The Throne Room [One Sith]

[Jairus Starvald]

Finally the scuffle at the side grabbed the attention of Darth Carach, Voice of the Dark Lord, the situation with Junra was currently being contained by the Hand and Silara - now it was time to see what this other thing was all about.

‘Remember I once told you about a certain plant schutta?’ he asked [member="Matsu Xiangu"]. ‘Today might be the day you get a chance to wet your sword on her.’

Darth Carach put his hand on the pommel of Kata’narihttp://starwarsrp.net/topic/35069-katanari/, while looking at the events unfolded. Just as Janus had said, the Slayers of the Dark Lord were looking on at the posturing of Circe Savan, and they weren’t all too impressed it seemed. Readying their weapons the Vong would commence a beatdown in a short while.

‘Your heresy betrays you, Savan. The Dark Lord of the Sith doesn't die easily. His Eye will soon be upon us and isn't as welcoming as we are. You will leave now or we will cut your throat.’ Carach said in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘You are not welcome here.’

A Voices of the Dark Lord, Xiangu, Janus and Ten force-dead Slayers.

Carach hoped the schutta would try them.

[member="Enigma"] [member="Darth Janus"] [member="Matsu Xiangu"] [member="Darth Vornskr"]

 

[Caulder Dune]

[member="Enigma"] | [member="Darth Carach"]

Janus snarled, turning around to see where Circe had run off to after cloaking herself. "Understand my rationale? You're not even capable of grasping the fact that this is not a debate."

He would have been more than willing to assault and possibly murder the interloper at this point, but Darth Carach seemed content to offer her another chance at leaving peacefully. Carach's authority, even if they were all supposedly equals, outweighed Janus' own. She would almost certainly flee at this point, just as she had done over Dromund Kaas when faced with Rygel Larraq. Knowing this, Janus deactivated his lightsaber and returned it to his belt and waited.

 

[Soeht]

As her body had already flown out of the building, gravity had immediately took a hold of Daella. She tried to wrap her head around what was happening. Her senses began to dull. She turned her head toward the city below her. Her eyes spotted the air traffic whizzing by below.

Then, Daella could feel her body slowing down. An act on [member="Silara Vantai"]’s part to prevent the woman from falling to her death or somehow escaping. Yet, such an action might have saved her in the long run. She now had time to think.

Resolving to continue her efforts to survive, Daella bit down on her lip - drawing blood. Most importantly though, she could feel the sharp pain. Just as any other being that clung to the dark side of the Force, she hoped to utilize this to fuel her influence in the Force - if only for the hope of something small to change her fate.

As for Daella’s position compared to the throne room, she was well below where the opening of the window was. While her speed was now a gradual descent and near stop, she was still slowly falling.

Then, tremendous pain shot up from Daella’s legs as [member="Reverance"] attempted to destroy her legs. Again, her face grimaced as the bones from her hips to feet creaked. Micro fractures already formed. Her left fibula began to crack. It would not be long before Daella would be unable to walk - even if she managed to escape. Not only that, but such damage would prove difficult to repair if it continued. Such a thing would be detrimental to Daella, who relied heavily on her quick feet for any fight.

Yet she continued to drift further down. From the corner of Daella’s eyes, she spotted a speeder flying below - getting closer to her. She stretched out her right hand toward the vehicle. With the distance increasing and line of sight being lost - as well as some of her strength in the Force - those in the throne room would lose direct hold through the Force on Daella. She drifted toward the vehicle in an attempt to land on it as it sped by.

A sudden interruption by another party could render her efforts all in vain.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

The heavy thud of shod heels rang in the halls of the throne room, where the corpse of the Dark Lord sat keeping vigil, quickly growing as cold as the throne he sat on. A figure emerged into belligerent halls, decked crown to toe in black armor inlaid with gold. A faceless helm sat upon his head, spikes jutting from its top in a facsimile of some infernal diadem.

The expressionless helm cocked slightly to the side as it surveyed the occupants of the throne room.

"Oh," came the muffled, cold voice, full of snide malcontent, "Don't mind me. Do go on."


[member="Darth Carach"] [member="Darth Janus"] [member="Enigma"] [member="Kezeroth the Malevolent"]

 

[Grrwunhoooll Agaburry]

And like that is was over, Kezeroths Hate afforded him much and very little. As he watched the events unfold more he relaxed and accepted it knowing His job was not done. Letting his arms drop to his side Kezeroth snickered slightly at the whole situation that happen. His great Hatred changed at that moment of realization that he needed to become more, more then a raging fanatic of a Brute but Become Calculating and Precise with his Goals. Hate was no longer their as a raw and basic fire but it had exploded from the events and turned into something Worse... Malevolence. Closing his eyes the Gen'Dai focused and through sheer force of will reunited his Mind once more, He could see clearly for now, The Change would not be Permanent, WIth age he would degrade into raw Hate again.

It was time to go into Exile, He had enough of Sith Politics and their Wars. He would come back stronger and more honed. " Karking Sith and their Politics...." he said aloud and raised his head up. His body made the motion of taking in a deep breath in though he had no lungs and the Force was summoned amongst his flexed body. Earlier he had Broke the Window with his scream and now it was an exit, In a Flash of Controlled force Speed the Massive Gen'Dai darted across the room and leaped out the window with a Force Imbued Leap. His Falling down Hard in a slam he landed on a One Sith Transport that crashed into several others and vessel by vessel he slow made his way to the Lower Sections on Coruscant.

(( OOC: Exited Thread..))

[member="Darth Junra"]
[member="Darth Carach"]
[member="Silara Vantai"]
[member="Reverance"]

 

[Darth Ayra]

| [member="Darth Janus"] | [member="Silara Vantai"] | [member="Enigma"] | [member="Mikhail Shorn"] | [member="Darth Carach"] |

The hooded woman turned her gaze to the Umbaran. Her yellow eyes averted from him to Darth Carach, to Silara Vantai, Circe Savan and then the faceless Armored being that was Mikhail Shorn. She had fought him once in the tournament of Cauldron and had lost. Her thoughts went back to reality and focused. [member="Darth Junra"] had fallen through the glasteel of the spire and had begun to free fall into the city depths. Now that the traitor had been dealt with, there only two targets left.

Circe Savan and Alicia Drey.

Betrayal was something that all of the beings in this room were not unfamiliar with. They had gathered in the center of the One Sith to observe one in the making, when Junra had stabbed her master. There was only one way for the Sith Lord to show her allegiance to the One Sith. That her being there was not a fluke and rather a showing that she had returned to the ultimate power in the galaxy, to lay siege to the Galactic Republic.

The Rule of Two has it's end and the end was coming for the Sith Master.

Darth Ayra disappeared on the spot. She was unseen and unheard. Her sudden movement unforeseeable. She had worked with Circe Savan for several years. It had ended with [member="Rave Merrill"] discovering her identity as a Sith. It had born no results. The Galactic Republic remained a dominant power. The Sith Empire had crumbled. Her plans for Sojourn and Chandrila were in disarray, after being pulled into the Circe Savan-Rave Merrill rivalry. All of this would become apparent to Circe Savan and the One Sith, after they witnessed the second traitor of the night.

But not to the One Sith.

Instead to a weakness.

Snap-hiss.

In all the years Darth Ayra had spent alongside Circe Savan, it had become apparent that Darth Pandeima's would be apprentice had three primary skills: she could endure, she had a mastery of the Lightsaber and her senses in the Force were that beyond any ordinary master Force-sensitive. The White Current that Pandeima had mastered was nothing new to Ayra and thus it went wanting, because the 'Sith Apprentice' always knew where her 'Master' was.

In the split second it took for the hooded Sith Lord to cross the room in a Force Speed, everything came to play. She emerged behind Circe Savan (Darth Pandeima), Lightsaber ignited towards her back. She would not suspect or foresee it. Darth Ayra had been careful. She had been deceitful. It was a sudden and surprising attack.

 

[Soeht]

As time went on, the speeder grew closer and closer to Daella. If she could latch onto it, maybe it will take her far enough away to go into hiding before the driver realizes what was going on. She continued to stretch her arm out toward the speeder as her legs were crushed. She could hear the gnashing of bone.

There was little room for error. Daella knew she would likely not have a chance like this a second time. As her body drifted even closer, she prepared herself to grab a hold of it. Just seconds were left. She struggled with the Force to just push her close enough. The tips of her fingers touched the speeder for but a moment. Hope swelled within her as she was about to grip the fender of the speeder.

Then Daella’s head was slammed into the body of the speeder. She was too weak to properly control her body or the Force for such a delicate maneuver.

The fall continued.

Blood soaked from Daella’s head as she looked at the speeder as the distance between her and it further increased. It was not long before she reached terminal velocity. Still, it was a long way down to the surface of Coruscant - and it seemed as if she was going all the way.

At that moment, she realized that there likely would have been no chance for her to survive. Providence unlikely.

No, impossible.

The wind nipped at her skin. The cold was biting. There was no one beside her. There was a lot of time to think - for her mind to wander.

All that was left for her was the minute or so until the end.

 

[Soeht]

Two girls. Both alike. Golden hair with azure eyes. One with sharp eyes of ambition. The other soft eyes of compassion.

Ambition had forced the other to the ground. She strangled the demure girl by the neck. Life faded from Compassion eyes as she cried - clutching Ambition’s wrists.

This again?

Now only Ambition remained - looking just as the Daella that would grow up to be a Sith Lord. Yet as she looked down on the now lifeless body, it was just as if she stared at the mirror.

I don’t want to remember…

Dark words encouragement followed. Words that Daella had forgotten - or rather, refused to remember. Words of enlightenment with no peace or closure. Words no girl ever wanted to hear. Yet now, it was clear to her what had happened all along.

If only I paid attention…

The cold seeped in. It was time to sleep.

I don’t know why I’d remember this now… since I’m already-

 

[Soeht]

Change fell upon the One Sith. An era had ended with the death of the Dark Lord on that day - slain by a lightsaber that still resided in the throne room.

Yet, the Sith will continue as they always have. Be it under the will of one attempting to replace the Dark Lord, or perhaps the Dark Lord himself if the rumors of his immortality were true.

As for the traitor, Daella, One Sith officials eventually found the spot in which she landed. There was a small indentation in the steel flooring surrounded by blood. The center of the small crater featured just a tattered but whole tunic and a pair shoes.

END

 

[Jairus Starvald]

Time passed, silence reigned and one could almost hear the sound of a dice falling in the distance waiting for fate to lay down the cards for everyone involved. The Voice of the Dark Lord turned around, certain that either Circe Savan was dead, killed by the hand of her own Apprentice, or that she had escaped and was now running yet again, or perhaps that she had dodged and was now fighting Drey, all known quantities and yet… it mattered little. Because the outcome was already pre-determined.

She would either die or flee, and either would suit the Voice. Turning around he took a look at the damage struck at the very core of the One Sith, the sudden mortality of their leader had come as a wake-up call to the… younger ones in here. Silara was still standing by the window, perhaps trying to slow the death of the traitor, Harley was still busy trying to stabilize the condition of a corpse, one which was already growing colder by the second.

The Hand was doing what Hands did best, inflicting as much hurt as possible. The darkness swelt and he could almost feel the bones snapping under the command of Reverance, it almost brought a grimace to his lips.

Almost.

He walked over to the window, not touching Silara and yet simply… being there, until he finally spoke, this time more silently, with more contemplation and tact in his words.

‘Worry not, sister. The Dark Lord’s death will not come as swiftly and quickly as that, he will return to us soon enough.’

No other words were uttered, and Carach left her with that promise, before walking over to the corpse studying it for a moment. The lightsaber of the traitor was still there, laying in a pool of blood, with a wave of the hand it flew to his own grip and he studied it too.

Such a crude and ancient design, strange.

Finally though, the Voice of the Dark Lord did that which he should have done when it all started.

He reached out to the Eye and shared with her a message.

‘You have felt it, just as we have felt it. We need the guidance of the Eye now more than ever.’

He left it there, nothing else needed to be shared and then... Carach waited,

[member="Silara Vantai"] [member="Reverance"] [member="Darth Isolda"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

"Ugh, really?"

The black-clad figure raised a single hand, fingers curled like the talons of a nightshrike, and wrapped his indomitable will about the visage of the throne where the Dark Lord sat, truly immortal in death. There came a groan, as of stone crying out in agony, then with a sound like a thunderclap the throne fractured into a hundred pieces that spun through the air with wicked hums. Some chunks of rubble splintered against the walls, others ricocheted off the floor, while still more smashed through the windows Carach had stared through a bare handful of moments before, shattering them entirely.

The Dark Lord sat amid the rubble heap, body now cruelly lacerated by shrapnel from his own throne. His jaw hung askew. He seemed almost to be laughing.

Mikhail Shorn smiled back as he looked on his handiwork, ignoring the pathetic sideshow fights.

"There, much better."

[member="Darth Carach"]

 

[Darth Carnifex]

Vornskr remained silent and impassive throughout most of the fights and betrayals that whirled around him, instead focusing time and effort onto analyzing what he had unearthed from the recesses of Junra's mind shortly before she threw herself from the shattered window. He remained cemented in place seemingly oblivious, but fully aware, of all that transpired around him, although to him they were background noise to the thoughts running through his mind. This whole affair didn't settle right with Vornskr in the slightest, but even so he did not expect Junra's treason to affect him so personally. Her transgressions put into question all that he was, and all that he was striving for in this moment. For that he was furious, how dare she put into question his purpose? A purpose that as of now defined him and gave him something to strive for, else otherwise he would revert to how he was before he joined the Old Empire.

A sociopathic ne'er do well that allowed his own vile instincts drive him to murder and rape in no one's name but his own. He was a mongrel back then, and he swore never to return to such a wretched lifestyle, despite the constant hum in the back of his skull. Whispers of glorious, yet mindless, ultra-violence to sate some ancient and primordial bloodlust that existed within him for as long as he had been aware of his own existence. He had quelled it in ages past, but there were always those moments where it threatened to bubble to the surface, to make him into a beast wearing the skin of a man. His Sith training taught him to harness that bloodthirst into a precise and controlled weapon to smite his foes as a refined warrior, but even still he could feel the tribal drumbeats of his soul begging him to hearken to their beat and murder indiscriminately once again. It was all so tempting to give in again after his failure at Dac, but the Dark Lord once again gave him the purpose to chain up his inner demons once again.

Now, with the being that had prevented Vornskr from slipping into madness now dead and crumbled, he was anxious, nay, fearful, at what might happen without him. He needed to talk with someone, but not just any someone, he needed to talk with Isolda.

And he needed to talk with her now.

 

[Ellie Mors]

Cheated. She had been cheated out of her wrath, and again her prize snuffed out from under her very grasp, just beyond her reach. Junra was likely dead, and with her death would come her failure in securing a prize for the Dark Lord once he had returned in a new form. A shiver ran across her spine and her brow upturned as she tilted her head lightly to the side. She had failed. Even when she had successfully held the Sith Lord with her very own hands through the force, when she felt the fragility of the body that had been just within her grasp, that accursed woman had thwarted her for the last time. Even when she hadn't quite seen the strike, she felt it, and heard it. The rage that had filled her to the brim not moments ago had been replaced with the disappointing despair of depression. In her long list of trials and tribulations, she had failed thus far more than she had succeeded - at least in her recollection of the events and how she had perceived them. The invasion of Empress Teta had seen her body broken and sundered by the Akure Leviathan when she had been determined to fight it alone, her body changed alchemically through the force multiple times since then to make up for it and maintain her vanity.

She had allowed her own master, the one whom she was closest with for so long, to live after he had betrayed her and the One Sith, and more recently she had allowed this fething traitor, slayer of the Dark Lord's mortal form, to escape from her grasp and flee into death. It mattered not that in each situation she was vastly outclassed and shown up her betters in a moment of brilliance, such as her seat as an apprentice immediately moved to knighthood for her impressive 'fight' with a master of the force and subsequent lasting battle with a massive leviathan. But this was completely unacceptable. This was ridiculous. "It isn't that, my Lord. I am ashamed to have failed while trying to impress Him. I am unworthy of his grace." She replied to [member="Darth Carach"] somberly. In her moment of audacity, such a brief and foolish act, she had been arrogant and believed herself to be worthy of his attention, for she longed for his gaze. It was beyond a mere weight of power, as some of her betters stood in silence to preserve, as she wished nothing more than his attention. For the Dark Lord as a singular person, disregarding the One Sith and her loyalties to it, she would give him her all. Knowledge, wisdom, power, they were all mere tools to achieve her ambition of kneeling to the Dark Lord in person, to be his to direct and only his. Such was her obsession, her passion, with the highest echelon of power. And she had failed.

 

[Reverance]

Hand held fixed on the figure as [member="Darth Junra"] moved, crimson eye watching as descent and gravity collected it's bounty. Suddenly, it was no longer something for which he felt responsible, a broken being claimed by the deflection of vehicles below, that sudden but inevitable stop. She would have felt pain in her last moments, the sight of ground with no ability to stop it. Gabriel mourned, for the briefest of moments, that inability to see her face. To see the wash of stabbing and throbbing pain across her form, the contortion of delicate features moved into something heinous and degrading. The realization that the end was here and had arrived within the wake of her actions to strike down something that would rise soon again, as if nothing had happened at all. Perhaps that was the greatest regret that he felt, not forcing her to watch as the spirit of the slain rose up to usurp her endeavors, reclaiming the throne of the One Sith that rightfully belonged to the mightiest, to the strongest. One day, that might change. But today wasn't that day.

An arm dropped into it's natural posture as the force crawled back into the Lord of Pain, no longer succumbing to insurmountable rage and immeasurable hate. Cork placed upon the bottle of fire and lightning, Gabriel collected his thoughts as his eye drifted upon the cohabitants of his efforts. [member="Silara Vantai"] and [member="Darth Carach"] watched from perched view, the emptiness of the space beneath the throne room filled with nothing but dreamscapes of Coruscant and utter disappointment. Disappointment that the renegade had fallen instead of being broken, offered to the group as humble warning in prevention of future action. His view drifted over to [member="Matsu Xiangu"] and [member="Darth Vornskr"], two silent figures that had worked in tandem with the voice to render the traitor all but ineffective. An action absolute in it's resolve, unyielding and unbroken. Yet it failed, just as he had failed in his attempts to break her completely. Such thoughts he would collect upon on another date. For now, cogs needed to be set in motion.

And just like that, the throne was broken and the useless corpse of the Dark Lord of the Sith laid disheveled within the rubble now lingering in strewn patches and piles. He looked to the figure in a sort of lackadaisical sense, his sanguine eye lazy and slow. Like a male bird, victim to runaway sexual dimorphism and forced to work for his stay, this figure had gone and done something equivalent to flapping his wings, dancing, and cooing. The corner of Gabriel's mouth crawled upward in the slightest gesture of disbelief as he subtly shook his head, a peacock in full display, and the seemingly fruitless intention of a man who had missed the fact that Dark Lord was no longer within that body. That body had been busted and it was clear that a new one would be needed. It was an obvious attempt to rile those in the room, Gabriel thought, quietly wondering if it would work. Idle hand lifted to his face as he laughed in his hisses and scratched the scar over his eye, walking away from the encounter and approaching an unbroken window near the one destroyed in [member="Kezeroth the Malevolent"]'s rage. He would wait for the eye to come, to give her guidance, likely involving the need to create something new, a shell for the lingering presence. His mind drifted about those in the room as he hands found their place behind his back, ever vigilant of the intent of those in the room.

[member="Darth Carach"]|[member="Darth Vornskr"]|[member="Silara Vantai"]|[member="Mikhail Shorn"]|[member="Darth Isolda"]

 

[Onrai]

Circe had been hunted for many years. It had grown into a paranoia that consumed her, kept her consistently on her guard against hostile actions from even the closest of friends. Friends and lovers seemed to grow more dangerous as she acquired them, and she had consistently been tensed for any action, even the slightest, that would result in her losing life, a limb, or something else important to her.

And thus, with such being said, she winced as she slipped to the side, an attempt to wholeheartedly avoid the attempt by her equal and now-lover to eliminate her. Circe had no idea why she would do such a thing - though an obvious rationale would be to try and gain favor with Carach, Janus, and the others. It wasn't perfect, and she did receive a minor nick on the side - but she gained distance away from Ayra, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she was completely aware, expecting another attack from anyone any moment now.

She was the wolf in sheep's clothing... in a pack of wolves.

 

[Caulder Dune]

[member="Enigma"] | [member="Darth Carach"] | [member="Darth Ayra"] | [member="Mikhail Shorn"]

For the first time in forever, Janus was surprised. Not "jaw hanging open, eyes wide" surprised, but marginally stunned nonetheless. Sure, anyone who consorted with Circe was arguably about as reliable or trustworthy as a starving sarlacc pit, but Janus had not expected this one to brazenly betray her partner in the middle of all the Sith. An obvious ploy to curry favor. As far as Janus would concern himself, it worked. Ayra would be elevated from "repulsive concubine" to "untrustworthy concubine." Whether or not that would change things in the long run remained to be seen.

There was still a time and a place for this sort of behavior, and now this behavior would need to end. Damn Carach and his chances, this repulsive little troglodyte needed to be dealt with now.

"Very well, your former colleague can stay as far as I'm concerned." Darth Janus said, already channeling the Force and focusing it for his purposes. "But you are almost certainly going to die."

The Force welled out of him and he directed it towards Savan with little effort. His consciousness would slam into hers and immediately attempt to manipulate her current emotional state. To put it plainly, he clawed at her mind and attempted to inspire an all-encompassing sense of total horror within her. Crushing despair and a sense of utter hopelessness would envelope her within the next few moments, playing havoc with her ability to focus and engage in combat effectively.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

The claw-like hand of the dark armored man swung ever so slightly in the direction of a certain old acquaintance. A telekinetic vicegrip wrapped around [member="Enigma"] as the Thronebreaker attempted to transfix her in her place. Crushing her like a bug would be so easy, but less entertaining than observing the effects from the wave of pure malady he felt flowing from [member="Darth Janus"] and toward her. A room full of acquaintances, then.

So many old faces. He wondered which ones he hadn't chucked through a wall... the list was getting shorter all the time.

The Force Grip tightened as Mikhail Shorn endeavored to render the woman entirely unable to move. It suddenly occurred to the impulsive Sith Lord that he could snap her legs like dry wood and still watch her writhe in pain at Janus' ministrations. Mikhail's fingers began to curl inward slowly, increasing the pressure on both her calves as Force Grip transitioned into Force Crush. At last he closed his fist completely, listening for the sickly-sweet, wet snap, which would indicate her tibias breaking in half-a-dozen places.

 

[Jairus Starvald]

Carach's mental might lashed out and bolstered the efforts of [member="Darth Janus"]. [member="Enigma"] would probably not only feel horror, but also pure and undiluted agony mixing with the possible pain of getting her legs snapped. At least if [member="Mikhail Shorn"] was succesful in his endeavor.

 

[Darth Ayra]

| [member="Darth Janus"] | [member="Darth Carach"] | [member="Mikhail Shorn"] | [member="Enigma"] |

One, split second to move across the room against a woman who had her back turned and wasn't expecting betrayal from a woman she considered equal. That wasn't no nick or minor injury that Circe Savan had sustained. Constricted by the master of Force Grips, inflicted by a Force Horror from a former Dark Lord of the Sith and said horror empowered by the same man that had just reduced Darth Junra to a corpse at the bottom of Coruscant.

Indeed, the sheep had entered the wolves den.

And now the wolves were feeding on their prey.

So Darth Ayra stepped, span in the Force Speed, as a true master of the Lightsaber. It came up to the base of Circe Savan's spine, in an attempt to sever her spine in two, if it landed.

 

[Darth Isolda]

T E M P L E O F V A H L

​

Perfect. Everything was... perfect.

The Chosen of Vahl had dreamt a dream, caught a vision that demanded her entirety. So much so that Isolda's lips had parted, and a cloud of breath came spilling forth as if getting a foretaste of the sweet satisfaction that was to come.

The betrayal. The strike of the blade. The fall.

And the subsequent surrender to the one who had been His vessel through it all.

Ç̟͔͚͍͔̘̯̖O͏͚̼M͎͕̤̪͚͞͝͠ͅĘ͉̜͖ ​

​

​

That single command drew a sharp gasp from the Vahla, her chin rising as her teeth bared into a slight hiss in .. pleasure. The voice sank into her skin, making her skin crawl with the rush of energy, her head tipping back the tiny hairs at the back of her neck rising in growing awareness. Therein came that pull, almost as if her those thorny vines within that dream turned tangible, and the mass of intricate black tattoos around her body pulsed, stinging with pain as heat spread across her body,

​

Ç̟͔͚͍͔̘̯̖O͏͚̼M͎͕̤̪͚͞͝͠ͅĘ͉̜͖​

Demanded the figure, ordered, twisting and burrowing within her mind like tangled vines, their thorns digging deep into her psyche to draw blood. Another savage gasp tore from Darth Isolda's throat as she fell prostrate upon the polished stone of the steps. For the Miraluka blood in her, her Force sight saw the ecstasy of what beheld her. Above her.

In her.

The power of the Darkside writhed around the Dark Lord's aura like liquid darkness, twisted by complicated patterns that rushed over his body, a kaleidoscopic storm cloud across a gilded sky. Lighting flashed within those glittering orange orbs.

Deep within the Eye of the Dark Lord, she felt an answering thunder.

The very air in her lungs whooshed out from parted lips in sweet agonizing delight. It was too much. It was as if his mouth were on her body, with the tongue of soothing coolness, fangs of licking ice, and a beast far more primitive than the Goddess of Bogan.

It was far beyond her control, the Dark Lord's voice yawning and stretching her arms above her head, awakening them with a delicious sense of anticipation, her clawed fingernails digging into the very ground only to scrape bloody trails in their wake.

How she relished in it.

Yessssssssssssssssssssss.​

​

​

It began with a keening wail, a manic strangled cry from the pit of her soul. Then came another, as rolls of Force energy ran through her body in convulsing wave after white hot wave. Her bones felt as if they'd turned into hot iron rods, and her blood churned with a heat that she could not deny, as polyphonic whispers clawed at her ears.

Her eyes melted into twin molten orbs of obsidian, an eerie light reflecting from them as her lips parted to speak. But it was not one voice that answered the call of the reaper, but medley of garbled voices that resonated from the Darth.

​

̀L̷o̡, t͏he ̀Nig̵h͞tma͠r̸e ̸l͢ands̸. ͟ ̴K̨i҉n͢s͠l͞ay̶e͝r ar̵įs͟e̶.
͝
͡ F̵o̵r͡ śtri̢fe̛ ͞a̷n̡d ͞c̕haos̡ ͘c͠o̧m̕e̡ ̕u̶pon̕ t͏he̷ ̕gáļa̶x͘y̨.͝
͠​

The Oracle of Vahl felt herself narrow into a tiny blossom, exploding outward, and fragmenting again and again into bits of shattered woman as another wave of power surged through her.

Fal̛se͘ ͏o͠nȩs ha͢v̡e͠ g͜r̶ow҉n ̴w̢e̵ak͞,
́
l̕i̧ke the li̧mbs̀ o͟f̢ ̷those̷ ͠ẁho ̸c͡raf̕ted͘ ́it͏. ̡​

She was a vessel, a tool. And the Dark Lord's command filled her with his power, as the throes of ecstasy paid their debt with her blood, her tattoos pulsating with every thundering beat of her heart.

̵
The ͏the̴ ͢D͢ar͝k̶ ̀L͏or͏d ̛hera͝lds҉ re̕bi͟rth.͠

O͡f́ ̵p̢ow̕ęr͞.

͝..͏.̵ o͞r̸de͞r̶.͡.̀.
͞
.͡..͡ ̕do͢m̸ina͜tion̵.̸​

Beneath the waves of Eros she was drowning in, violated and dominated with, the Oracle gasped out the prophecy from the Goddess. His destiny.

Another violent shudder swept through her.​

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T̩̫̥̗̻̦̙͇̾̄ͭ͐͑ͥͬ̚͢͝h͉͚̫̆ͨͯ̂ͫ͛͢ė̬̯̯̗͙͈̗͑̊̔͒͒ͣr͉̻̗̰̩̣͉͛ͥ̉ͧ͌̑̋̇͝ͅȩ̡͚̪̮͇̖̼̗͔͛̾̋ͤͧ̓͌ͬ̀ ͙̭̮̮̯̺̍̋͊ͧ͂͜i̼̣ͧ͑ͣ͘͡s̗͚̭̜͉͔ͧ͗ͨ̂͌̕͝ ̤̥̠̖͈̖̥ͯ̋͊̄̽̽̋̚ͅn̢̮͇̦̓ͤ͑͌̎ͣ͢ȍ̔ͩ͆̉̈́ͣ̈́͏͎͇͍̠̠̻͚ ̳̜̯͕̲̲̳̬ͭ̀̚͜͞͡d̵̖̪̔̂͒͊̓͐ͯ̏͢ë̷̳́͗̽͢͢ȧ̢͇t̸̯̪̳̳̜̝̰ͭ͑̚͘h͚͇̅ͩ̋ͦ̿̋̃̅;̪͈̬̙͖̝̜͎͚ͦ̆ͬ̏ͨ́ ̺̫̎͛ͧ̌̉͢͞t͈̬̮ͯ͑̒ͮh̪̝̟̯̺̭̫͒ͭ̉͗̊ͮ͢͠eͫ͗̎͜҉͈r̖̻͍̥͇̤̭̞̺̾ͫ̔̐͗ͭ̍è̛̙͇̫̖ͧ̅̃̍̃͒̄ ̱̥̞̼͚̺͋̅̒̅̈́̑͐̈́͑i̷͌̌̿ͥ̌ͤ̾̓҉̟͎̭̞̩͟s̡͚̳̱̗̀ͥ͒͗̕ ̜͚̙̜̭͒͐̓͊͟o̲̎ͤͩ̂͜͟n̨̞̻̞̠͇̻̦ͫ̀͡͠l̸̛͖̯͖̯̭͖̥̩̃̊y͂͊͌̏҉̵̗͖̰̟̥̬̳ ̮̠͐̓͛ͥ̀ͤ̀̿t̩͈̬͉̤̗̫̽̎̓͆ͭ̿̈̕h͕̺̑̀̃ͦ̌̾̓e̛̗̗͇̲͇̻̙̓̋ͬ̈́̌͌ͥ ̪̠̥͇̞͓ͤ̒ͦͬ̀̀̕͠F̞͍̺͑̌ͭ̓́ͫ͢͠ͅo̷̙͖̜̮̣̭͕̰͌̍̃ͯͯŕ͚̣̩̯̬͕̱̜ͫ͑ͪ̄͗ͫ͗ͤ͘͜͠c̶̬̺̰̻ͧ́́ͭ̌ě̛̗̮̺̥̥̩̔ͦ͑̽ͭ̂͆́—͚͂̔̽̔ͩ͡a̸͓̣̠͖̭͑͊ͯ̄n̳̮̙̗͚ͩ̇ͮͥ̃̎ͣͥ͝ͅͅd̠̯̮̭̩̻̞̻̂ͩͮ̚͜ ̛̖̥͎̬̤̤̐͐͌ͪ̍̀̂̿̋I̾͊ͯͫ̅̋͗̚͏̲̤̲̗̜̪̮̗͞ ̱̞̫̦̯̫̅ͩ̒ͤ̂͐͟a̦̹̻͈̻̟̗ͤ́m͕̤̭̒̉ ͓̲̮͓̋͊ͦͭȋ̍͏̴͖̜̹̮̳t͑̓ͮ͒ͦ͏̩͈̼͈̯̱͚̪̬s̽̌̌͏͡҉̫̺̹̞̬͔̺͕ ̙̯̙̗͒͂̈́m̴̧̻̗̃͛ͬ̋a̲̟ͬ̓s̈̾ͮͯ̐ͣͦͭ͏҉̳̥̣̜̬̝̦͙͜t̵͈̘̪̼͙ͩ́͋ͥ̓̆͊̐ȩ̺̖ͫ̇̆ͮ̍r̻͇̤̲̝͍̃̉͊̐ͧͧ̏.̸̸̗̣̣̯̣̦̳͂ͤ͆̓ͨ​