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"The flower blooms in the barren. So does light blaze in the Darkness."
The words of Aola Cliyerslan Vilbolra echoed in the empty chamber, like ghosts of ages past, haunting the mind of the traveller lost in time and space. The very memory of her soft tone, a presence foreign now enough, as if she was met in a life long past. Any comfort was now turned into torment. Any serenity, into dread. Any love, once offered naturally, now perverted into blind hatred...
The durasteel walls, devoid of any shade but metal and the occasional dotting of the parasitic insects that fed from the flesh debris scattered on the cursed ship, a prison of mind and bone alike. It was in that narrow cabin -cell, in all respect but name- where memories fading and vague bombarded her mind, as if Regret craved to slither beneath the bone of the skull, into the caverns of her mind.
There was silence. No company but the oppressive aura ever-looming onboard; an encumbrance so heavily piled, it generated physical pain. Yet, after so long onboard, the septic artificial air became familiar to her senseless metallic lung, while the absence of colour and sunlight only added to the pale of her skin. Black veins appeared beneath the transparrent upper layers, marked with the doubt of whether they were a disease, inflicted upon her by the living conditions, or the sign of the Dark Side growing roots within her.
"Be the candle in the cellar. Be the star in the night sky."
The dim torchlights became the stars, and the gore the reflection of the moons made of lightning and plasma. Drifting into the void, the cursed hulk jumped from one place to another, stretching to the chains the Dark Crusade wrapped around the galaxy to yet another world, as Minos Sector descended into ruin. There was no Freedom, save for the ecstasy of mayhem, experienced beyond the bones, chained over pools of captives' blood, followed by weeks of exhaustion.
It had been long since the warship entered a battlefield. Months, even. And as life faded onboard, stagnation brought the urge for the battle thrill into the fighting pits, belowdeck. The more the stagnation continued, the more the losses in the pits, as the Sith could not resist the opportunity for bloodletting, and the Dark Lord did little to intervene. He chose to remain locked, chained upon his black throne, surrounded by the close circle adepts, while the rest pursued their own agendas.
