To Hold A Fleeting Shadow

[Xevek Nekonis]

Head bowed even as he was kept suspended in a status field, feeling as if he had been stripped nearly naked due to the removal of the normally numerous and hidden weapons sequestered about his person and left in only loose trousers and a tunic, the Zabrak that had ensured over the years that he had no official name within public records beyond Lykos, was left at the tender mercies of his enemies: those that had sworn themselves into service of the Light - Jedi.

His capture was not an accident, not entirely at least. He had been bested, brought down in combat while returning to the planet Charros IV on an assassination assignment but the heightened Jedi presence had led to large numbers descending upon him. And, yet, if he had so wished, he could have evaded being brought into captivity under the watching gaze of the Jedi, however, instead, he had chosen to acquiesce to their desires for the purpose of gleaming insight and knowledge. For, after all, a battle was half won as soon as you knew your enemies.

It was due to the fact that he had chosen this fate that a fire, concealed behind a carefully created disguise of apathy and emotionless stoicism. He would not break, would not bend and would not shatter. No mater what anyone may choose to levy against him. His body had suffered worse than anything the Jedi could dream of: burns from fires and electricity alike; the bite of blade, whips and acid alike; the heat of plasma and the pain of fist after fist cracking bone after bone. His mind was plagued by demons and rampant ferallity and emotion but none could be turned against him for, just as much as they mastered him, he mastered them. He was not chained by regret or pain, his bonds broken and their remnants carefully crafted into self-discipline and masks that hid his true self.

The stories of the pain he had mastered were spelled out across his body, in both the traditional Iridonian way and the more recognisable way. Pitch black Jat'o tattoos wove their way across his muscles form, peaking out from the cuffs of the tunic and trousers he wore, the stories contained within the manners that the black lines, created by a poison infused ink being painfully injected into the skin, spelled out by their twists and turns. However, more conventionally, scars wove their way thickly around his right forearm and hand, providing the illusion that his entire arm was nothing more than scar tissue, while the left sleeve hung loose as his cybernetic arm had since been removed.

Dirty and tangled ashen grey hair hung from his scalp and before his sight, no longer pulled back into the neatly made dreadloacks that would be woven around his jagged orat horns, the length of his hair causing it to completely obscure his view of the door that he knew he hung in front of as it reached down to his stomach. Even as the fire of determination smoldered within his amber eye, hidden from view behind walls erected by Quey'tek Meditation, his single eye seemed to stare listlessly at the curtain of grey and his whole body was slackened. With his bowed head, blank eye and loose form, Lykos was purposefully projected a view of defeat.

It was within his mind that the truth could be gleamed. The misconception that some that Lykos knew had was that Ysalamir rejected the Force entirely, however, that was just not true for the Ysalamir that was placed at his suspended feet only served to prevent him from exerting his will upon the Force. This fact was being taken advantage of even as Lykos hung, suspended in the air, for, within his mind, his mental barriers and Quey'tek Meditation created falsities were being reinforced by the Force inherently found within his living form.

No matter what the Jedi would do, he would never bend, he would not fail. He was prepared. He would win. He was Darth Lykos, The Unseen Shadow, The White Assassin and Aspect of Conquest. But, now, he must be nameless. He would become nothing. He was now Onis.

The sound of the door to his 'cell' opening and closing served to draw Onis out of his thoughts and mental manipulations, his amber eye gaining a slight glint more of awareness as his head would raise slightly in the direction of the sound of footsteps - the curtain of ashen hair serving to block his view of his visitor and stopping them from seeing him. He inhaled deeply, scenting the air and memorising the new scent he was met with, ready to catalog who it was that possessed said scent. Then Onis spoke.

"So, you have finally come to see your prisoner?" A harsh, rough chuckle that sounded like a cross between a growl and a true sound of humour would rasp its way out from the depths of his throat. "A pleasure. But, might I ask a favour?" Onis would gesture towards his single arm with his chin. "I am afraid that I cannot see you in my current state and I am unable to rectify such a fact. Would you please move my hair out of the way?" As he spoke, his voice remained flat and emotionless.


[member="Arisa Yune"]

 

[Lief]

Holding Cells​

Voss​

​

Slow yet deliberate steps, led by feet of uncertainty, made short work of the hallway; one thick strand of hair deliberated over her eye, and no matter how many times she slid it back behind her ear it seemed determined to lay there lazily as it did. When it seemed as though she had reached the end, she turned the corner only to find more labyrinthine corridors, and her heart began to quicken. Visions of the fiend flocked to her mind, perching over her sanity and bringing with them talons that stuck into her heart and lungs.

For a moment she stood there in the darkened hall, with knees that threatened to buckle beneath her. One hand extended to the wall she could barely make out, the other clutched at her burning chest. Her ears rang with a strange hum that reminded her of being underwater, swimming in the small lakes of Tabaqui as she had in her youth, while her vision blurred under the weight of her spinning mind.

Just outside her field of vision she saw a shadow, and upon turning she was met with only the same corridor she had been walking along, no alchemical fiend, no gruesome children, no torn apart Zabrak, or cauldrons of blood, just clean marble floors.

Slowly she inhaled a breath. One... Two... Three... Four... Her vision began to settle, biting through the shadows of the hall as they were typically want to do. Now columns came into view, something else for her to focus on. Five... Six... Seven... Her ears began to deafen as it took in the true silence around her, occasionally picking up the distant sound of footfalls in rooms beyond this one. Eight... Nine... Ten... Her heart settled in her chest, and for a moment she simply remained where she was, panting back her breath.

The corner of her eyes beaded, but she wiped away the moisture before it could fully congregate there and did the same with the sweat which had gathered on her brow. Finally she stepped away from the wall, straightened up her attire, and turned the direction she was headed in.

Hers was not a Jedi's attire. No robes adorned her, instead she bore the clothes native to that icy world of Midvinter and its Valkyri people. A leather tunic sat beneath a large cloak that was topped and lined with the softest of fur. Her trousers were capped off with numerous belts, each housing several smaller weapons and trinkets, little pouches for the more intricate things. Those would have to go before she got where she was headed. She wasn't a fool.

By the time she reached the correct holding cell she herself was feeling rather bare. All save one of the belts had been removed and set aside with one of the Guards, and the one that remained only held a few herb pouches and a small cloth. Nothing which could be used against her.

With a nod of her head she indicated for the door to be unlocked, and a few moments later it swung inward. She could feel it almost as soon as she entered, a disconnection. It ran through her body, screaming internally at the break she had never before experienced, before it simply dulled into the background. Ever present. Nagging at the back of her mind. Get free from this place, it cried, The Gods cannot see you here...

But she had known what to expect. Anti-Force measures were important when housing dangerous prisoners.

Her gaze flicked toward the chained man who hung loosely by one arm. The other was gone entirely, and she recalled seeing in the list of inventory they'd set aside that he had worn a cybernetic arm. Her stomach felt somewhat uneasy at the mere thought of having taken that away from him. They may as well have cut off his organic arm. It wasn't her place to question, however, so she kept her lips sealed for the time being.

With a creak and a thud the door closed behind her. Her own footsteps quietened as she came to a halt a few feet from him, observing what she could. Scars worked their way around him, and those areas not affected by them were covered in thick black markings. She recognized the style but not the intricacies, and once more was greeted with visions of the past she could not contain.

Though her soul quivered she lifted her head slightly and pushed on, even as her demons ran circles around the room.

This was a mistake.

"You are no prisoner of mine" she said, with a surprisingly strong voice; it was obviously female, carried with it a weight that suggested both youth and yet also experience, and an accent that did not belong to this world, nor to the Core where many of the Jedi had flocked from during the Order's founding. She was a Valkyri in all but name, after all, even if the Gods forsake this room and passed it over.

Slowly her deliberate steps began again, this time enticing her to walk full circle around the man, taking in not only the old scars but any more recent wounds he might have sustained. Further anger bit through her, though she kept it pressed down, at the state he was in. Dirty, unkempt, like an old stray lashed to a post. Had anybody even been to tend to him since he was brought in?

She stepped closer, spotting a gash in his back that would turn bad if left to its own devices. Part of her wondered how much damage had already been done.

His request went unanswered for a moment as she lowered a hand to the pouch, gauging by touch alone what it was she was seeking; once she found the small herb she crushed it between her fingertips, and brought up her hand to test a small amount of the fast-acting substance on his shoulder, away from the wound itself. It was quick to show any signs of intolerance, even on unpunctured skin, so when he did not come out in a rash after a couple of seconds she proceeded.

Stepping away from him she moved to a small sink built into the back wall and soaked the cloth rag. After squeezing out most of the excess she brought the damp cloth back to him and deftly cleaned out the wound, careful not to cause too much discomfort yet enough to do a thorough job. Then, and only then, did she bring the crushed herb into play, generously lathering the sap-like substance she had coerced from it into the wound. Not only would it seal it up, keeping out the threat of infection, but it would also begin the healing process.

Then, and only then, did she step back around to his front. With a steady hand she reached out to brush the hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. A prisoner he might have been, but he was still a living being. Didn't the Jedi preach of respect to all?

[member="Darth Lykos"]

 

[Xevek Nekonis]

The words the woman, for her scent and her voice clearly indicated her gender, was carefully considered by the restrained Zabrak. Of course, compared to regular citizen of the galaxy, carefully considering what she had said held a different meaning for him. Her words were taken into consideration (defiant to the militant practices of the new regime ruling the Silvers, less cold and more tender hearted), but, so was her tone and voice itself. Accented in an abnormal way, one at odds with Core accents suggested that she came from a more isolated planet; one that had, in the past, had little interaction with major Galactic events, causing the accent to be rarely heard. Her tone: young but firm with experience, making her a woman well weathered by duty and one who could stick close to her ideals with resolve. But, beneath it all, nearly inaudible, was the slightest of quivers - something disturbed her, something more than seeing a prisoner. That was worth remembering, in his opinion.

While he could not see, he had not lied when stating that his hair was obscuring his vision after all, he followed the woman's progress around him through sound alone, her footsteps echoing loud and clear. Beneath the veil of his hair, a hairless brow would be raised in a brief moment of thought. The woman first stated that he was no prisoner then proceeded to ignore what was, after all, a rather simple request; even if he did have a motive behind asking it. He was a prisoner, no matter what the woman said, and him being able to actually see the one interrogating him was not something of importance or necessity. As such, should the woman comply with his request, it simple proved what he already assumed from her words: a soft heart.

The woman's intent was soon revealed to Onis, banishing all musing he may have had, as she came to a stop behind him, a fresh wave of pheromones dripping with anger speaking a tale that words never would. He may have been cut off from the Force, but that did not mean that he could not still read a story on their emotions through the minuet changes in a person's scent. And the story he read was one that sparked grim amusement within the Zabrak. She was angry, oh how novel for a Jedi, but, more than that, she was angry at his state. Where she had stopped lined her up with the aching wound he could feel stretched across his back. In truth, it bothered him little. He had suffered much worse before, the meager amount of pain radiating from the number of wounds across his body did little to distract from his focus, no matter what his captors may have hoped.

What did bring him a brief moment of pause though was the soothing feeling of cold water being slowly ran around the wound, cleaning it of dirt and dried blood, before a thick, stick formula of herbs that stung at his sensitive senses was gently packed into the wound. From his time as a Jath for his Clan, he had worked along side and as a Healer before and while he had no knowledge of the herbs being used, he could guess as to their purpose. The fact that the mixture had been packed into the wound meant that it would be a mixture purposed with sealing the wound and protecting it from infection while expediting the healing process. Prehaps the little Jedi had a softer heart than he could have first imagined? How amusing.

Finally, her work done, the Jedi walked around to his front once more and a gently, steady hand would run along the rough, sand-torn skin of his face to drag the thick curtain of ashen hair off to one side, tucked behind his ear. With such an action, the Jedi would expose the empty eye socket of his right eye, the deformity of bone around that empty eye socket and the dull, emotionless amber gaze of his left eye. In doing so, she exposed herself to his gaze and Onis could finally pin scent to person. Stark white white, matching the fresh and almost snow-like aspect of her scent, was platted and tied up into a rough bun. A gaze as blue as ice, complimenting the pale skin, met his own, much darker and singular gaze.

Dressed in a leather tunic and pair trousers, she stood apart from the normal robes of the Jedi. The closest thing to the Jedi robes that adorned her body being the heavy, fur-lined cloak thrown over her shoulders. And even then it did not even come close to matching the look of robes despite it being the most similar part of her apparel. Around her waist hung a single belt from which hung a pouch that he was sure held more of the healing mixture he could feel within the wound on his back. No weapons adorned her person, nor anything that could potentially be used as a weapon, and, beneath the stoic mask of Onis, Lykos smirked in satisfaction of how dangerous they must perceive him to remove all possible weapons from the room even when he was chained in place by the containment field.

After holding her gaze for a few short second, Onis would speak again. Two simple words, cold in their emotionless. "Thank you." And he meant that thanks as well, after all, she had demonstrated to him her soft heart perfectly. Even if the callouses on the hand she had used to brush his hair back meant that she could clearly ignore such a facet of her personality when it came to battle. But, then, this was not a battle. Or, rather, not one that she would actually see as a battle.

"I much prefer staring at the one that shall be... pressing," the allusion to more painful means of questioning to were clear in his pause and the emphasis on the word, "me for answers rather than the sight of my hair." Again, he spoke briefly and without emotion and, again, he would lapse back into a heavy silence shortly afterwards. Instead, he only stared at the woman with a cocked brow, no other emotion present. "So, do I get to know the name of my... questioner? Or shall we get started?" For the first time, a proper emotion would cross his features, a fleeting and sardonic smirk.


[member="Mysa Snowstrider"]