all others that had dared to stand against the might of the Dark Lord- punishment had been quite the tale, and their loyalty suspect to a degree.

The Hydra Queen’s death had broken something inside all of them and their brokenness had brought them together in the single-minded resolve that they weren’t anyone’s shutta anymore.

Slayers and Akona blurred in and out of existence, sticking to the shadows and slowly creeping up to the big citadel. Every once in a while a Blade, Vornskr’s guard, would disappear; corpose disposed of.

While Marcello and Kiskla had their reunion Akona and his men had entered the Keep itself.

Blood and fire.

There was no Michael Sardun here.

 

[Marcello Matteo]

Marcello could not help but roll his eyes at [member="Kiskla Grayson"]'s verbal comment, but a smile lingered on his lips just the same. As the lithe Kiffar adjusted her body positioning for comfort, Marcello's gaze chanced a swift appraisal of their surroundings before centering on her face once more. The woman's switch to a more intimate form of communication in the sense of proximity of her thoughts against his own did not bother Marcello. There probably weren't a great many things the former Grandmaster could do to unsettle him.

It was a good thing that Kiskla wasn't rendered unable to mentally communicate because it would obviously make her incapable of rapid-firing questions and definitive statements in his direction. The large Jedi's smile widened ever so slightly at the thought. She remained unchanged in probably just as many ways as she was changed. "I did. If they did as instructed, they are finding defensible positions for the weak and injured while the others work to dismantle defenses."

To Kiskla's last question, Marcello fixed the woman with a brief no-nonsense gaze. "I absolutely did because one nimble fighter can slip past defenses with a much smaller margin for error than a massive shuttle...or several. Also, I did not come here to liberate refugees, and I'm halfway of a mind to leave them. Your perception of them does them credit but not enough for me to trust." Marcello wouldn't even address the mention of Michael Sardun and the 'soldiers' he was supposedly here with. "Where is the control room?"