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Prelude
(warning mentions of gore, sexual harassment, stalking, kidnapping)
As Kynane sets foot back on Nar Shaddaa, she instantly gets the feeling she should turn around, get back on her ship, and never return to the wretched planet of her childhood. However, she has a job to do, and no bad feeling (however gut-wrenching) or aching chest wound is going to get in the way of her accomplishing that. She moves through the throngs of gangsters, pickpockets, and the wretched like she belongs there, (the beating she took on Tatooine is actually helping her to look less like she came from offworld,) getting to her destination with a minimum of fuss and without being pickpocketed.
Her contact had reported wanting to sell some hot Force artifacts that apparently some idiot had brought in with the intent to pass the “curse” onto anyone else. Going by the description, there was at least one Holocron in the lot, so Kynane wasn’t about to pass this over. As she stepped into the building, she paused as the hairs on the back of her neck tried to suddenly rip themselves out of their roots with how quickly and violently they rose. There was Darkness in the air, a familiar Darkness she knew and feared, along with the scent of rot.
In a flash of comprehension Kynane put together the pieces. Her contact was long dead, killed to set the trap she had stupidly walked into.
Slowly, she tried to back out of the building, but froze as she heard a familiar (oh Stars, NO) rasping voice, “Kynane my darling, after all the trouble I went to avoid notice these years and to set this up, leaving now would be insufferably rude.”
Her throat instantly dried, and as she reached for a bomb to distract him into allowing her to run, Kynane fought to keep calm, because she remembered (“Your fear excites me darling.”) “You know Sychar, I thought you’d have known better than to come after me again.”
The Sith stalked out from the shadows he had hid in, and the weak light that was filtered in from the smog and filth of Nar Shaddaa was more than enough to starkly display how ruined his body was by the Dark.
“Perhaps I would have waited a little longer darling, but I began to hear rumors about how someone was finally building herself a home, gathering friends, and even taking on a lover. And I knew I couldn’t let you get too settled down Kynane, least the scrappy little Tukata that bit my nose clean off was smothered by domestication.”
She smiled grimly, and primed the grenade, counting down the seconds until it was time to throw. “You should’ve just died without ever coming out of hiding Sychar. I’ll be your doom, mark my words.”
The Sith grinned insanely, the smile pulling at the gaping nothing where his nose should be, “No, you shall save me Kynane, no matter what you wish. Just as soon as I pay you pack for everything of course.”
His smile turned into a scowl of frustration as she hurled her grenade at him, his eyes telling her just how much he expected to survive a grenade in this state. And as it goes off, her relieved grin slowly morphs into a horrified gaping as the explosion is barely even a third of what it should be…And Sychar emerges bloody and charred, but defiantly alive and with a mad gleam in his eye. “
“I think it’s time I remind you why Sith are feared darling.”
And then the world went dark as he lunged and slammed the flat of his lightsaber’s hilt into her head with Force-enhanced speed.
Wake Up
(warning: sexual harassment, forced nudity, violence, gore, mentions of torture and physical violation)
Awareness returns slowly, in flashes and surges as her Sight begins to kick in. The first thing Kynane notices is that she’s cold, and that she’s not got a stitch on her. The second, is that she is bound, held upright by familiar shackles.
“You never stayed down for long, so I’m not surprised my savage Tuk’ata still wakes earlier than I would expect.”
Her head pounds and aches, but Kynane remembers what happened. She grins weakly,
“Damn bombs…I should kill whomever made those shitty grenades.”
The insane Sith grins along with her, before slinking forwards, hand creeping forward to cup her face; a thumb runs across her cheekbone in a parody of affection. “Too late for that now darling.”
His thumb purposefully swipes across the vestigial eye socket, sending a crawl of discomforted horror sliding down her spine.
“It’s too late for a lot of things my Tuk’ata…But if you were to submit-”
He takes his free hand and cups her breast, smiling as she snarls at him, his eyes dropping from her face to stare at her body as his other hand leaves her face to wander further down her body.
“-This could be so much pleasurable for the both of us.”
Kynane curled her lip in disgust, “Never. Now take your hands off me before I make you Sychar.”
He laughed and squeezed harshly in reprimand, and Kynane felt red drip down across her vision as she lunged forwards and sank her teeth into the unwary Sith’s neck. He tasted like rotting meat, smelled like a man dying of disease, and as she was backhanded savagely with a chunk of meat still locked between her teeth, she ripped out a hole in his neck.
Sychar staggered away from her as she spat out the foul meat in her mouth, one bloody hand covering the hole in his throat. Her hopes were dashed however, as he proved capable enough to close the too shallow wound with the Force.“You know what this means darling. We’re going to do this the fun way.”
He laughed manically as she watched, moving over to a table and picking up a syringe full of familiar liquid (where did he get corrupted Kolto, howdoesheknowaboutthat), while holstering a whip to his belt. He hefted the syringe and grinned at her, obviously wanting to see her cower. She smiled, and bared her bloody teeth at him.
Pain
(warning: torture, whipping, slavery, mental violation, mentions of forced prostitution)
crACK! crACK! crACK!
Kynane bit down on her lip harshly as the whip descended again, leaving another burning cut over the dozens already there. How many times had Sychar whipped her again? Oh, right, she had lost count at 23, distracted enough by the warm sensation of her blood trailing down her back, to her legs, to her feet, and finally drip drip dripping down to the floor to make the puddle she was staring at.
crACK!
Kynane choked down on the scream bubbling in the back of her throat, biting her lip until she could taste blood. She refused to give Sychar the satisfaction of seeing her scream.
“Oh darling, why won’t you let me hear you SCREAM!”
crACK crACK CRACK!
She blacked out a moment there from the pain, but Sychar’s backhand woke her right back up.
“I see that I underestimated your physical endurance my Tuk’ata.”
She watched him walk around to face her, and snarled as he crept close again.
“Darling, this isn’t how this is supposed to work. You’re supposed to give me feedback…”
He cupped her face again, though he held her head tight enough to not allow her to lunge for any bits of flesh she could reach. Apparently after getting parts ripped off twice, Sychar had learned something.
“But perhaps it’s because I picked the wrong way to go about this. Shall I try again my Tuk’ata?”
His fingers dug into her face, piercing the skin a little, as he began to assault her mental defenses like a battering ram. Kynane grimaced as her head began to feel like it was being split in two, but she still resisted the invasion with all she could.
Unfortunately, with nowhere to run or a chance to repair her defenses, Kynane was forced to watch as Sychar began to break down her wall bit by bit. Then, as the last tattered bits of her defenses gave way, Sychar forced his way inside of her mind in the most brutal fashion she had ever felt.
“Oh my…What secrets you hide my darling~ Why, I didn’t know that little Alke was still alive-! Oh. OH. What have we here?”
He dug into the tender parts of her mind, pulling a wretched scream from her throat as he began to drag all her fears out to examine them one by one.
Externally, he gave her a considering look even as he examined her greatest fears.
“Darling, I never suspected just how much you hid down there in the dark. Look at these fears! So intense, so visceral; it’s almost enough to send chills down my spine. …
You fear for your so-called sisters and friends, that one day they’ll all die, and you’ll be left behind to linger on.
You fear that you will irreparably ruin your relationship, or that you’ll drag him down into a Darkness he fought all his life to escape.
You fear that you never escaped the Mandalorian, or myself; which I find flattering that I made such an impression darling.
And most of all, in your most wretched nightmare, your most delicious horror, you fear that all of this, the good, the bad, everything, is all a fever dream. You wonder if this isn’t some form of coping method you’re using to escape that life. Something a broken and used slave imagined to escape from her wretched existence. And that one day, you’ll wake up and find you’re back on Nar Shaddaa in the slaves’ quarters, being hauled to your feet to go service another client.”
Sychar grinned at her in the most sickeningly sweet and mocking manner, grinning even wider as he took in her humiliated flush.
“Let’s bring that to life, shall we?”
Kynane had only the chance to pale in terror before the world drained away…
Kynane woke up, slow and exhausted, and blearily looked around. This all looked very familiar. Too familiar. And as she began to look around more closely, the floor dropped out from under her.
“…This. This is the morning I-No! No! This can’t be happening! I ESCAPED! NO! IT CAN’T HAVE ALL BEEN A DREAM! IT CAN’T!”
And as she began to truly become hysterical the bouncers came in and pinned her tiny, younger body down before knocking her out with a strike to the head.
Raspatil Data-trove
[warning:graphic mentions of horrific involuntary human experimentation, forced and involuntary pregnancy, sexual slavery, torture]
(After killing the abomination, you find that as its carcass slowly falls into the sea, a chest is unveiled. It had been guarding the armored chest, and as you open it, you find a wealth of information inside.)
Personnel Files: These are Imperial files on Lord Sychar, and obviously weren’t compiled by the Sith himself or his servants. Did he steal them from the Empire at some point? Going by the timestamp, this must have been before the man went rogue. There’s also notes on these documents, appearing to be from someone who was probably in Intelligence at the time.
Lord Sychar
Gender: Male
Age: ??? (Obviously he’s past middle age and over the hill entirely, but the man kept electrocuting anyone who asked his age, so getting a specific number isn’t possible at the time)
Species: Halfblood (the result from an impoverished Pureblood Sith father and a wealthy human female Sith from what we could discover. Much of Sychar’s family records are…curiously missing or incorrect. I suspect it is Sychar’s work)
Status: Sith Lord; EXILED AND MARKED FOR DEATH ON THE ORDERS OF DARTHS LO’AMMI AND PALMIRA
Bio: Lord Sychar is a Halfblood of standard power, but where his true gifts shine is in Fleshsculpting, the Alchemical arts and other such Force disciplines. He is also noted for unusual interest and aptitude for the sciences.
Many Sith have noted him to be highly preoccupied with the usual standard Sith pursuit of eternal life, with an emphasis on maintaining not only eternal life, but transcending the standard boundaries of life and death. Sychar also has been noted to be very keen about Tulak Horde’s methods of immortality.(After investigating, it appears Sychar is also highly fascinated with precognition, having zero aptitude or gift for the talent himself. He also seems to have a highly romanticized view of the talent, believing it to be the ultimate defense of sorts. It is apparent that no one has enlightened him to the fact precognition can be and is frequently wrong, or misinterpreted.)
Sychar was exiled and had a Death Mark placed upon his head for reasons that were not disclosed by Darths Lo’ammi or Palmira, though they stated he had committed heinous acts against his fellows, the Sith Order, and had plotted treason against his superiors and the Empire. (It sounds like the man overstepped his bounds…But Lo’ammi and Palmira are noted to be serious and self-composed Sith, which leads me to believe the man may have actually done what they claimed. Further investigation is unwise for the moment though.)
A damaged datachip is found under the personnel files. Upon uploading it to the datapad that had contained the personnel files, you find that much of the data has been lost due to the damage done to the chip. However, what can be salvaged is highly useful. Among the data there is detailed schematics of the Sith’s Stronghold, showing its defenses and traps.
“Experimental Log 236: Project code named GHAST, has resulted in failure. The Sith I acquired and modified for my own purposes was no more resistant to the deluge of Darkside Corruption brought about by my Sculpting, genetic tinkering, and Transference test. It’s sanity has suffered greatly, and it can barely even access the Force any longer, but it is the first of its kind to survive for so long. *ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED* -food or water. I shall keep it as is and observe it until it dies. Then, I shall dissect it. But first, I need a new apprentice.”
“Experimental Log 285: Project code named VARCOLACI, has resulted in failure. The Jedi I acquired proved unable to resist the Corruption just as much as the previous Sith I used. However, its mutations have proved to be most unusual and unique. While it has effectively lost all function in its arms, its limbs appear to be slowly mutating into something resembling wings. I have already observed it to be capable of gliding about, and I suspect it will achieve true flight soon. I am unsure at the moment how VARCOLACI is doing this, since neither it nor its wings should be capable of this, but I believe it is putting its meager remaining skills in the Force to use to achieve this. *DATA LOST* I shall send my newest apprentice to shut it up however, its unending screaming has lost its charm.”
“Experimental Log 529: Project code named WLADISLAUS, has resulted in failure, though it is a marked improvement from earlier projects. The Miraluka swordsman was supposed to be the next saber-prodigy of the Order, and despite the fact it turned out to be as much a failure as its predecessors, it remains unique. WLADISLAUS has lost nearly everything in regards to its Force abilities, only able to physically enhance itself, but it remains a true master of the saber. In fact, I think it has only gotten better since the Project began. However, my latest apprentice has told me the surviving Projects must be kept separate from each other now. They have occasionally attacked each other in moments of what appears to be “insanity.” Since they brought it to my attention, they have the honor of doing so.”
“Experimental Log 672: Project code named ZENOBIA, has resulted in failure, though I can feel I am getting close! ZENOBIA, and the Sith that formed it, still retains much of its connection to the Force and seems much closer to the sentience it once possessed than any other to date! Granted, the mutations it suffers were new and unwelcome, and I have yet to have one retain anything close to its original form, but this marks great and important strides forwards in the matters of its nervous system and the Force! Unfortunately, further observation must wait until I can acquire another apprentice. Project ZENOBIA speared them with its tentacle appendages this morning, and they did not survive ZENOBIA’s crushing grip.”
“Experimental Log 952: Project code named RASPATIL nearly resulted in success, though in the end it failed. I tried something new with RASPATIL, combining two Jedi and two Sith of the same species type (Miraluka) to create what I thought would be a powerful new body with the combined Force potential of all four sensitives. RASPATIL was a groundbreaking success in that it has kept its connection to the Force in its entirety (though it is not the combined strength of four sensitives I hoped for, it is still much stronger than any of its parts.) After examining its nervous system and its brain, I conclude that the merge did not irreparably damage RASPATIL’s nervous system or brain, however, like all experiments to date, its sanity did not survive. I can only guess at what happened due to my examination of RASPATIL using my own power in the Force, but I suspect that the highly disparate and hostile nature of the minds involved meant that instead of merging into one or combining into a hive-mind as I hypothesized, the minds completely shredded each other until only the bestial nature of RASPATIL was left.
I think, I may have a different use for RASPATIL *DATA IRRETREVABLE*”
(As you rummage about for any other secrets the chest may contain, your fingers catch on a folded piece of flimsiplast.
Tugging it from its corner and corner and smoothening it out once more reveals that the flimsiplast has been damaged by its careless folding. The middle section of the flimsiplast is still legible though.)“There is no way to get around it; I am growing old. And my experiments and research will not yield me the young, undying body I seek, not before I would be dead and with the Force.
But, this, in a way, is far better than if I had managed to have success beyond even my wildest hopes with my ambitions. For this way, not only will I transcend this rotting body, I will have my revenge on my darling Tuk’ata Kynane and her bitch sisters. I will recapture what is rightfully mine, harvest the genetic materials I need from her body, and I will show my scornful and recalcitrant concubine how displeased I am with her actions…
With a child born from my blood and engineered to express that recessive gene that triggers precognition in Force-sensitive Miraluka, I will have the best possible body that is available to me now.
Of course, I will need to not only account for the fact my own mixed parentage along with Miralukan physiology to ensure the usual health problems do not plague my future body, but I will need to break Kynane to my will, to ensure she doesn’t try anything foolish after I have her gestating my new body. And I could not have picked a better time to set my plans into motion…I hear Darling is trying to put down roots.”
Dream: Quietus
Kynane’s red hair is dragging in the pool of her own blood, her expression frozen in agony, and it infuriates me because Kynane didn’t even make it to her thirtieth birthday again.
(It hurts. It Hurts. IT HURTS. IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS-)
I don’t know whether to cry because I’m holding Kynane’s cooling body in her arms for the 745th time, or laugh because I’m holding Kynane’s cooling body for the 745th time.
Hysterical laughter bursts from me, and I can feel my eyes burn as I cry like I’ve lost everyone I love. Which I have. Which I will. Again. For the 745th time.
Why couldn’t Kynane live to her thirtieth birthday?! Why?! Why is she always the first to die?! Why did she have to go and get herself killed when it means everyone else will die shortly?!
[/b]
Movement draws my attention from the cold corpse in my arms, and I recognize the force user bathed in moonlight. His eyes are manic, and his stare is fixated on the corpse as he giggles insanely. This is the man Kynane rebuffed. This is the man who had her ambushed and killed.He giggles again and I feel something inside me snap because this is a genetic aberration that should have been drowned at birth before he could have arranged for Kynane’s murder.
There’s no reason to hold back anymore. No one here I care for can be hurt now. Kynane’s death means everyone else I care for will die shortly. There’s no reason to show only a fraction of a fraction of myself anymore. As the insane little insect giggles to itself madly, I smile at the corpse that was once Kynane. Her soul is gone already, and it will take time to find where she has decided to journey to this time.
But that is fine.
She is gone, but she will know justice. And I will have my wergild paid with this man’s flesh and blood and PAIN.
“ T̩̣̫̽͂ͮ̓͗͛Hͧ̌͊̕I̴̬ͫ̓ͭͮS̷̯̯̥͔̽͆ͬ͋ ̬̗͓̘̪͠Ŝ̲̹͓̈́Ȟ̸̗̯̳̝̩̅̎̈ͬAͬ͋̈͆ͨLͯ͏̟̼̝̬̱̯L̬͕͓͑͆͊̍ͮ͊͊ ̙̮̹̯ͫ̒ͮͭN̔͋͘O̼͙̠͈͎ͭ͒̀̈́̄͑̈́T͊̍̍́̆̓̅ ̨̅ͥ̆P̰̰̱͔̟̿̒̈́̔̓͑̍Á͎͍̪̗̂͂ͩ̌̊͆S̬͓̤ͧ͋̀͋̈̍ͩS̟̺̹̙͔̺͓ ̄̑ͩͨ̒͏̼̦͚̦Q̗͍̘͚̀̓ͤ͐ͣ̿ͮỤ͇̤̻̕Ǐ̻C̴̭̳̯ͣͯͅK̼͉ͩ͒́Lͮ̀͑̍Y͖̟ͦ.̴̼͍̠̮̆͑͂ͧ̿̿͌ ”Dreams: Memories of Childhood.
His eyes awaken, as a ray of sunlight hit him. Bright, a little painful. Confusion. What time was it? Since when was Dromund Kaas so, bright?
His focus returns as the grogginess of sleep fade, he wasn’t in his usual bedroom, with it’s spacious but rather drab and stuffy grey metallic walls. The walls here were a creamy white, they arched into one at the ceiling not found themselves like a metallic box back at home, he turned his head towards where he remembered one of the windows to be and saw a clear blue sky over a field of grape vines and green fields. His heart began to skip in his chest, his mouth grew into a smile as he saw that there was no sign of rain at all.
There was no time to waste, he couldn’t just sit back and let this day go to waste there was too much for him to do, and so much to explore. He threw on a set of clothing that had been laid out neatly on a table for him, his hands brushing against the cool marble, smooth. His clothes felt equally as smooth and soft against his skin, the material letting his skin breath whilst also keeping it cool despite the days heat. He had barely taken the time to put on his last sandal before racing down the spiral stairs. Dizzy. He managed to make it past a group of slaves who were sorting out the foliage in the small courtyard that lead to the estates gates.
Freedom! A new world with new sights and new people. He had never been off world before and despite listening to his mother complain how this was some backwater world filled with… Was the word Lokels? Hokels? No yokels, he’d have to ask one of the natives what that meant. It wasn’t long before his legs had taken him into the nearby village, the market place to be more precise. He felt his eyes widen, the people and the village was nothing like the city he lived in, there was no speeders crisscrossing the sky, no smell of damp, fumes and, oil. No sinister feeling that hung over the city like a net.
He looked about hoping to spot someone to talk to. Big, very big. His eyes darting from one alien adult to the next, skipping over the relatively small amounts of humans within the community. Too big. Too big. Too scary looking. Oh great! His eyes had spotted a group of children that looked around his age, they looked like a variety of different ages but that didn’t matter. He walked up to them, a hand raised, his skin a dazzling ruby in this light, they waved back. Good. He made his way to the group and things became a blur, their childish chatting, the games they played in the market place, the stories they told each other. This was fun, the most fun he’d had in a long time.
He couldn’t remember just how long it had been since he had made any friends like this, he didn’t know how this day was going to end but he didn’t care. Hours must have passed in what felt like the matter of minutes because the sun had already passed high noon and was already in the mid stages of it’s decent. That’s when a shadow loomed over him as he was halfway through playing Jedi and Sith with the other kids, using sticks to imitate lightsabers, then everything went black.
Snippet: The Tower
Palmira chivvied the little Togruta girl into place on her bed, tucking her in like old memory told her how.
(“Here, Palmira, like this. You want them to feel secured, comforted, not trapped and pinned down.”
“This seems an odd way to comfort a child Ami. Perhaps I should seek out Rie for a second opinion.”
“Rie would tell you the same. He would also say to give her sweets, but this is bedtime so no sugar.”)
Kiana was likely a little old for such coddling according to most cultures, but she thought a little extra comfort would not hurt her. Her wounds were from being left behind as her loved ones went out on their journeys and adventures, waiting for them to come home until it became impossible to acknowledge they were gone. Palmira was not so old yet that she did not remember that first cut, even if she had been cut so many times it was less like a gutting and more like a gash.
“Myra…Will you tell me a story too? Shatti…”
Kiana’s face crumpled a bit, obviously not wanting to remember the woman who had been gone for so long. The little girl had been terribly shy when Kynane brought her to them, but she must have taken a few too many lessons from Kynane before being exposed to Shihon, Rieubane, and Lo when she could spare the time. Neither of them were currently in the compound though, so Palmira decided her apprentice could wait a little longer before they ventured out into the storm for their lesson.
“Very well. I will tell you one then, though it might not be one you enjoy.”
“Anything, please Myra.”
Palmira nodded, and sat down on the side of the bed, careful to not let any more than the weight of a human wearing lightning attracting armor onto the bed. One crushed bed had taught her that lesson well.
“Once there was a girl, and she was cheery and friendly a child as you could ask for. But of course, the wheel turns, and all good things must end.
Hardship came to the family, and the father departed to seek out a better way for his family. The mother stayed, but wrapped herself in work and managing the estate. The girl was left to be a child, but the pall over the family did not miss her. So, she decided to build a tower.
With stone and mortar and isolation she slowly watched her tower rise under her hands, piercing up to claw at the grey skies. But she was not experienced with tower building, for she was just a child. She did not think to leave stairs to get down from the spire. So, when her father returned from his journey, and her mother came out from the office, calling for her to come and celebrate, she realized her mistake as she sat where clouds brushed past her face.
Scared, but wanting to see them anyways, she began to climb down the tower with the nooks and crannies in the mortaring. It was not easy to descend so, by using hand and footholds that were not shaped to ever hold a hand or foot. Sweat coated her hands and feet, and by the time she was halfway down the tower, it was too much. And so, as all things must, she fell.
Time passed, and the girl was never the same. She was not the cheery girl who danced in the sun, nor the girl who built a tower that clawed at the sky in some unnamed emotion. Some wounds do not go away, but we learn to live with them anyways. But the girl had grown used to pretending the wounds she had accumulated were nothing more than growing pains.
Eventually, tired of the pain, she decided she might as well do the one thing she could still do: build.
So the girl took up her stone and mortar and solitude again, and went to the tower she had fallen from. In its base, she started, and worked downwards into the earth. Slowly she went, knowing more now than she had when she first built her tower. Down, down, down she went, carving her way deeper into the dark. In the belly of the earth she clawed out her new tower, one made of depths, heat, and darkness in a reverse of her tower clawing at the sky in desperation.
Time passed, and the girl found that there in the dark, others like her had decided to build into the earth. Cautiously, she talked to them like she wasn’t a builder, and soon enough she smiled and laughed with them in the darkness. But they eventually returned to their own creations, ones full of more light than her own now, promising that they would see her again in the darkness.
They did not. And she would not wait forever here in the dark when her tower was incomplete.
So the girl returned to her carving, digging through dirt and bedrock with an unnamed emotion. The tower shivered and trembled in the dark, geodes and stones falling to land on her in a reminder that there were more than building towers that clawed at things that didn’t see them. She ignored them, until the reminders were no longer geodes and stones but those in the dark with her that remembered her eventually.
“Why are you still here? You’ve dug too deep, for too long. Come with me, come see my own creation and we’ll head up from there.”
She stared at them in helpless incomprehension, until they eventually left with promises to bring back torches to work by if she would not leave. They did for a time, and each time she tried a little harder to reach out to hold out the hand that held the torch for her. But she only knew how to build towers, not how to ask, so she built until the torches guttered and they did not come again.
Sweat coated her hands and feet as she carved downwards, a sensation of heat filling the air and scalding her. Her tower was almost complete, only a little more and it would be done.
“Where are you? I cannot see you, not even with my torch!”
A voice in her tower, in the dark?
She looked up as she had not done since she had built a tower that slashed at a sky indifferent to its howling, and far, far above her head she saw a pinprick of burning light that hurt her eyes.
“Come up! Come with me, please! You don’t need to finish!”
Who was that pleading with her to not finish her tower that had carved itself into the earth like a dying animal?
“Come!” “Join us!” “We’re sorry it took so long, but it was hard to find a way to get down here!”
Voices, not voice, voices in the dark? She raised a hand black as the coal she had dug through, covered in her own drying blood, over her eyes to try and block the light enough to see but it had been too long. Any light was blinding here in her tower.
“Please! Come see us first at least!”
The girl thought, down there in the dark depths of her tower. She wanted to see them, even if she did not think it would be any different to before. Then, as she went to ascend, she realized that she had never learned her lesson. She had not built stairs, and she would have to climb if she wanted to ascend.
“I want to see you!”
And she realized, so did she, even if she did not think she would make it. So she climbed, with her trembling heart in her mouth.
Crack by crevasse by ledge she moved, slowly zigzagging her way up the wall of her tower that wept into the earth. Clawing, scraping, she kept her eyes on the burning light, even as her hands and feet began to sweat. But she knew better this time, and made sure she did not slip when she had reached the halfway point.
As the light came closer along with the wide ledge they stood on, her heart began to knock against her teeth as it pounded in her mouth. Someone knelt, stretching out their hand, and desperate, joyous eyes leaking tears were all she could make out.
She stretched out her hand towards theirs, almost grasping at their hand as she clawed at the air. But she knew before her weight had finished shifting that she would fall. She saw it in their eyes before gravity snatched her away.
The girl who built towers fell again, falling to the floor of her tower, and cracking open the fundament as she kept her eyes on the light burning in the darkness.
And then there was fire.”
Palmira looked to the peacefully dreaming Kiana. She had known that the child had fallen asleep before the girl had fallen from her tower that stood against the sky like drying bone of a dead animal. But that was a story had that had to be finished once begun.
No matter how it had ended.
AU Snippet: Rewind
Kynane wakes up one day, groggy from the recent all-week working session she had pulled for that wretched investigation and immediately freezes. This isn’t where I fell asleep.
She’s not in the medbay, slumped on a bed meant for patients because it was the closest bed to the office she had commandeered from Lo’ammi. If anything, it looks like she’s back in her ship… which is impossible since there was no way she could have made it there in the shape she had been in.
Alright, assessment time. I’m not where I fell asleep. I can’t see Lumi or any familiar surroundings. Fuck, it looks like I’m actually in space, which makes no sense-
Focus. Try to see if you’re sensing any discrepancies in reality. Force Illusions, dreams, coma, the works. Work through the process to check off the wrong parts. It doesn’t feel like a dream, there’s no sense of surrealism, and owwww pinching myself hurts. So not a dream. As for coma…I generally just have kaleidoscopic color patterns when I actually have anything but a dark area, and nothing is morphing shape and color.
My body’s not giving me any feedback to indicate drugs or knockout techniques…And-
Kynane deliberately breathed steadily through the sharp burst of irrational animal fear at the very idea, and continued assessing.
It’s not a Force Illusion. I have too much experience with them to ever mistake reality for Illusion. Which leaves…Palmira related things.
Tossing off the covers, pulling out the shotgun she had hidden in the headboard, and went to investigate for any Ardent Devils, spiders, or mirrors. If any of those three had pulled this stunt, she’d be giving them a collection of new holes to breathe with via her shotgun.
Of course, she thought grimly, there’s no sign of either.
She had investigated every nook and cranny in her ship – and it was her ship, which only alarmed her more – but nothing had been out of place. Everything was exactly how she had left it, and her supplies of food, kolto, alcohol, and various other rare, illicit goodies she had acquired during her time in VITALS had been left completely untouched.
This is looking increasingly ominious… There has to be a trap here, I know it.
But there was nothing she could see that would even dimly be termed as a trap left behind whatever had done this to her.
Alright. I’ve done what checking I can. Time to call in some help. Before I really get captured by someone.
So she made her way back to the communal area, and fired up her holotransmitter…to have it reject the number to her family compound.
Don’t panic. It’s possible they changed it because you got abducted.
So she tried personal comms to her sisters. Then to Lumiani. Then to her few remaining friends. Then to VI. And finally, out of sheer desperation she tries Woad’s for hope he’d pick up to fight.
“There is no communication linked to this code. Please try again.” said the damning words projected in place of the people she should be talking to right fucking now.
“There’s coincidence, and there’s fucking this. What the fuck has happened?!”
It feels better to say that gut reaction aloud, but again, she could have a meltdown some other time. Kynane couldn’t afford to have one right now.
“Okay, think, every damn comm number you’ve memorized is suddenly useless. There’s gotta be some sort of…of directory I can get a hold of. Lo’ammi and Palmira are pretty damn prominent members of Imperial society, so I should be able to look up their general office numbers and work through the secretary pool to them. Alright I have a plan, now to get to the Holonet- and what the fuck.”
Somehow those four words don’t actually capture the sheer poleaxed feeling she feels when she opens up her Holonet, and the breaking news is about the Treaty of Coruscant.
Interlude AU: Sail On
(AKA, Sailor Sith)
Now Palmira might not have the best grasp on scheduling (she has secretaries and automated reminders for that) but she is quite sure that there was no event on today’s schedule that warranted what was happening. She squinted her eyes at the rose petal that just landed on her nose as the brilliant pastel lights and sparkles kept trying to illuminate the whole compound at once while petals fluttered in the air.
No. She definitely didn’t remember anything that should explain why this was happening.
“WHAT THE HELL?!”
Palmira blinked as the rose petal finally fell off her nose, and as a very loud feminine scream broke the air from a direction that was where she had sent her apprentice. Standing up from her desk, she made her way out of the office and over to where the private storage area was. As she walked along the hallway Palmira noticed the amount of rose petals busy dissolving into light increased exponentially, until she was walking on a carpet of fading petals; it was a good sign she was heading in the right direction.
The door to the storage room was open, but to her bafflement, despite sensing Anvarian’s presence inside there was only someone very different from her wayward apprentice. She appeared to be a red-skinned being, possible of the same species as Anvarian, with long black hair and yellow eyes. Her outfit was unusual, distinctly familiar in some strange way, in how the black-red aesthetic was kept from the tight leotard-like top to the heeled boots with dangling rubies adorning the knee high tops.
The female turned to face Palmira properly, letting her get a better look at what appeared to be royal regalia patterned on the blade aesthetics the female’s skirt showed and the large crescent sickle in her right hand.
The female then cried out with a slight edge of hysteria, “Master! What did that brooch do to me?!”
Palmira blinked. She had sent Anvarian to bring her a highly enchanted brooch from her collection so she could study it’s metaphysical structure more closely.
“I touched the damn thing to pick it up and suddenly I’m saying words I didn’t want to say, I’m transfigured into this, I can’t use the Force and I can’t sense you-!”
As the black-purple corona around the female began to intensify in her distress, Palmira thought, Ah. So it is him. Not just a hunch after all, as she moved closer to her panicking apprentice.
“Anvarian.”
Familiar yellow eyes, the only thing about him unchanged, stared at her as she carefully, carefully grabbed the wrist holding the sickle.
“I will help you. This will not be permanent Anvarian, I will not allow it to be. Now tell me what you said, and I will see what must be done.”
The corona that had been building around his form began to fade, and his free hand grasped at her hand on his wrist.
“…I picked up the brooch, and I immediately started saying-” He looked pained to repeat it, or perhaps it was repeating the transfiguration key in this form caused a reaction; Palmira couldn’t say for certain. “Dromund Kaas Make Up. The brooch lit up, and it began to transfigure me. There were bright lights, and…Once it finished I automatically called out… ‘I am Sailor Dromund Kaas, defender of Passion and Freedom. In the name of Kaas, I’ll obliterate you.’ ”
It was interesting to watch a Pureblood blush.
“Once I finished that declaration, I could… take stock of what happened. Like my gender being changed, and the Force being muted to me.”
Palmira squinted at him, trying to determine just where the brooch had disappeared to. He had no such item on his person so it wouldn’t be as simple as reaching out and pulling it off him.
“Curious…The brooch seems to have been absorbed into you Apprentice.”
The hand on her hand squeezed as tightly as Anvarian could, before relaxing again.
“Can you pull it out Master?”
Palmira tilted her head, trying to orient her eyes properly to see his currently changed metaphysical structure. There was the Sigil from her, untouched, but there seemed to be several new components to his structure. She saw a gleaming mirror, a crystalline star that burned with searing red color, a transparent rhombus with a tiny star at its heart, some unformed purple-black energy, and finally something she guessed was the metaphysical form of the brooch.
It was fascinating in how much it had changed him, but also keep him the same in the overall purpose of the metaphysical.
“I…will need to research this a bit first Anvarian. The brooch has done much more than physically transfigure you, and I do not think it would best for me to try this blindly.”
Palmira would have stopped there, but the horrified distress in those yellow eyes at her pronouncement changed her mind. “…But, I think I can bend the transfiguration enough to give you back your gender.”
Palmira placed her free hand on the center of Anvarian’s chest, spreading her fingers wide in the gap between as she focused on the heart of the new metaphysical structure. Slowly, carefully, Palmira identified and pried the transfiguration command out of the structure. Once safely outside of Anvarian’s being, she started examining the shining glyphs, squinting at them as she focused intently on the glyphs that made something in her memory stir at the sight of them.
It took several minutes of careful reading, and double-checking that she had divined the correct interpretation of the glyph, before she could pick out which one dictated that Anvarian must be female to transform into this state. Wracking her mind for the appropriate glyph for male took even longer, since the glyph had multiple variations that had differing meanings depending on various factors.
“Master…This…is awkward.”
Pamira spared a moment to check on her Apprentice as he spoke up. He looked quite flushed, and very discomforted, causing her to slightly frown in unhappiness.
“I will be done soon Apprentice. Only a little longer.”
With her reassurance given, she refocused on the task before her: replacing the gender-specifying glyph. The task would be tricky even now that she had remembered the appropriate glyph and double-checked how it would change the command. She needed to remove the old gender glyph, insert the new one, all while keeping the command isolated from the majority of the brooch’s metaphysical structure but not cut entirely off from the brooch.
“…Master…”
She ignored Anvarian for the moment, absorbed in her careful insertion of the new glyph as the old one was left to dissipate in the air.
“…Master…”
She squinted at the glowing glyphs as they flared with light and power as the command began to process and integrate the new glyph. If it accepted it without an issue, she could then allow it to slip back into place.
“…Master…”
Palmira’s frown eased back into its usual neutral state as the command finally settled into dictating that one must be male to transform into this state. With that complete, she let go of the command, and picked her hand up off Anvarian’s chest as he became engulfed in pastel light again.
“It is an interesting process to watch Apprentice. I thought I saw some ribbons in that light this time.”
Yellow eyes rolled at her as he rolled his shoulders, getting used to his true body again.
“Many thanks Master. Even if you couldn’t get this thing out of me yet, I like being myself again.”
Palmira nodded slightly as she examined his changed state. The regalia was still in place, as well as the heeled boots and bladed pauldrons with dripping rubies, but the rest of the outfit had changed. The leotard-like top had been changed for one that showed off his midriff with a different crimson line design, and the bladed skirt had been replaced by tight black tights.
“How long do you think I will have to remain like this Master?”
“I’m not certain Apprentice. This will be a…delicate process, and I am not called on for delicacy often.”
Anvarian sighed, one newly gloved hand clenching, and nodded before slowly asking, “…I cannot sense or use the Force Master. What does that mean for my Apprenticeship?”
Palmira blinked, surprised by that question.
“We will simply see what this form can do Apprentice, while you are forced to wear it.”
She didn’t understand why he relaxed at that, but she had more important things to address.
Like seeing if Anvarian’s changed self was the only thing the brooch had done.
(I’ve included a helpful visual aid! It’s not quite accurate since the maker had some gender restrictions [i.e the royal headdress was female-exclusive] but overall it is mostly accurate! Male-Anvarian wears the same headdress, bracers, belt, gorget-choker, and boots as his female self canonically, even if the image wasn’t able to replicate it. His top, pants, and gloves are canonical changes after he is helped out of female form. The only thing the image was able to keep between genders is the earrings, sickle, and bladed pauldrons.)
Warning for horror.
Of Fang and Claw and Talon
There is a hollowness within. A hole that gapes shamelessly wide and hungers. It makes saliva build in the dark, fangs part, and gradually devours a heart.
The heart does nothing to sate the hunger. Now that’s almost all that can be felt, the gnawing, clawing hunger. Hunger that leaves bright red marks of pain, radiating out from the hole, the hollowed-out heart, until there’s nothing left but an acceptance that the hunger, the gaping hollow hole, is here to stay.
Click, click, click, goes the talon on the floor, sharp and metallic in the void. It’s in time with the pulse of hunger, the phantom heart beating loud enough to deafen in its hole, and it’s a call for the sought that the seeker is seeking.
The tip of the claw peaks out over the lip of the desk, and skin splits to show the grinning fanged maw and pointed crimson tongue as one of the sought freezes. Hunger, sharp and warm as blood, pulses in time with the ting,ting, ting,of the claw on the desk before a guttural, grating, rusty blade of a laugh hacks its way out of the maw.
A final goodbye lick, warm and wet and dripping with saliva, blood, and masticated meat to the cheek. Something almost fond, almost affectionately amused raked against the fangs as the pointed tongue snaked back within, a word like the squeal of stressed metal and clashing swords carving its way out, and the hunger pulsed like the end within the hole, the hollowed-out heart.
Click, click, click, goes the talon on the floor.
Ting,ting, ting, goes the claw on the wall.
A grin split apart the face. There were more to seek.
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