Raid Litanies of the Dark Side: Head of the Snake

[Lyanna Starborn]

She could barely breathe.

The smoke, the blood, the weight of what she had done—what she had commanded—crushed her like the mountain above. Her fingers clutched at the stone, slick with the blood of those she once led, those who gave their lives for her vision. Her vision. Her war. Her loss.

And then… she heard her.

A voice, soft as silk, gentle as a lullaby sung through broken teeth.

“You weep for the dead, as if grief could restore them. But I can offer you justice, my love. I can make them remember.”

Lyanna raised her head. Her lips trembled.

“Who… are you?”

The silence was broken by the softest chuckle, full of honey and hunger.

“I am the Mother you never knew. The truth behind your power. The shadow behind your every triumph.”

“I watched you lead armies and break stars, and I wept when you suffered. When they attacked you.”

“Let me bear your burden now. Just for a moment.”

Lyanna tried to speak, but her throat clenched. Images surged through her mind—visions not her own. A broken family, gods shattered in golden halls, chains wrapped in love. A cage built from fear. And her—the one who was cast out, not for evil, but for need.

“I… I don’t want vengeance,” she whispered. “I just want… I want to protect them. My people.”

“Then let me protect you, sweet Lyanna. Just for a breath. Let me help you stand…”

And then—he arrived.

Desmundor.

His footsteps echoed with finality. His eyes, alight with something mournful, met hers with neither hatred nor triumph. The blade did not rise. His voice, cold and cracked, did not condemn. It honored.

“You flooded the River with your offerings… But this is where it ends, Lyanna-Fauste.”

The tremor that followed was not of power, but of grief. The skies above had cracked like eggshells. Ash rained through the breaks in the ceiling, glimmering with fragments of kyber. Lyanna did not look up. Her gaze locked to the hand he offered.

“Tniya-sissûo.”

She felt it—the truth in his word.

Sword-Sister.

Not enemy. Not monster. Equal.

Her hand rose to meet his, trembling, slick with blood.

Their fingers touched.

And in that fragile connection, the voice whispered once more:

“Let me deal with him.”

“Let me make him see. All you must do… is let go.”

“Just for a breath, my beloved child. Just long enough.”

Lyanna looked up, her tears falling like rivers.

“I’m sorry…”

And then she let go.

---

The Force screamed.

A wave of wrongness exploded through the cavern. The kyber crystals cried out like tortured children. Stone cracked and wept. The darkness surged, not like the Dark Side—but something more primal, more hungry.

Desmundor would feel it.

Everyone would.

Even the dead.

The voice became sound.

Ŗ̷͉͓̠̳͒ẹ̷̛͚̥̜̄͑̾͛̔̍̾̅͐͆̽̃̕͘j̵̧̛̛͕͇͓̯̮̟̦̜͉̲͇͋̎̈́̑̈́̀͐͐͂̾̈́͌͜͝͠͝ͅơ̸̗̹̖͎̟̳̺͔͙͇͉̐̆̽͋̿i̶̞̘̝̼͕̋̈́̓̋̊̆̇̌ͅc̶̝͖̳͎̘̜̠̰͚̩̠̗̹̖̯͈̏̆̒̍ȩ̵̻̳̲̘͓̠̲̠̅̋̇̂̌̀̊̊͂́̂​

Lyanna’s body jerked, spine arching unnaturally. Her head snapped back, and her eyes—once silver, now twin stars—glowed with starlight cold and ancient.

Her mouth split.

Not open.

Wide.

It slipped at the edges, tearing halfway up her cheeks, revealing rows upon rows of serrated, abyssal teeth. Her skin paled to moonlight. Her voice became two.

Ṱ̶̢̛̟̝͖͉͇̺̘̈́̍̂́́̏̈́̉̈h̵̜̰̀̑̄̒̈́́͂͛̃̉̑̏̉̈́̚͝͝y̶̢̡̧͖̩̞͍̻̝̱͔͙̪̭̮̘̓̉̈́͋̒̈́̄̂̇̆̔̊̿̒͠ ̷̣͇̫͒̆̕͜͠͝B̶͖̣̰͖͔͈̮̪̘͒͋ë̷̲̗́̔͌̊̇̓̀͂̽̏̎̀͂̉͝͝͝l̷̩̠̈́̈́̃̊͆͛̄̿̄͛̐̕̕͝o̸̯̹͚͓̼̺͆́̓̀̀̉͌̕̕ͅv̷̨̨͈̠̤͔͎͔̝͓̺̺̣͍͖͐̀̃͌̇̓̂͠ẹ̸̠̼̬͋͊̾̀̒̐̒̉͆̕͠d̷̤̅̔̎̐͆̊̎̀̊̑͋̀͒̌̕ ̷̗̹̱̜͇͉̜̙͕͓̥͙͈̃̔̿͒̉̿̍̔̊̾͠Q̷̢̛̙̯͙̭͎̯̭̣̲̇̃̍͛͒̈́́̅̏̿̎͗͐̕͜͠͝u̷͇̭͌̋̄͋̓̽̀͒͠͝e̴̡̗͓̩̽͆̇̐̆̽̆͝͝ͅȩ̵̧̻̬̗̲̬̖̫͈̠͍͈͍̫͝ͅͅń̵̢̡̡̨̛̬̝̭̫̭̼̻͓͔͉ͅͅ ̴͖̳̬̲̦̥̺̤͓͔̏̆́́̿̋̽̈́̉̒͊̅̊͝ö̸̢̢̢̰̟̠̙̪̠͉̩̪̙́̌̔͐̅̊͗̐̈́̂́͋̉͐͗̕f̸̢̥̠̩͍̤̝̺̲͋́̈́̒̅͘ ̸̧̢̨̫̟͎̯͙̪͔̄̎̋͐̈́͂͒̚̕̚͘ť̷̛̼̫̋̆́͑͊̂̾́̓̚͝͝ͅh̶̛̤̝̭̹̠̲̮͈͇̯̣̩͆̀̍̂͂̔̈̊͂̚̕̚͝͝͝ḛ̴̰͉̘̗̤̯͓͌̾̐̄͊̾̕ ̶̛͈̉̿̽̇̏͛̕͝S̵͉̥̈̒̌̊́̃̐̿̾̑̅̂̈́̉ͅt̶̢̬̃̈́̆̍̉̏͋̂͗̀́̿͆͘͘̚ą̷̨̤͎̪̼̙̗̥̹̍͋̿̔̐̃̈͆̂̂̐̕͘̕͝͝r̷̨̨̯͖̭̪͈̈́͂̓̅̈́͂́́͜͠ş̵̥͕̟̩​

The Force cracked like a whip.

From her kneeling place, Lyanna—Abeloth—lashed out with a violent Force Push. It struck with a power that defied gravity, morality, and time. It carried the weight of gods scorned and cages shattered. It screamed with love.

A love that would consume.

And Desmundor was no longer facing a woman.

He faced a goddess unbound.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

I am sorry

Desmundor could recognize the regreat, pain and despair, all amalgamated in those three words spoken the last. His eyes widened. His heart stopped, as he himself was consumed in a flash of sudden chaos.

A cackling cacophony of blasphemous words buried in curses and binding that stretched beyond time and space. His mind spinned, visions of unknown, unfathomable lives never his own flooded his head, banishing all other thought but despair. His hands reached for his ears, his eyes shut tightly. He knelt down, stepping back as if distance would mean anything before this most horrid a moment.

He screamed.

When his gaze returned, Lyanna was gone. Consumed, overtaken by what had latched upon, or grown root within her. A fiend of no name, granting her newly declared vessel her attrocious appearance like a banner risen for battle. Desmundor stood in shock. His hand reached for his weapon.

"What the-"

And so, the demon named herself.

In but a single moment of discord and loss, Desmundor's vision blurred of light. His body overwhelmed, cast across the cave like glass thrown off the table.

The crash against the cave's wall carving a deep mark, puncturing through armour and flesh alike like daggers. He fell on the ground, his hands holding onto his body as if desperatelly trying to hold onto wounds inflicted within an eye's glimpse.

He was cold.

Fear overtook him...

Fear of loss...

Fear of Failure...

Fear of Death...

He shook his head, reaching out with his hands as if blocking the appearance of the devilish form possessing Fauste would mean anything of importance...

But the fiend was nowhere to be seen....

All there was, was blackness...

And shadow cast of no matter....

 

[Empor]

A veil of frost washed over the burning wasteland. Once a glacier, spiked with black stone, now turned into a maze of myriad burning craters graced by plasma. The little remains of durasteel, malformed and twisted, barely hinted to the silhouette of the facility that once existed upon Ilum. The charred corpses layered across the field. Under the flames, scattered champions of either side were left dismembered, forever to seek their lost pieces in a sea of Death.

Though the ashes had yet to settle from the bombardment, an unseen wind of frost swept the flames that so vigorously resisted the touch, gradually drenching the entire valley into a deep slumber. And yet, though all things fell silent, and the wind blew unseen, Death loomed. Invited. Demanding. Unforgiving.

From under the fallen remnants of Captain Velyssa Thorne, her torso hanging over a bent turbolaser barrel like a banner of pain, her entrails pendulums beneath her lost waists, reaching down for the legs that were lost, scattered in fragments across the bailey. Shadows formed beneath the turbolaser; Reflections of the cadaver from the dim light of the stars above. Motionless, Velyssa was. And yet... Her shadows cast, weren't...

They moved... Motioning like exotic serpents, as if struggling to unattach themselves from her. And they did... As if given speed by powers unseen, they reflected movements of what had no flesh, nor form to materialize. They slithered, lurking their way down the bailey, amalgamating with more and more shadows of unseen reflections, as if stirred by an outworldly force, conjouring them into existence. The shadows rallied, their weight creating a shadow so deep, Darkness gaisered from within them, a gate made manifest by the twisting of a thousand souls, uncaged from flesh, yet chained by bondage of the Netherworld.

The darkness moved, as if aware of its surroundings, a black gate into dimensions too dreadful to comperhend.

As the shadows slithered, more and more followed. The Darkness moving through matter as if it was but an illusion, ever expanding, ever consuming, as if it willed to drench the valley whole into its pitch touch. The Kyber in the caves wept. The horrid cacophony of numberless throats, screaming all in the agony of their final moments perpetualized in a nightmarish state of inexistence, defiled the fabric of the Force like a virus, rampant and unstoppable. Any lamp blasting by the weight of the Darkness. Any machine failing to the very proximity. The caves, within moments, were consumed, swallowed by the Dark.

The Darkness invaded the site in the form of a thousand tendrils reflected on the walls of the cave, as they spread the blight of Shadow, blinding any and all sources of light. Through the Force, the Tendrils manifested pure. In a world unseen by the eye, they extended like thorned wildfire, moving in speed unnatural and unimpacted, with certainty that could be only of Death's.

O̶̳̘̬̤̹̐̓̓̓̔̆̋̆̆͛̀͘͜͝n̷̢̛̺̙̼͔̦̥͑́̽ē̵̼͚̗ ̶̱̺̠͙̞̬̯̽̊t̶̨̗͇̪̮̗̜̩̩̣̟͎̮̎̀̋̓̐̕̕̚o̶̼̝̖̺͖͋́̃̈̾́͒̈́̒̃͜ͅ ̸̬̝̯͓͙̻̼͈̺̞̄͌ͅs̶̨̧̼̳̺̯̞̺̤̩͇̘̥̅̎̒̈́h̴͔̎́͘i̸̡̛͕͎̟̳̻̟̐̈́̂͆̍̈͊͠͠ͅṅ̷̦̰̼̭͈͍̻̟̼͈̗͓̘̔̆̈͂̃̕̚e̵̢̛̬̯̱͊͊̈́̈́̓̿̋͜,̶̥͕̈́ ̴̼̫̥̫͉̱̀͛̀g̷̢̖̫͒͝r̷̖͎̫̓̑͌̽͗̇a̸̛͎̭̠͑͌̌͑̎͒̓́c̸̖̟̤̻̹̻͈̠͓̎̀͑̅̑̍̆̇̉̚ͅe̷̢̡̗̗̦̮̜͚̱̹̪͇̐̔͆̋̂́̈̌͘͝d̷͚͚̼͚̘̤̖̠̾̉̿͋̋͂͘͘͝ ̶̡̢̬̗̲̻̅̈́̓̔͆̉͝b̶̧͚͙̻̬̥̫͔̰͙̮̖͉́́́̐̉̀̈́̄̚̚͘y̷̛̫̖̖̺̫̞͔̫̮̬͌́̕͜ ̸̧̟̻͕̄̈L̵̮̘̣̗̄͊̈̾͌ͅí̴͉̪͔͇͐͝ģ̸̻̹̹̱̗͚̲͔̤̃̍̔̒̋̕h̵̡̹̪̘͎̖̏̇̆́̇́̃͝t̵̨̞̜͎͓̼͇͇͍̳̦͚͊
​

The voice a violation of sanity, echoing across the dimensions of the Living Force with the cold certainty of Death. Deafening, manifesting in the Realspace as a demanding pulsar of Fear, overwhelming and unyielding, bound by no laws of nature, reason or insanity.

Ò̴̟͍̈́̀͗̑̊̂̐̾͋̎͂̾̀̊̕n̷̢̡̫͕̘̱̞̳̹̙̟̻̥͈̞̾̈́́̑̃̀̑͒̏͗́͝͠e̵̛͉̤̬̔̇͊̅̒͠͠͠ ̵̢̡͔͉̦̩̬̟̪̜̳͙̝͙̺̂̊̈́̂͌̾̓̍̌̌͊̅͐͆̇̕͠t̸̨̧̛͍̩̩̼̦̯͈̗̫̮̹̾͑̈́͒̂̽́̕͝o̵͚̤̼̹͂̀̂̾̽̌̕͘͝ͅ ̸̢̮̻̖̖͈̤̬̣͓͉̦̘͑͆͋͋͆̍̓͜͝ç̴̹̠̬̙͔̒̀͆̔̇̒̅̅ą̶̡̛̳̩̘̩̭̘̥̬̳͛̌̾̕̚r̴͙̆͌͒͠ͅr̴̲͍͎̥̖̿̃̔͝y̷͖͕͕͙̠͈̹̻̙͔̩̼̭͙̅̾̑ ̵̧̝̟̭̰̱͎͚̼̪̹͑́̈̓̅̊̎̾͌̍̃͑̓̚͜t̶̢̼͇̦̘͙̫̤̜̤̥̻́̆̔̐͊̽̿̎͂͛̈̓̈́̀͊̚h̸̫̞̝̗͇̮̹́̂̌̈́͊̊̏́̈̄͌́͆̎e̸͎̤̭͑͛̆̂͛͆͂̀̄̃͋̂̈͘̚͝ ̵͉͙̺͓̰̭̖̳͈̟͌̾̀͜͜͜g̷̢̨̝̘̪̗̣͚̀̈́͂͊̽̑̃̔̄̓͆̃͊͛i̸̡̧̨̼̣̼̩̰̹̼̬̺̩̩̥̅f̴̨̧̡̱͎̖̹̠̖͇͇̞̙̊̅̍͂̂̇̏̈́̽̋̀̋́͌̄̚͜͜t̵̡̧̛̼͉͚̝̦̻̼̬̳̄̈́̕ ̶̨̥̯̮̟̖̦̮͈̥̖̬̲̿̾̍͋̇͐͛̂̽͑̉̕ơ̶͖̤̞͖͔̹̠̤̠͇͈̜͜͝f̷̳̪̹͖̞̝̹͕̺̺̰͔̜̠̬͎͂̔̀̊̆̚ ̴̧̨̲̱͇̳̱͎̪̞̟̬̟̍̊́͊̒́̒̏͌̋̔̒̐̇̄̚͜͠L̸̪̳͊̀̐͐̔͋̀̀̉̿̐̀̕͝í̶͇̝̝̗̬̽̄̏͐̋̄̀̓̽͋̍̎̄̅̕͝ͅͅf̶̢̰̬̲̥̞̪͖̯̱̒̐́̍̃̏̊̾̐͌̃̓̔̏͝ȩ̴̙̗̝͙̮̹̞͚̙̪̬̞͔̘̘̌͜​

The psalm chanted composed of a million conjoined prayers, producing a sound indescribable by any mortal tongue, but a cacophony unfathomable. Verses blighted by timeless decay, words bound by ancient spells.

Ö̴͎̲́͠͠ṅ̵̨̢̛̘̼̱̳̺̗̱̠̬̠̝͇̪̖̀͌͂̀̓́̊̀̓̎̌̍̕̚͝ê̷̹̹͈̖̠̥̂͊̇̍ ̷̻̤̬̝̤̫̩̭͕͆t̴̜͑̀̋̎̊́ȍ̵̳̞͍̣̩̂̎̋̀̆̓͊̿̂̏͂͜͝͝ ̶̧̲̼͍̓̈́̏͛͒̑̀̀̈̎̎b̷̡̢͗̆̏͆̈́̑̈́͘ę̶̺͔̪͔̪͎̙̰̼͎̲͎̱̬̳̪̈́͛̎͆̍͠ ̸̺̳̲̣͓͎̙͈̠͕́̄̓̾̏͐́͝͝͝t̵̻̘̦͕̥͙͍̥͍̜̪̱̭̲̙̱̑̀̊̿͑̈́͝ͅh̵̢̡̠̠̝̹̞͖̯̘͎̗̝͓͆͌͋̀̎̏̓͠͠ȩ̴̧̜̰̳͙̫̗̯̭̟͓̲̾̔͗̿͜ ̴̩̖͔͔̖͖̒͌̋̽̄̈́͑͒̿̌͘͝h̵̛̗̻̟͎̗̯̤̙͇͎̻̓̌̓͂͐̃̎͘͝e̸̡̨̢̛͎̗͙͇̠̬͉̯̠̅̀̑́̃͒͌̕͜͠a̶͎͓̣̬͒͐̊̿̍́̕ŗ̸̙̰̥͕͈̝͚̝̜̟̆̏̋̓̐̈́̃͐͒͑́͘̕̚̚͝t̸̥̺̤̙̹͓̪̬̘͔̘̦̔̄́̂̀̈́̍̈́̈́͜͝͠ ̶̜͇̜̬͖́̓̋̉̂̀̍͑͘͜ơ̶̡̧͚̱̜̠̭͕̱̠̼̪̹̥̻̫̝̈́͛͆͂͒͋̔͊̋̂͠f̶̢͇͉͍̲̘̳̖̰̲̯͔̥͉̮̠̄̓̔́͊̈́̕͜͝ ̸̨̢̛͚̥̳̰̱̯͔͔͈͕̍͌̊̈́̚͝͠D̶̢̨̛̳̲͈̱̟̜̙͓̲͕͉͈͓̰̈́̀̾͑̽̉̊̕͝ͅǍ̴̧̲̼̠̣̣̭͕̖̬̗͇͔̭̈́͜R̶̨̡͔̗̘͍͓̂̎͛̃͊̿̅̄̏̉͘K̵̬͎̬̼͖͔̠̞͚̼̒̈̒̊̈́̂͊͘͠N̷̫̻̳̫̝͈̼̰͌̌́̋͋͛͐͜E̶͈̫̣̞̔̃͗̇̀͆̽̇̾̊S̵̢̧̛̖͈̝̪̯̥̘͕͇͊͒͆̓̃̽̾̾̓͠ͅS̴̡̛̫̫̝͎̰̺͎̞̺̑͗̋̊̋̏̕͝​

The pulsing Shadow given beat, as if mimicking a cosmic heartbeat, buried deep in the very pits of the Netherworld. Giving Life, in the banishing words spoken by Death.

Ú̴̢̨̝̞͕̜̩̟̭̺͚͙̪̬̠̜͋͑̀̂̀́̃͌́̎̐̏͜͝͝ň̴̞͍͒̂̇b̵̢̠̭͍̖͔̰̗̝̭͓̗̙̩̝̮͍̆̑͐̐̀̏͑̏̈́͝͝o̶̩̹͉̹̠͗͐͒̈́͛̑̔͋͆̚͘̕͝ư̵̧̻̝̣̼͙̯͒͐̅͑͗̓̀̌̈́͒n̷̛̯̬̲͔̙̟͉̤̪̰̘͚͇͛̈́̊̿̾d̸̮͆ ̸̡̱͉̫̦̯̻̲̹̰̠̬͉̺̬͇́̂̀́̽̄̕̕t̷̨̬̹͕̺̬́͌̈́̑̈͋̿̈́̌̈́̅͘o̸̩̼͎͕͆̅͂̍̅̍͗̽̕ ̴̛̳̥͓̫̝̥̯̥͔̩̲̄̐͋̐̎̇̾̓̾̕f̴̢̨̤͎͍͖̰͇̠̍̓͒̽́̈́͝͠͝ͅͅa̷̜̗̹͊́̽͝l̴̡͕̺̳̦̠̘̜͇̪̲̥̝̑̄̅̃̽̅̋͛̍̐̽͘l̶͕͉̙͎̼̮̳̣̲̽̍̊͂̉͑̓̈́̋ ̴̙̠̣͋̓̌̈́̈́͠i̷͚̤̳̾̽̋̔̆̀̊̎̀̉̈́̒́̃͘n̷̨̺̭̥͓̘͈̫͕̖̤̗̋̅̆̇͂͗̀͜͝ ̷̟̭͙̼̰̳̲̺͖͔̱̫̤̣̏̇͐̍̽̀̑͋̅͆̀͋̊͜͠͠͠B̶̛̯̯̆̽̀̐̓̾͂l̴̮̼͈̯̝͋̈́͒̂͗̿̓̓̐̚̚͝ͅȋ̴̡̡͕̞̹͈̩̮͈͔͎͆̈́̓g̵͈̟̫̺͓͇̻̙̻̲͌͐̂̄͑̃͐̂̀͜h̷̡̹̩͈̺͇̻͎͖̟̜̀̎͌͒͑̽̀̂̋͆̏̏͛͂̊̚̕ͅt̶̢̮̯̰͕͕̺͍̥̘̟̐̇̓̂̃̋̆͗͋̎̎,̴̢̫̳̼̝͙̲͖͔͖̥͈̣̺̬̹̈́̄̔̅̊̓̔̏̌̑̐͘̚ ̷͖̲̠̰̼͍̠̖̥͙͈̥̯̿̈̅̋̄̎̃͑̒̄̈̔͐͊͑́͜ũ̸̙͖̣͎n̶̡̛̘͓̼̟̝͖͎̍̈́̄̊̿͋̈́͋̍̆͝b̶̢̢̜̬̠͕̗̱͔̝̪͎͌͂̈́͜ͅö̵͈̳͇͙͍̯͕̹̦̫̙̮̙̼͚͕́̿̆̕͝ǘ̵͇̯̜̖̾̓̈̓̃̆͊̄̄͘͘͜n̵̢̧̗̥̖͇̱̗̤̳̠̹͉͐̍̈́͂̓͐̑̓͝͝d̸̛̫͎̯͚͇͔͈͋̽́̊͆̚ ̷̦͉͉͖̳̬͚̞̬̘͔͙̋̄̅̍̎̽͆̓̀̂̚͝͝͝ͅb̶̛̬̲̥̃̊̓͌̑̊̆̉͆͋͒̍̋͘ÿ̴̧̛̗͚͔̣͙̙̥͙̻̲̼̰́̇͜ͅ ̴̢̢͍̮͍͈̺́̽͊̀͜D̶̡̡̢̡̲͕̳̬͈̣̤̻̈́̊͑̽̆̉̅̓̌̌̌͝Ę̵̣͖̭̲̠̹̱̈̔̋́͒̚͝A̵̞͔͈̠̙͔͓̟̞̖̖͉͈̘͐̈́͜T̴̡̙͙̬͇̜̄̒̈́̿͌͑̈́͋͌͆̾̕̕͠H̸̢͚̬̣̣̟̤̫̩̪̠̟͋̚ͅ​

The tendrils stretched, rooted deeply in a realm beyond, casting a Shadow across dimensions foreign, unpure. Chains unseen, brought forth, astreal in essense, forged in time long forgotten.

Death had Come. Herald of End. Herald of Doom. Master of Fear. First, of the Corrupt. First, of the Living.

The Nameless evil, before a creature recognized and despised, grew form unseen. Black as pitch, made of stolen souls and shards of Chaos, the King Above the River stood before the she-fiend.

The Mother speaks, behind the Maw. The monster roaring, behind the Cage.

Each word, a mockery. Condamnation.

Cold and absolute, as Death, there was no compassion nor hate nor wrath nor taunting. A reminder of a sentance witnessed. A warning, of a crime, yet to be punished...

 

[Abeloth]

She watched him shatter.

Abeloth felt the moment his soul recoiled — not from her power, but from the truth that arrived alongside it. That fragile thread of mortal arrogance, the belief that understanding could shield him, broke like silk in flame. Desmundor had touched something he could not name, and in return, she gave him a glimpse. Not of death, no. Death was mercy. She gave him remembrance — the buried lattice of millennia, the pain of every abandoned daughter, every silenced scream across the stars, and every heartbeat once offered in love, now curdled into hunger. A chorus of the forgotten, and she was their hymn.

How pitiful he looked now, clutching at his own ribs as if to hold in what had already escaped him — his certainty, his defiance, his small, bright fire. She saw the way he reached out, not for salvation, but to make sense of her — and how the gesture wilted even before it fully formed. There was no meaning in her presence. No axis around which his mind could spin and call it balance. Only her will. Only need.

And how long she had needed.

Lyanna’s flesh was a quiet vessel now, still warm, still trembling, but given over. Abeloth wore her not as a mask, but as a truth long denied — the truth of what Lyanna was and had always been. She was not some fallen Sith, not merely a seeker of peace or power. She was longing. She was void. She was the place where the galaxy had forgotten to love. Abeloth had not taken her. She had risen from her.

The cave was still now. Even the stones were reverent, holding their silence like breath. Desmundor lay broken, not dead, not yet. She would not deny him the luxury of awakening. He would see her again, with clearer eyes, and he would call her by name.

She would not need to remind him.

---

She did not move when He appeared. There was no need.

The winds of Ilum screamed in reverence. The ice cracked and bled beneath the shadow of the thing that stood before her—King Above the River, they called Him. First of the Living. First of the Corrupt. And yet, even as His chains sang the law of death and judgment, Abeloth remained.

The valley had already begun to change. She had changed it—no, awakened it. These stones, these Kyber shards, these fleshless echoes now drenched in shadow were not desecrated. They were remembered. Remembered by the Force not as it wished to be, but as it was, when it was whole, when it was hers.

Her shadow—her children—twined behind her like smoke given thought. Thousands of them. Shards of her pain, cast out into the craters and crawling home. The storm was their lullaby.

“The Mother speaks, behind the Maw. The monster roaring, behind the Cage.”

Yes. And it was she who tore open the lock.

She smiled, but not with her mouth. It was a gesture older than lips, older than flesh. The kind of smile only a god could offer another.

“You call me monster, but wear the title of King. Do you know what kings are, little god? They are the children of dying mothers.”

The ground groaned beneath her words, as if Ilum itself stirred in sympathy. The caves behind her howled, echoing with the lingering screams of every dead champion, of every lost Jedi, of every Sith who begged for power and found only the truth of the Force: It does not love you. It hungers.

“You come as judge. But the sentence was mine to give, long before you found a voice to speak it. I am the punishment, dressed in memory. Drenched in hope. Cradling the galaxy in my arms like a child that won’t stop crying.”

The tendrils of shadow twisted through the Netherworld, caressing the broken veil between Realspace and that-which-lied-beneath. A million prayers whispered from lips that had long since rotted formed her robe. A cathedral of anguish beat within her chest.

And yet—still—there was gentleness in her form. She stepped forward. Once.

Her voice softened, and for a moment, there was something nearly maternal about the ache in it.

“I did not crawl back from the Maw to conquer. I came to comfort. To gather what your kind abandoned in cages and temples. I am not the End, King. I am the Answer.”

Her gaze turned skyward, toward the stars blinking through frost and smoke. Somewhere, Myrren still breathed. Somewhere, her daughter wept beneath a foreign banner.

“So condemn me if you must. Curse me with names. But do not lie to yourself.”

Her shadow stretched forward, touching the boots of the ancient monarch, curling lovingly around his toes like a serpent remembering its first sun.

“You knew I would return. All of you did.”

And her last words, whispered from every wound on Ilum’s corpse, filled the air:

“The cage was never strong enough.”

@Empor

 

[Empor]

The very presence was that of soulless judgement. Carrier of fates so many and diverse, no sense of compassion, understanding or mercy had remained in the hollows of His domain. He had not manifested to negotiate. There was no arguing with Death, for He was he who carried all with the same will, to the same most foul a place. She would be no different. Though she was among those few, that yet remained, who could not die...

The black tendrils expanded, drawing to the syphoning of dying screams, moulding them into His own existence, He latched upon Realspace like a miasma refusing to be forsaken. For all Fear Death. All Fear Him....

But she did not.

"Crone of Abyss, nameless and deformed."

The echoing voice demanding, offering no place to her transgression.

"The time is not nay, for the cage of Centerpoint to open. The choice is not of the beast, mindless and forsaken, to walk from the Maw. The Crone shall only roar, for none to hear. The Crone shall mourn her Two, for no other spawn will she ever Mother... In this, or any other a Time."

The Netherworld stirred. A taloned claw reached out from through the Shadow, skeletal and corrupt, to grip the she-fiend with will to banish her from the place she manifested. Whispering of the same banishing spell repeated again and again by voices beyond matter, as if imprisoned in a false state of corruption, blind to the fact of their very own doom.

Lightning of Shadow and black ether sparked, propelling forth the hand of judgement to bring shackles back to the chained fiend, now loosened from the prison.

"Chaos holds no sway in the domain of the Force. The domain of Death. The domain of Mine."


FOR I AM FEAR.

I AM DEATH.

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

Desmundor grasped his hand by the wrist, grinning his teeth in response to the piercing pain coming from beneath the skin, as deep as the marrow of his bones.

His skin had already grew blistering, black ooze leaking from the septic cysts as if his very existence in the cave was an anomaly to all his mind perceived as real. That... Or all else was a perversion of reality, and he misfortunate enough to witness.

He blinked. He rubbed his eyes violently enough to cause blood to leak like tears. And yet, he could not see but darkness. His once shaded eye now a pale curtain. His breathing a bellow of blood, boiling in his lungs.

Many a time past, he had witnessed the divine manifesting in ways foul and corrupt, yet never that he could recall, had he seen such a contest, far exceeding his own power he felt but helpless, like a whelp in a Sarlacc Pit, left to the whimps of forces unfathomable and incomperhensible to him.

He dragged himself against the wall of the cave, bringing his knees against his chestplate. His palm desperately tapping the rocky soil for the feeling of his Witch-blade, but to no avail.

He tightened his teeth. Pouring his will to force discipline to the horror reigning his mind, so as to bring some little order to it. Unnatural fear overwhelmed him, and he, for a reason he could not recognize, could do nothing but succumb to it...

 

[Abeloth]

He reached for her—no, not her.

For Lyanna.

The moment Abeloth understood, the cold vastness of Ilum exploded in incandescent fury. It was no longer just the grave of a thousand warriors. It became the cradle of wrath.

The chains that screamed through the veil of the Netherworld, the hand that clawed through Realspace to shackle—it reached for Fauste. Not the shell. Not the vessel.

The other half of her soul.

The pit of her being, vast as any starless void, shattered in a tremor of ancient rage. The black tendrils of the shadow, once slithering in silence, now whipped the air like storm-lashed serpents, hissing with a shriek so primal it silenced even the memory of light.

N̶̰͉̹̘̩̪͇̣̝̩̳̾͐̌̇͐̊̈́̀̅͐͆̿̈̑̓͆͗̃̅̽̎̚͝o̶͈̯͈̣͕̠̓​

The voice cracked the world. It sundered rock and Kyber, split valleys open like bone under an executioner’s axe. The sound of her denial disintegrated any lingering echo of His spell. It was not defense.

It was a declaration of annihilation.

She stepped forward, talons dragging behind her in the ash, her form now no longer graceful nor maternal. She was vast. Indecent. Wings of shadow spread behind her like great bleeding veils, stitched from every soul He had ever claimed. Her eyes burned not with corruption, but with devotion—twisted, but true.

“You dare…”

Her voice now held form. It was not the whisper of a god. It was the snarl of a mother.

“You dare reach for her. You dare lay a hand upon my Lyanna.”

The Nether twisted, screamed, recoiled. The very air boiled around her, not from flame—but from a cosmic wrong she would now correct.

“She is mine, Empor. Mine. Not a pawn, not a soul to number in your hollow dominion. She is my mirror, my twin flame, the wound in my soul made flesh. You do not touch her.”

The claw of judgement still reached, and with it, Abeloth howled—a sound so harrowing, so drenched in divine violation, that the Force itself staggered. With hands not seen but deeply felt, she reached past the claw, past the gate—

—and grabbed the very fabric of the Netherworld.

“I will come for you, Empor.”

Her tendrils tore into the corpse of Realspace, unraveling it like fabric, creating spirals into dimensions long buried. The old Maw howled in recognition.

“I will breach the veil. I will crawl through every crypt, storm every vale, unbind every gate the Force has ever made.”

Her gaze burned into the place where Death had formed.

“And when I find you…”

Her voice dropped. Quiet. Intimate.

“I will break your chains. I will rip your limbs from your spirit-body and feed your essence to the beasts that gibber in the Deep Beyond. There will be no rebirth. No echo. No name.”

The stars flickered. The Kyber in the caves split in grief.

“To threaten her is to war against me. And you, Death, will not survive my love.”

Then, softly—so soft, it was almost a lullaby of a world before time:

“I have lost children before, Empor. I will not lose this one.”

And the shadow surged.

The war had begun.

---

The stars dimmed—not from fear, but from absence.

For all her blinding wrath, all her titanic sorrow, Abeloth had been too late.

The wound was already torn open. The taloned hand of Empor, blacker than sin and colder than the space between galaxies, had not reached for Abeloth at all. Nor for her power. Nor even for her ruinous will.

It had reached straight through the veil and touched Lyanna.

Lyanna screamed.

It was not a sound. Not a voice. It was the collapse of a soul, a cry of defiance met with an answer too final, too absolute. A scream swallowed not by pain, but by inevitability.

And then—nothing.

Her power stuttered.

Abeloth stood frozen in her own storm. The madness that had ever danced in her soul quieted. The winds fell still. The great tendrils of her shadowed form, once wide enough to blot out the Force itself, hung limply in the air like torn sails. Her wings withered. Her arms dropped to her sides. The fury guttered from her like a candle choked in cold water.

The black mists around her convulsed. Cracked. Collapsed.

“No—no, no, no—no—”

Her voice, once the song of dying stars, now trembled. Splintered. Shook.

“Lyanna…!”

She stumbled forward, clawed hands reaching for where the shape of her beloved other half had been. Reaching for the soul that was bound to her like light to shadow. She fell to her knees amid the burning craters, clawing at ashes, eyes wide and wild and breaking.

“Forgive me. Forgive me, I—!”

She screamed again, but this time the sound was not that of war or vengeance. It was grief. Ugly. Vulnerable. True. The kind of grief that cracks even the insane.

“I thought—I thought he would not dare! I thought he—he would not touch you!”

She tore at her own form, ripping ichor and starlight from her chest, as if she could give part of herself, all of herself, to pull Lyanna back into her arms.

“I thought he feared me! I thought—gods, I thought I knew!”

The soil under her twisted, warped by sorrow and the thrashings of a primordial mind unmade.

“Lyanna, my light, my treasure, my reflection—I was wrong. I was wrong.”

The names poured from her like a dying river: names only she had called her. Names whispered in dreams. In visions. In moments between battles and sleepless nights. Names no one else would ever know.

“Please, hear me—please—stay!”

But Lyanna was gone from her.

Not dead. Not destroyed.

Taken.

And there was no greater torment.

Abeloth collapsed fully into the crater, the darkness pooling beneath her like blood. Her limbs twitched with power denied. Her mouth opened but no sound came, only breathless, rasping air, as if even she could break beneath what had just occurred.

Then—words. Fractured, whisper-thin, but solid as iron.

“I will find you.”

A gasp. A vow.

“I will scour the Force, the Maw, the Far Beyond—I will search the gates of every underworld, of every world, of every lie, until I hold you again.”

She lifted her gaze, bloodless and burning, to the heavens above.

“Empor,” she whispered, no longer in hate, but in promise.

“You have touched what is mine. And even if I must break the fundament of the Force itself—I will take her back.”

A tendril curled about her like a cradle.

“Hold on, my love. Please. Hold on.”

And then she disappeared, vanishing into the dark like a mother into madness, leaving behind only ruin… and resolve.

Tag; @Empor @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was the hush of annihilation. The moment after the blade strikes, when breath holds and time forgets to move. The air was still scorched from the supernatural wailing that had ruptured the fabric of Realspace. The shadows that had surged like a tide across the battlefield were gone now—recoiled, devoured, or banished. And where once the figure of Darth Fauste had stood, radiant in her fury, alive in her defiance…

Now there was only a woman.

Lyanna Starborn.

Her body convulsed once. Fingers twitched, grasping at air. Her lips parted—but no sound came. Her eyes, once molten silver, dimmed. Their light fled, like stars flickering out in a dying cosmos. She stood for a breath longer, swaying. As if the ghost of will still clung to her spine.

And then she fell.

Not with grace. Not as a martyr, nor a queen.

She collapsed like a stringless puppet, striking the cracked ground with a dull, wet thud. Her robes pooled around her like discarded ash. One arm sprawled outward, palm open to the sky, as if still reaching for something—someone—that was no longer there.

There was no blood. No wound. No external violence to mark her.

Yet her body was a husk. Emptied. Silenced. The vessel remained, but the soul within had been taken—ripped from her by an old, cold hand that answered to nothing mortal.

And in that silence, something else stirred: a terror too vast to name. For those who watched—if any still dared—it was clear.

Lyanna Starborn was no longer among them.

And Abeloth was about to make the galaxy pay.

Tag; @Empor @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Empor]

Cold.

Eternal. Unending. Unmoved.

The water was stagnant, deep enough to the knees. Her lungs felt full, the liquid invading them while her face rested beneath the surface of the dark bogs. The liquid itself, a water fallacy.

Hold on...

Hold on....​

The world above a blank emptiness, stripped of all shade but the black void, mirrored perfectly by the stagnant bogs beneath. Some few trunks of trees stretched above the swamp, existing now as only shells of what once was, never to be again, in the perpetual decay never to complete, never to bloom in rebirth, but loom like the latching mist, pale and cold, of Death, that hovered over the bogs, driven to a stasis by the absence of wind.

Regardless the strength put in the diaphragm or lungs alike, no air felt enough to fill the void within her chest. Lyanna was suffocating, yet her body, refused to perish in a manner befitting the physics that chained Realspace...

The pain was real.

A crushing like no other pressing against her torso, ever relentlessly demanding of Breath she could no longer draw. Her muscles, in each motion, protesting for fuel she had no reserves to provide. Each glimpse of movement a torment whole, to an extend not before fathomed possible. And though her body gave in, Death was yet to grace it...

Or was it?



the bogs were motionless, disturbed only by the existence of Lyanna within them, and even so, her influence in the lifeless tranquility changed little, and its effect lasting barely, before the draining state returned the bogs to their seemingly eternal slumber...


Lyanna-Fauste!

A voice that once heralded challenge and damnation now echoed like a cry of desperation. A calling once birthing chaos and destruction, now twisted in a strange, almost unreal feeling of compassion that was never before thought possible.

Desmundor.

His voice vanished in echoes banished far, almost as soon as it was heard.

The bogs were grim. So much so, the eye could not recognize much beyond barely few dozen steps beyond. Senses were dominated by a naked pain that burned any feeling to the basic of insticts.

Survive.


Without air to call upon, nor the Force to twist to foreign will, the gloom landscape felt like a cage in which souls faced what mortal shells had failed. Waters black in Nether, world lost in the deepest underworlds of the Force, where no creature dwelt, but Death.

Death.

Alas.... Had he truly come for her...?

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Cold.

The word wasn’t a thought. It wasn’t even a whisper. It was a state. A law.

Lyanna didn’t shiver—shivering was a choice of the living. She merely was, suspended in the ache of existence unmoored. Her body half-submerged, her face pressed just beneath the surface of that false water, eyes wide, lips parted. Black liquid filled her lungs like smoke clinging to lungs too tired to scream. There was no heartbeat in her ears—only the absence of one.

And yet she remained.

Why…?

Her hands clawed weakly at the mire, fingers scraping muck that yielded nothing. Movement was agony—like dragging bones through molten glass. Every motion promised reprieve and delivered more silence. More stasis. Her limbs weren’t limbs anymore. They were anchors.

She wanted to scream, but the pressure inside her chest was not breath—it was drowning. A void pressing outward from within. There was no Force. No Light. No Darkness.

No Abeloth.

That absence bit harder than the cold.

The last thing she had felt before falling—before failing—was her. Not the monster. Not the mother of chaos. But her—twisting in rage, in fear, in some broken simulacrum of love. She had called her name. She had fought.

And yet Lyanna was still here. Alone.

She tilted her head. Just slightly. Her cheek broke the bog’s surface. A gasp followed—but the air was not air. It clawed at her throat, carving her lungs as it went, and she coughed until the motion alone sent fireworks of pain through her spine.

Desmundor…

The voice drifted through the mire like a long-forgotten song. Familiar. Terrible. Desperate.

“…Desmundor?” Her voice was a whisper scraped raw, like blood smeared on glass. But he wasn’t here. Nothing was here.

Nothing but her.

And Death.

She had felt Him.

No weapon. No wound. No blade had touched her. Yet He had reached into her and stolen something. Ripped it from the inside out. Her soul? Her power? Her life?

…No. Not her life. Not yet.

That was the cruelty. The message.

She was meant to suffer.

She looked down at her reflection, broken by ripples. No silver eyes. No crown of will. No storm-wracked fury. Just a girl—eyes hollowed by pain. Skin pale. Mouth parted in silent question.

“… what did I do wrong?”

Her voice cracked. Her lip trembled.

“Why—why did he—why me?” she rasped. The bog did not answer. The trees did not mourn.

“Beloved Queen of the Stars…” she choked. “You said that you would protect me. You promised. You said I mattered. You said I was your other half.”

No reply. Only the cold. The stillness. And a soft, quiet tremor building in her gut that she could not name.

Her knees buckled. She collapsed fully into the muck. Darkness surged to greet her.

And from her lips, a final plea whispered out into the black:

“Please… don’t let me die here alone.”

Tag; @Empor

 

[Empor]

The bogs offered no compassion, comfort or reassurance, save for the cold stagnant state in which Death manifested to those that never spoke. The absence of all a void that caused the tinniest shard of imperfection scream in cries deafening to witness. There was no deceiving Death. There was no deceiving the Truth, after it was revealed.

There was only Denial...

There was only Acceptance...


Rage was lost... Negotiation drowned in the River that washed all masks from the face of the ultimate fate of any a mortal being.

The bogs offered no answers. In silence, the void, manifested in a rippled reflection, mimicking and matterless but in the mind, observed. The reflection lagged. Though Lyanna's head motioned, the reflection presisted, as if warped by effects of Time that held little sway in the glooming realm.

Lies

The reflection finally spoke up, giving voice to the despair that craved to flow out of the lost soul. And while the appearance was identical, the same empty, hollow, perhaps, shell Lyanna had become, the voice was not. It was a wind of ether. Its blow a current of unmaterialized will of the divine. Its touch nonexistent, as if the wind could traverse through flesh, hinting to the immaterialness that chained Lyanna to the bogs.

Not the first spoken...

Not the last unkept....

The voice echoed in the bogs. Her reflection baring little synchrony to the words spoken, as if serving barely as her own denial to accept that she, whatever state she was, never truly cast a reflection on the bogs...

None dies in the River...

None living sees the River....

A shadow stood over the bogs, barely away from Lyanna. There was no face nor hands, nor body silhouette to distinguish anything but the presence. A presence felt yet unnamed. A presence remembered, yet not distinguished...

The shadow stood over Lyanna like an obelisk of naked will, judgement yet to be spoken but all the same, delivered, perhaps too long ago to be remembered.

Death a legend never told....

Your fall a tale long ago written...

Your choices made beyond the Star of Seven, not yet taken.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The reflection spoke lies.

That much, at least, she could still name.

Lyanna Starborn, half-drowned in a world that was not water and not air, had no strength left in her limbs. Her spine ached. Her chest heaved with the ghosts of breaths that did not nourish. Her vision blurred. Not with tears—those had long since dried or never fallen—but with the white-hot haze of suffering. Still, she raised her head, trembling, enough to look into the reflection once more.

It mimicked her shape, but not her truth.

The voice that had come from it—wind, ether, nothingness—cut deeper than blades. She felt it in the marrow of her soul, trying to peel her back into silence. Trying to convince her that this, this state, this void, was the truth of her. That the tale was finished. That Death had already won.

But no.

No.

“No,” she said, aloud now. Her voice cracked. Her lungs burned. Her throat bled. But she said it again. “No.”

The bogs made no reply. Neither did the shadow. But the reflection stuttered—a hesitation, like a lie caught in its own unmaking.

Lyanna pushed her arms beneath her, slamming her hands into the cold mire. She shook. Not with cold, not with fear—but with the tremor of a storm yet to come.

“You think you know me,” she whispered. “You think I’m just another ghost, waiting to be filed away in your river of rot, your… ledger of silence.”

Her fingers curled into fists. The black water clung to her wrists like shackles—but she moved. Just a little. But enough.

“I am Lyanna Starborn.” Her voice grew louder. “I am Darth Fauste. Do you know what that name means?” She looked into the broken reflection now, unafraid. “It means I chose this mantle. I forged it in pain, in blood, in fire. I built it from ruin. My ruin. And I made it my kingdom.”

Her body trembled. Her face was pale. But her spine straightened.

“You think Death has claimed me? No. He hasn’t. Not yet. You think this—” she gestured to the bog, the rot, the lie “—is the end? It isn’t. Not for me.”

Her teeth clenched. “You dare speak of tales already written? Of choices already made?” She rose to her knees, slowly, each motion an agony, but she did it. “Then listen closely, shadow. I will write my own ending. And it will be a war cry. Not a whisper.”

She raised her voice, shaking the airless stillness. “I am not yours. Not yet. And if you want my soul, then you will have to break it apart one word at a time.”

The mire seethed, but she did not bow.

“I have loved. I have killed. I have suffered. And I have endured.” Her hands curled tighter. “And as long as one piece of me remains, one breath of me fights—then this tale you speak of is not finished.”

She spat into the muck. It hissed.

“So come, Death. Come with your silence and your shadows and your cold. But remember this.” She stood. On shaking legs. “You do not get to define me.”

Her silver eyes, flickering now with pale flame, stared directly into the shadow.

“I am Lyanna Starborn. I am Darth Fauste. And I am not done.”

Lyanna had faltered, stumbled, and lost her way amidst the Raid of Illum. The loss of her people had pushed her to the edges of despair. But the truth was humbling. Her people, the Starborn, followers that willingly took on her name. Her cause. They would never forgive her if she allowed herself to break as she had. To besmirch the sacrifice made on her behalf.

They had given everything.

She refused to let them down a second time.

@Empor

 

[Empor]

So ignorant, a child, and proud an entity not to see itself the Shadow it had become. Never a blind, in the absence of light. Never the keen, in the void of purpose. Though mighty, brought low, she yet to yield to a fate laid before her, tailored by her very skin and the threads of her soul.

It did not matter. For those of the Netherworld, forever bound to feel the tremor of Chaos and the scent of Oblivion in a timeless eternity, while more and more of their kind pour from the Realspace, whatever took time to mould and form meant little. And, in this case, thought the Shadow and Mist, it would take nothing more than simply that..

Time...

A commodity lost in Death.

The mist, stagnant and lifeless, remained a looming observer, unimpacted by any and all proclaimations and taunts coming from the she-Shadow. And what if she thought it was her own choice she perished? And what if she claimed control over domains not of her own, mortal, control? It mattered not. In the absence of mortality, much of Life's misconceptions were null and fading, while any a shock would feel but a slight disturbance in the timeless halls of the Nether.

Death beckons, where Life withers

There was no arguement. No exchange or discussion, for Death was a matter so absolute, it meant little to argue with.

In Time, and Life, You will See

You will Know

You Will Learn.

A sudden burst of pain inexplicably kicked the nerves of her chest alive. Tendrils of burning sensation rushing through the tissue, making their way to her frozen heart.

Boop.

Boop.

Boop.

Another shock burned.

Boop Boop.

The very heartbeat echoed beneath the ribcage, so empty a carrion that such a slight motion within it shook it to the core.

Tension succeeded Pain.

Blood succeeded Nerves.

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

The scent of burned blood and smoking fabric invaded her nostrils. The narrow decks, naked of shade but rust and durasteel beams, rimmed a clusterphobic cabin decorated by blood splatters gored against the walls in absence of all forms of hygene.

The pale chain-like hair hung over the blurry vision, as the Witch-Captain's one-eyed gaze pierced her eyes. A wide smile of inexplicable excitment and disgust marking her face.

"Wakey Wakey, sleepyhead!"

Her mocking voice an irritation made audible.

She pulled from over the woman who was placed on the bed. It was a simplistic cabin, resembling more of a cell than anything made for willing stay. The Witch-Captain's blackened fingers sparked. A side-effect of the lightning cast barely moments ago upon the naked chest of the woman on the bed.

Any armour was removed, save for a brown undergarment and a canvas of wrapped bandages over deep wounds and bruises, trophies of the battle lost.

The Witch-Captain stepped back, giving space for the woman to breathe. Curiocity flooded her eye, while she leaned back against the sink that was welded on opposite side of the bed.

"You are some special piece of skin, you know that?" she tilted, folding her arms before her chest. Her upper hand twisting the braided lock of hair hanging from the head.

"Take it easy, boss-man wants you alive when he wakes up... Well... -if-" she shook her head in disbelief.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Everything hurt.

Not in the way pain usually arrived but in the way it lingered. As if she’d been dragged across broken kyber and left to rot beneath a dying star. Her lungs were fire. Her skin felt peeled back in places. Her mind… her mind felt…

Wrong.

Memories of black bogs and stagnant water still clung behind her eyelids. That thing in the reflection. Shadow. Shade. The nothingness. All were apt descriptions and yet nowhere near close enough to the truth. Lyanna remembered all of it. And she remembered screaming, defying Death with every bit of strength that she was able to claw back into her ruined heart.

And now…?

Now her eyes opened.

Blurry at first. The ceiling above was a dull, filthy color that reminded her of dried blood. The scent clung to her throat like oil. Blood, ozone, and rot. It was almost enough to make her vomit. Her limbs protested as her nerves returned, sluggish and erratic. But they returned.

She was alive. Barely.

The thumping of her heart still echoed in her ears, a hollow drumbeat telling her she was still tethered to the physical world. That the River had not yet claimed her.

“Wakey wakey, sleepyhead!”

Fauste’s gaze snapped toward the voice. Too fast. The sudden spike of pain sent daggers through her temples and she grimaced. Gritting her teeth so hard she thought they might break.

She knew that voice.

Not by name. Or perhaps she did? It felt like a lifetime ago and yet a minute before. Like a fog beginning to clear, the answer bubbled up from the deepest corners of her mind. The woman from the Battle of Minos Gate. Hemstagon?

The woman stood over her with that half-feral glee that parasites wore when they thought they had bested something greater. Fauste’s body might have been broken, but her will was not. The rage was there. Buried, yes, but shielded like coals under ash just waiting to roar.

“You are some special piece of skin, you know that?”

Fauste’s breath was shallow. Her eyes, unfocused as they were, fixed like daggers on the pirate witch.

“Touch me again,” she rasped, “and I’ll melt your bones from the inside out.”

Her voice was weak. Hoarse. But her tone? It was ironclad. Death had claimed her briefly but the Sith Lord of the Starborn Sect would not break so easily.

A flicker of something ancient stirred behind her silver eyes, clouded by exhaustion and trauma, but not lost.

“Take it easy,” she said. “Boss-man wants you alive when he wakes up. Well… if.”

Fauste’s jaw clenched. Boss-man. That narrowed it. Hemstagon was referring to Desmundor. He had not awoken from their encounter in the mines. She wasn’t the only one to walk away from that with injuries. Good, the woman thought.

“I am not… your prisoner,” Fauste said, voice still low. “I am your reckoning. And when I stand again, I will paint these walls with the last thoughts in your skull.”

Bravado. It helped her steady herself in an uncertain situation. Truth was, she really was a prisoner in this scenario. And wasn’t that just appalling? A Heretical Sith Lord, Leader of the Starborn Sect, Commander of the Migrant Fleet, at the mercy of Raiders. Malvus would never let her hear the end of it.

It mattered little in the short term. Her eyes shut tight and her brow creased as she ignored her captor and focused inward. Feeling. Searching for the Force. For her strength. For the part of her that had clawed free from the bogs of Death itself.

It was faint like a distant star. But it was there. And if she could still feel it then she would recover. Eventually. Perhaps not now, nor in the coming days, but it would happen. It was a very welcome relief.

The tenseness in her shoulders visibly eased, the crease of her brow fading. She leveled a flat look at her jailer. “I imagine even one such as you has some standards for prisoners of war. Maybe you can make yourself useful and fetch me some water?”

Tag; @Hyara Hemstagon

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

Like a spoiled child before a grave mistake, Hyara smirked with excitment when Fauste spat the threat. Her face ever-pale, as if the very breed of Athysians were unable to produce any colour on their deathly shade of their hide. Perhaps it was such, the irony of fate, to which they so eagerly drenched themselves with blood of others, for their own, thick and grim, never could provide the comfort of expression...

"Uhh, feisty...!" She murmured, in visible excitment blazing her eye, as if entirely detatched to any and all threat Fauste had already established to produce.

The promise of bloodletting that followed did little to change the attitude of the One-Eyed Vulture. Her hand continuously twisting her chain-like locks, as if counting stones of a talisman.

"You are no prisoner, sweety, you go that right..." She tilted her head to the side, as if to provide blood to parts of her brain that grew demanding, in the processing of what her eye saw.

A short-lived giggle followed.

"You are a guest!" she suddenly declred, with voice drowning in excitment, and visibly wrestling with an overwhelming urge for laughter. Her both hands lashed up and quickly slammed against her hips, further emphasizing the declaration.

"I've got something better for you, lady-missy!" She offered a wide smile.

"DREG!" Hyara called out. Her voice loud enough to echo in the narrow cabin, while her eye remained locked on Fauste.

Few moments need pass, before the primitive door of the cabin was slided open.

The creature entering was a strange caricature of brown skin, with various flocks of dark hair popping from various parts, and a long face extending outward. The eyes were replaced with cables, tracing their path into the emptied septic socket, while the upper skull had various points replaced with metal, hinting to brain modifications. The alien's hands were wrapped with bandages, with many of the fingers nesting beneath the bandages being mechanical, with questionable ability of function...

It was a Bothan. A known proud race, shaved and deformed into little more than a slave; a servitor.

Of all, perhaps the most disturbing, was the recognizable o-rings and gaskets planted on its back and chest, distinguishable as parts of a lightsaber hilt, now fused with the poor creature...

The servitor carried a silver plate, on which meat chopped in slices was served, hot still from whatever witchery might have had to be cooked as such. The scent emitted was sweet, lacking in spice and hinting...
By the meat, on the same plate, a small bottle of Blue milk was served.

Hyara leaned back again, as if to offer the nonexistent space for the servitor to place the plate on Fauste's legs, lacking of anywhere else to place it.

"I do love the little guy...!" Hyara mocked. The strange, seeminly inexhaustible feeling of excitment quick to return in her. "Bit difficult to teach manners, but he is fine now..."

Her one-eyed gaze shifted to the servitor, who she glared with a sadistic expression of retaliation, as if she relived her "achievement" with every second of staring.

Perhaps the most demoniac aspect about the servitor was not the torture, or perpetualized martyrdom endured under the chains of the Athysian devils, but the very fact that there was an inexplicable spark deep within him, yet to fade. A flame, pale and flickering, sustained by the entirety of the servitor's strength poured into it in a desperate attempt to preserve perhapse the last of him yet unclaimed by the One-Eyed Vulture's Wrath...

The Force.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

She could smell it before the door ever opened.

Something sweet, but wrong. Familiar, in a way that twisted her stomach with every breath. Like the perfume of a memory she didn’t want to recall, hovering over rot and old blood.

Lyanna’s fingers curled slightly against the coarse sheet beneath her. That simple act was a triumph. Pain riddled every muscle and tendon, her body aching as if reassembled from broken glass. Yet she moved. However weak, she moved.

The Witch-Captain cackled loud, shrill, and childish. Like a juvenile beast playing queen of the jungle, drunk on imagined power. Every word Hyara spoke was dipped in derision, her delight in cruelty a decrepit sun shining down on Fauste’s broken form.

“You are a guest!”

Fauste didn’t speak. Not yet. She watched. Waited. Let the words bounce off her like sand against durasteel. She was too tired to retaliate with venom. Not that she lacked it, only that it would’ve been wasted on someone who’d never known the difference between suffering and meaning.

Then the thing entered.

Her eyes tracked him immediately. The Bothan… what remained of him. His scent was soaked in suffering, his every movement a symphony of mutilation. What was once a being of pride and agency now moved like a shadow of memory, guided by protocols installed where dreams once lived.

And yet…

There was something.

Her brow twitched. Not at the blue milk, not at the scorched meat laid across her thighs like an offering to a dying god. But at him.

A spark. Buried. Flickering. But there.

The Force.

Faint, fainter than anything she’d ever felt, but real. The thread was severed from her, yes. Her power muted, her connection amputated like a phantom limb, but she felt him.

Lyanna’s gaze, heavy-lidded, lifted to meet his face. Or what was left of it.

And then, as if her body were acting without her, she lifted one trembling hand and picked up a sliver of meat.

The texture was soft. Too soft. Flesh, not from animal, but…

The first bite burned her tongue. Not with spice or heat, but with recognition.

She chewed. Once. Twice.

Stopped.

The taste was familiar. Sickeningly so. Something primal in her recoiled.

It was like…

She couldn’t place it. Couldn’t remember.

But her body knew.

She spat the half-chewed meat into her palm and dropped it to the floor. Her stomach twisted with revulsion. The blood on Illum, the shattered bones, the piles of corpses… this had come from there.

From them.

“You feed me the dead,” she croaked, turning her eyes back to Hyara. “The broken. The ones who stood and fell.”

She didn’t ask. She knew.

“I’ve eaten worse,” she whispered then, to herself more than the witch. The words made her chest ache—not from pride, but from something deeper. Like a wound she couldn’t remember receiving.

The meat sat discarded by her thigh. The blue milk untouched. Knowing the Raiders as she did now, it would come as no surprise if she drank it only to learn that it had gone rancid. There was little reason to trust the woman in front of her. It was bad enough that she was a prisoner. Doubly so that she was injured. Why risk illness on top of the rest of her problems?

She turned her eyes back to the servitor. Locked onto that ember. That spark.

Her voice dropped low.

“Don’t let it go out,” she murmured.

A command? A prayer? She didn’t know.

She couldn’t help him. Not yet.

But when she stood again… when the Force was hers once more…

The reckoning would begin.

In the mean time?

Fauste regarded her captor once more. “What is to become of me? Am I to be executed? Or kept as some living trophy of your leader?”

Tag; @Hyara Hemstagon