Consolidation Litanies of the Dark Side: Hell Within

[Roshia Chamiane]

The utter silence of the chamber was equal parts maddening and a relief. Roshia could not bear to hear the ambient sounds of suffering around her any longer, but the silence left her imprisoned within her thoughts. This time, she did not have the comforts of a bacta tank to lull her into a more dream-like state, where there was neither suffering nor pleasure.

Time was meaningless. Roshia had given up even attempting to speculate on how much time had already passed. It did not matter anymore; nothing would change even if she knew. Many things dominated her thoughts, and few, if any, did her any good. She thought of her Jedi master, she thought of her Jedi peers, she thought of how to escape, she wished to wake from this neverending nightmare. Going over every moment she could have done differently, how she could have changed the course of everything, and the regret of not doing so, even if it wasn’t even realistically feasible.

She paced around the sanctum, circling the tree for who knows how long. She wished she had her lightsabers to destroy it and tear it apart as she would the Dark Lord who forced her there. She cursed him and his followers in every way she could, in rage and weeping sadness. Roshia knew his name, and she’d had more than enough time to think back on her lessons and readings at the Jedi Temple she called home. Part of those thoughts was even attempting to find ways to escape from the sanctum and, hopefully, the ship itself. Nothing worked; not even her force powers could pry anything apart, and there were no wires or significant loose parts.

Unfortunately for Roshia, her rogue thoughts were not her only battle there.

The operation done to her left deep scars that not even Roshia herself realized the full extent of. Submersion within the bacta tank had helped heal the physical wounds so well that it took The Dark Lord pressing his spiked saber hilt against her now artificial rib cage to realize what had been done to her. Yet, it took a much slower realization for Roshia to figure out that her left lung was too gone and replaced.

Her body had not fully adjusted to it. Her breathing felt imbalanced, painful even, and her remaining lung felt heavily strained. Roshia couldn’t maintain a proper rhythm to her breathing, and each breath often felt insufficient. She wondered if it had something to do with slightly different near-human anatomy or the quality of the prosthetic itself, likely a combination of both.

When she had exhausted herself enough that she’d lay down in an attempt to sleep, she’d jolt awake as her breath stopped mid-slumber. If it weren’t for that, then reliving her operation would stir her awake. Fragmented memories of the experience manifesting as night terrors, she’d feel the sawing of her damaged ribs, the coldness of her chest, and the indescribable feeling of her very insides being manipulated, a deep, crushing pressure within her chest that Roshia couldn’t comprehend the cause of. The sight of bloody, gloved hands over her and the tools they used. Moments she wished to forget forcibly resurfaced in her mind.

Sometimes, even if she were awake, she’d still feel it all. It came and went with no set intervals or time, and every time it happened, Roshia could do nothing but weep and beg for it to all end.

 

[Eosfor]

Eosfor.. Claim what you came for here.... Burn the hordes of the Dark Shadows who infested this planet...

Her voice rung in his thoughts turning his very head into a bell of regret. A den of foul deeds and empty Regret, with a myriad black thorns of Obsidian carving their way into the deepest hollows of his mind. His gaze a blank statue; His body an empty vessel, sat imobile upon the stone throne adorned by skulls and dark crystals of impurity.

Eosfor. Defiance. My brother.. I call upon thee, to fulfill your promise to Empor by my side. Let's burn Ptosis. Together
​

The very Death of Her, a spear thrust against what he felt as the last fragment of hope deep within. In his meditative stasis, he relived the moment She and the she-fiend fell through the Nethergate; A pain a million times worse than the clawing and biting of the black wings and obsidian talons that befell him, barely a breath after she had perished.

So much for brethren... So much for Unity... And yet, blind as he was, he had failed to forsee the true Enemy Within, that now reigned supreme. Untouchable... Unpunished... Unrestrained....

Together
Together
Together​

The silver hilt flied in a dozen pieces, orbiting the cracked crystal that levitated before the Dark Lord. Eons of Corruption, and yet, he still bled that crystal, watching it blacken as he did. It served little purpose, anymore. Shattered by Corruption and bound by silver and bronze, the Dark Lord could read many similarities that mirrored his own bleak fate.

There could be no Unity anymore... And without that... it was only Loyalty...

Or Defiance​

The levitating pieces slowly trailed one another, gradually reassembling into the long hilt of the staff, once again imprisoning the crystal deep within the weapon. A weapon of war. A weapon of destruction. A weapon of Darkness. For there was no other way to avoid yet another Schism, yet another mark of Corruption, save for the flame. Perhaps the Dark Shadows, in their corrupt narrative, had achieved something he and his kin were too proud to recognize:

Destruction is the Mother of Rebirth​

And that was exactly what the Galaxy desperately needed. A Rebirth. An Awakening of Blood. Mayhem enough to flood the River and drown Death deep in the Netherworld, yet each kill, a precision cut against the veil Death himself had crafted, a net to trap the Dark Lord in the perpetuality of his own Regret...

The hilt produced a momentary metallic "click", as the final piece was twisted into place. The saberstaff hilt levitating before the empty gaze of the Dark Lord. His mind having gone astray long into the process, in a perpetual loop of glooming thoughts and anger, rage, sorrow and despair, all moulded now into a single sensation, strong enough that gave life to his rotten remnant, bleeding lightning into the metallic skeletal cybernetics that held the mass of the Dark Lord together within his armour:

Hatred​

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

Hatred​

No more wounds were present on her body; they had been long healed, yet Roshia could feel them all the same as if they continued to be present on her body. Nothing worked to stem it; there were no meditative techniques that worked and nothing to distract her. It felt as raw and fresh as the day they were inflicted.

Her thoughts turned to the ones responsible— The Dark Lord, that surgeon, the Sith Marauder that pursued her, and everyone that stepped on the ship and called it home. Roshia felt unbridled *anger* towards them, hatred, grief, contempt, disgust, and an unimpeded storm of emotions whirring within her already pained chest, only adding to her unseen suffering.

She wept, and she wept. Nothing changed. She paced around the dreaded tree, digging her nails into the skin of her arms hard enough to draw blood, staining her pale skin with red. It was the only physical, tangible pain she could feel then.

Roshia thought of how low she had fallen, from the proud, exemplary padawan she was to the broken shell trapped in a Sith Lord’s sanctum. She knew the emotions she felt needed to be controlled, as she always did so, as any Jedi would do. Yet, nothing worked. None of the techniques she had been taught since her years as a youngling did, if anything, it worsened how she felt at times. Her mind felt as if it were clouded by a constant, oppressive shadow that brought pain with it.

She muttered, begging for her old Jedi Master as if he could answer her prayers. Apologizing for her failures and hope for guidance that will never come.

Something, anything, to pull her out of this hell.

 

[Eosfor]

​

Peace is a Lie

The catwalk shook by the heavy steps of the Dark Lord, as he made his way across the narrow decks. The insectoid creatures infesting the decks quick to make way for the passing of the Dark Lord, as if avoiding a tempest warping its way through time and space. The spiked silver hilt attached by his belt, buried beneath cloth and armour alike.

Peace is a Lie​

The air grew thick, as the oppressive aura of the Dark Lord consumed the artificial atmosphere created by the malfunctioning life-support systems running above the ceilings of the decks. With each oxygen release, a pale mist soon dissolving into the room, the screeching of the machine echoing in the cacophony of screams, as if the very ship taunted Roshia's weeping.

Peace is a Lie​

The dim red light that illuminated the chamber flickered, its electrical intestines pressed too much by the darkness that engulfed the chamber. The crawling of unseen parasites creeping behind the durasteel walls suddenly turned alive, producing noise that pierced through the thick walls. They had all taken notice of Roshia. Her scent a prey's call to them... But none dared approach. None of the horrid insects sentient, driven by the instinct that recognized the dark nexus that surrounded her. Though her flesh was a gift for their feast.

There is only Passion​

The blastdoor openned, as the Dark Lord entered the chamber; A predator approaching his wounded prey, though this particular one craved not of flesh, or blood or bones, but Soul. He had seen her stand. Now, he had seen her break. It was a matter of time, in his eyes, to see her rise again...

His heavy steps carried him towards the tree, as if ignorant of Roshia's presence in the chamber. He reached out to rest a palm against the metallic tendrils, as if admiring the machine which gave him life anew.

"Anger. Rage." his voice low, gutteral, taken by whatever interest had magnetized his attention to the Tree. "Standing a feather in the wind of change unchangeable by thee... Rage becomes fuel until the machine breaks down. Then... When all is lost. When there is no choice but Death, or Defiance..."

His head turned over his shoulder, his red eyes piercing under the shadow of the hood as they thrusted their gaze to the woman in the distance.

"Then it all becomes Hate"

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

The oppressive aura of the Dark Lord only added to the immense weight that Roshia already felt like a crushing weight on her chest. Enough so that she struggled to take a breath more so than she already was. If she had to describe such a feeling, it was likely drowning deep under the dark oceans of a planet, even though that was not even remotely close to being true.

She could hear his heavy footsteps approaching outside. When the Dark Lord had entered the sanctum, Roshia was huddled in the corner of the room, head buried in her heads. Despite the relatively short time she had remained within the sanctum, she looked utterly exhausted and disheveled compared to before. Trails of dried and fresh blood stain her pale arms.

Roshia looked up at him. His words were meaningless to her, though she felt an odd sense of mild relief seeing him there, mixed with her intense fear and hatred of him. Finally, no longer left alone to suffer under her damaged psyche.

"Make it stop." There was no elaboration on what 'it' was in her pleas, though he was surely capable of discerning.

"I want no part of this. I want nothing to do with you. I've done nothing to earn your ire. All I have done is defend myself and accept death in my defeat..." Roshia rambled on in her hoarse voice.

 

[Eosfor]

"All thee have done is quit."

The Dark Lord's voice a sudden roar, casting an invisible shadow like a wave against the bulwark that was Roshia's psyche.

"If thee had fallen like the others; Begging, in blood and despair, I would have allowed thee to perish like the Blind they were. But thee did not, did thee? Never begged. Never despaired. Thy sword wrath in chains, thy will a star denied of plasma. Waiting... for a single crack to cast it into pulsar..."

His motions slow and weighted, contrasting the tension of his roaring voice. He circled back and forth, gradually approaching Roshia like a vulture craving the taste of her sanity, bloodied and rotting like the entrails of his foul ship. A glimpse, of his own flesh, uncorrupted, yet, by the years and bleakness of his soul.

"And for what? The Jedi? Butchers, all... Warlords of a failed world. Sworn to destroy the Sith, yet it was them themselves who gave birth to them, so long ago... Denying of another inconvenient truth of their creed, to give purpuse to their legions of Blind, led by lies and deception... And yet... Where are they now? Dead, perished or enslaved, most serving as champions to the so-called Sith. Is that what thy sword fell? Is that what thee lay down thy self? A lie? A venom so foul it corrupts the mind so much, the flesh suffers no change...?"

He stopped. His crimson glare fixated on Roshia.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me, there is no Emotion, there is Peace."

He took another step, much closer to Roshia, enough for his boot to land next to her leg. His body hunching, his cape blocking the dim light behind him in a phasma of darkness.

"Tell me thee art no ignorant..."

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

The sudden roar of The Dark Lord's voice made Roshia flinch away in fear. His presence was terrible enough. Being yelled by him only worsened her already intense fear and hatred of him to greater heights and made the air even heavier to breathe. If such thing was even possible.

Roshia pushed herself further against the wall as he got closer, desperately hoping to disappear into the sanctum's walls and rid herself of The Dark Lord's presence.

"I fell on my own blade to deny you the satisfaction of slaying me. There is no deeper meaning to it. " Her voice was weak and quiet as she confessed to her motives. "If spite is your reason for forcing me to live, then have your satisfaction of laying the final blow onto me. Go on, be done with your speeches, and slay me as you've intended."

Roshia forced herself to look up at him, meeting the Dark Lord's infernal gaze even if it made her blood run cold to do so. "There is No Emotion. There is Peace." Her voice was shak8ng as she spoke, but she said the words all the same before averting her gaze from him.

"I will live, and I will die by the Jedi Code."

 

[Eosfor]

There is No Emotion. There is Peace.

I will live, and I will die by the Jedi Code.​

The very sound of the words infuriated him. His artificial muscles blasted into action long before his twisted mind fully processed his own emotion. His hand reached out to her, his claws aiming to grasp Roshia by the throat and lift her up against the durasteel wall, until her very legs wouldn't reach the floor. The air twisting, a tempest of wrath barely contained by the will of the Dark Lord.

"Tell me, then, Jedi! What is this thou feel?! Is it not Fear? Is it not Pain?"

His voice a dark growl, clattering through the machine of his artificial vocal chord, barely enduring the pressure of the malice fuelling every inch of his rotting soul. The masked gaze forged of metal, though bleeding the fabric of the Force around him so much so that it felt the jaw-shaped respirator would crack open, for his monstrous maw to consume Roshia whole.

"Thou art not with Death by a choice of thee! Thee live, because I wish thusly."

The Dark Lord's grip tightening, willing to crush her trachea inbetween the fingers.

"Thee killed thouself not out of defiance. But out of Hope. Hope thee shall not suffer me. Hope thee shall not live in Darkness. Hope thee shall not become what thee hate. But thou will! There is no Death. There is no Hope, for thee. Only Darkness. And unending torment, until thou accept it!"

 

[SausageDoctor]

Roshia did not fight the grasp of his hand around her throat, not that she could even if she wanted to. Her hands gripped at his arm out of instinct, though otherwise provided no other struggle.

She coughed and gagged as grip tightened. Her eyes were closed, refusing to look at his nightmarish visage any longer she already had done.

"To accept or to deny.... I suffer all the same." Roshia coughed out between a few sparse breaths.

"Threaten me with death? It only grants me my wish.... I fear death no longer."

She opened her eyes to gaze at him. There was still deep fear and pain behind them. Anger as well, and that anger lit a small flame in her eyes. Meager as it was, it was still a flame.

"Unlike you."

 

[Eosfor]

The presistence in her defiance was inspiring as it was irritating. In each attempt to break her will, the absence of drive within her making her an empty vessel, though yet to be poured into the dark pitch of his corruption. That, perhaps, would come later.

"Suffer thee, so long thee resist. Defiance easy loses purpose in the Dark!" he grunted, his words bolts of iron piercing through her.

The spark in her eyes an omen. A herald of the clouds gathering in her mind, rallying to the dark tide that had finally taken root within her. Her durasteel will finally bent by the pressure of the Dark Lord. She may not know. She might be still blind to it... But it was happening...

The Dark Lord's will ever-stronger, his malice strong enough to manifest.

"Peace is a Lie, child. There is only Passion."

His voice low, growling as if boiling pitch. In a swift motion of his hand, he cast Roshia across the chamber, meant to throw her against the walls across the chamber.

His claws clacking, the artificial muscles pushed by the urge for violence, contained by the Dark Lord.

"Chained are Thee. Powerless!"

The Dark Lord paced closer, orbiting towards her around the chamber. His steps deliberatly slow, heavy.

"Banished from Death. Gifted by Curse."

He walked towards the blastdoor of the chamber, reaching out with his hand. Though never touched, the blastdoor obeyed the invisible will and openned, as if the Force twisted around it to activate the machine.

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

Roshia expected his grip to tighten around her throat and finally bring the end to it all, or perhaps him to take out his lightsaber to impale her with. Her provocation working and freeing her from pain.

Instead, she was just tossed aside. Slamming against the nearby wall and falling to the ground. Roshia found the physical pain to be near meaningless now, nothing more than a welcome distraction to the current state of suffering she experienced. Roshia forced herself up back to her feet as fast as she could.

"No!" She yelled out upon hearing the blast doors open again, dreading the possibility of spending even more time alone in that hell. A mixture of desperation and frustration.

Roshia reached out with a hand, exerting her will in the force to pull The Dark Lord's lightsaber into her grasp again. A trick she had done before and knew what holding the hilt would entail, but she was determined to have a different outcome.

 

[Eosfor]

The Dark Lord halted his pace, as the long saberstaff hilt suddenly jumped alife, flying off his belt towards Roshia's widespread palm. His masked gaze turned, almost instinctivelly attracted to the spiked silver hilt. And so, the time warped into a stale...

His red eyes blazing with wrath, glaring at the hilt that had frozen into place, levitating inbetween Roshia and Him. His Dark Will reaching out, invisible tendrils of Darkness already lashed and chained around the hilt, though for an inexplicable reason, the hilt itself did not obey his demand. Roshia's power in the Force suddenly bursting, contesting him for the weapon's hold.

Inhale... Exhale...

Neither could be sure how long had passed in that single moment that spanned a century. With each drawing breath, the metallic lung within her chest compressed just abit more, as the air around her turned fiery. The flame tongues, though, did not burn. They fuelled. A Dark calling, urging her to unleash the power that had been growing roots within her for so long. Emotion, rampant and roaring, craving to be uncaged. Passion, calling her name trice in the abyss...

Roshia....

Roshia...​

Roshia...​

Unleash!​

In a sudden second of arcane tempest, the very endurance of the spiked hilt reached its limit. And then...

CRACK

Black lightning poured out of the hilt, usurping the chamber in roaring wrath and destruction. Chunks of the durasteel wall shattered. Wires and tendrils from the tree burned open. The entire chamber usurped by unnatural pitch black shroud, disturbed only by the sparking of cables from ceiling and floor alike.

Her palm feeling hot, burning as if the very silver it grasped was fused with her Soul. The crystal's energy spreading like wildfire across her every inch, flogging her bloodied skin with black lightning. And then...

Darkness.

The hilt bled sparks, wounded by the cracking of its axis. The cracked crystal trapped in unlife within it still. The spiked crown around where the plasma blade would blaze the edge of her Will.

A crimson line of black heart developped across the room, blazing unstable plasma screeching in ecstasy of the coming clash...

"Anger... Wrath... Rage... Defiance..."

The Dark Lord's growling voice sounded, as the darkness cleared... He stood tall, his blade by his side. He waited; Casting any Form aside for the very purpose of taunting Roshia to strike...

"There shall be no Death for you... There is only Defiance. Or Torment."

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

Her burst of strength within the force surprised even Roshia. Fighting against The Dark Lord's pull on the lightsaber hilt, she could not afford to let go, fear and desperation filled her in equal parts.

Her training as a Jedi had held the roots of darkness within her mind at bay for years. Never fully uprooted, but always controlled, always kept at bay, never clouding her mind. Yet, that was changing, she could feel her mind become clouded, all the rage, fear, desperation, passion, hate, that remained chained within her mind, pulled at their chains, desperate to be free. Promising the sweet taste of power that she so desperately needed more than ever.

Roshia still resisted, for a time, not wanting to be consumed by the darkness she worked so hard to contain. The longer she hesitated, the more the Dark Lord's lightsaber was pulled towards him, inch by inch. To lose it was to invite even more suffering and pain, she remembered her death on Karideph, her deaths on his ship, the waking nightmare of being trapped within the sanctum. She could not bear another moment of it all.

With a final breath, she succumbed herself to the dark calling of her mind.

The lightsaber hilt was pulled apart, the other half flying into her hands. Darkness befell the room. Pain overwhelmed her hand, but she gripped tightly, gritting her teeth as she exerted her will over it as if to force it to submit.

Until it did.

Roshia continued. The lightsaber had no activator, but instinctively, she willed it to activate, pouring the emotions that filled her mind into it. Until the unstable black-cored red blade appeared. Then her eyes was on The Dark Lord.

She did not listen to his words any longer. Roshia felt herself be filled with renewed strength and vitality that she had not felt since Karideph. She charged to strike at The Dark Lord, adopting the aggressive single-blade form IV against him.

 

[Eosfor]

Fire.

Burning through the Darkness.​

Blood.

Boiling under the Skin.​

Defiance.

Consuming all like roaring Fire.​

Her attacks came swift, with speed tainted by the rage and wrath and anger fountaining from within her. The blade cutting the Dark Lord's soul simply by its appearance opposite to him. His eyes bled flame to the view of this act most wicked. He had fought before. Only once had he lost the Kahrinarsa; The weapon that had accompanied him for many a lifetime; The sceptre that had enacted his Will in the immemorable wars and the nameless foes he battled in the years he could recite in his mind. The Kahrinarsa was always there. United, like his brethren never were...

And she, had just broken it. Sparks bleeding from the lower end of both parts of the hilt, now serving different a master...

Defiance reigned. Before the Dark Lord could process the sudden spike of unnatural pain bleeding through his rotting heart, Roshia charged. Led by the very wind of Hate, armed with Wrath and Kahrinarsa, she threw herself against a foe unwinnable. Odds, unfavouring. And yet... She charged... Her strikes coming with enough determination that the Dark Lord took a step back, swinging his blade in defensive Makashi stance, blocking the consequetive strikes left and right delivered to him by his very own Kahrinarsa... His very own Self....

His backward movement kited the foe back, through the blastdoor frame. Each of her strikes deflected, as if the two identical blades craving to meet their binds, each time rejoicing their union with screeching cries and fiery sparks, emitting black ether as they did.

She was finally unleashed... She had fallen. Crashing down in a path of insanity and Regret... Until now, finally, she emerged a flame out of the charcoal of her own past...

"Fight!" the Dark Lord roared, taunting her to press on. "Kill!"

"You killed yourself, first! You killed your reason! Now.... Now you kill your THOUGHTS! Now you RISE!"

The blades shined red and fire, as the two battled within the narrow corridor of the warship. The Dark Lord blocking each of her strikes, commited to give her more and more ground... Until...

BAM

In a moment's openning, an inch's miscalculation, his hand reached out and graced her chest with tendrils of red lightning, piercing like photons released from the depths of a dying star. The lightning's touch hot, burning deep into her mind, seeding an unnatural sense of Dread, past of mortal motives; Blind, faceless and presistent, aiming to break her renewed vigor to do battle. Urging her to fall on her knees; Demanding to silence the foul weapon held...

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

All restraint and reasoning had been washed away from Roshia's mind, unleashing all that she had upon Eosfor. Pouring the powers of the dark side behind her strikes, she became more formidable than she had been on the field of Karideph. Restrained only by the tight hallway beyond the blastdoors, which was a disadvantage to her usage of form IV. Though, it did not make her any less of a threat against the Dark Lord.

Roshia no longer cared, she finally understand the gravity of her situation. There was no escape, not even in death, there was no mercy from the Dark Lord. She fought as a trapped animal would, uncaring of their safety, only aiming for freedom or death. There was still a slither of hope in her heart to defeat him, slay him as she had wished to do so on Karideph, avenge her fallen peers, revenge against what he had done to her. Kill him, as he had said.

Or die trying.

Her blind rage eventually lead to a mishap, a fatal mistake that had allowed Eosfor to strike at chest with force lightning. Roshia stumbled back and fell onto her knees, coughing and gasping as a burst of pain spread through her and caused her synthetic lung to briefly malfunction from the brief current. The dread and fear she felt was overwhelming, she still held the broken lightsaber hilt in her hand, dark cored blade still alight.

 

[Eosfor]

@Roshia Chamiane​

She was Anger.

She was Wrath.

She was Hate.

There was a burning sensation working its way through him. He could not quite place what it was, though its origins were as clear to him as it was the foul light produced by the burning plasma of the broken lightsaber staff. It was her. She was fire; Blazing enough for the Kahrinarsa to accept her command as her own. Blade screeching, craving the union broken after untold eons, by the sudden strike of Destiny; The undeclared intervention of the Force's own will, manifesting in a moment of might and strength unbefitting a child of the likes of Roshia.

The Dark Lord glared as fate was made real before his very eyes. Her eyes bleeding flame, deprived of all gateways but the Darkness, and yet in Darkness, Roshia ascended. Her strikes true, tormenting the blade resenting of the contest against the very own crystal's spawn. The Dark Lord's hand curled into fist. Lightning sparks still errupted between the fingers, as the machine that formed them struggled against the oppressive power that flowed through it.

His blade roaring. Calling for the demise of the one who bled her fire. Kahrinarsa was angry. Fuelled by now twice the hate and trice the pain of what she once endured, last time she was wielded by hands not of the Dark Lord's. But yet still... Kahrinarsa was whole, then. Now broken. Severed, like an unbreakable bond made null by the ruthlessness of Fate, and the seeds of Defiance.

A burning line shined from the Dark Lord's shoulder, down to his chestpiece. Wiring had fallen off, while the metal armour encasing the remnants of his body bleeding metal made liquid by the touch of the blade's plasma. A wound reminiscent of that which cast down Roshia herself not too long ago.

The Fate of the Master shall be, the Will of the Apprentice...

The Apprentice shall be, what the Master forged...​

The Dark Lord's mind rung with memories that felt as if drawn from another lifetime. He could not make himself strike the final blow, or even deny what he witnessed. Though in doubt, regardless of his intent to break the Jedi, in a moment of realization he yielded, accepting the fact that it was her, who had delivered the blow that he had done so to her. She sealed the pact;

A pact of Blood;

A pact of Pain;

A pact of Darkness;

A Bond made by fire.

The Dark Lord took a step back, glaring down at Roshia as he towered over her, denying her the satisfaction of revealing the pain the burning wound inflicted upon him caused. His blade's edge aimed beneath her chin. Its screeching meant to summon her gaze to him.

"Peace is a Lie"

His deep growl sounded through the mask like a demon's call to a mortal's wickedness.

"You have anger. You have rage. To deny them is to deny what you are. Who; you are. Beg no more. Weep no more. You have fallen. Crashed, against the bottom of the Abyss from which I summon you from. Now..."

He brandished his blade, bringing the edge over Roshia's shoulder. The unstable plasma burning the skin.

"Now, you shall rise a Sith. Embrace it. Embrace the fate of yours written in Stars. And if you do so, what you see as Hell you will recognize for what it is..."

The Only Path to Freedom.​

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

Her cortosis ribcage stung, having just had an electrical current course through it. Roshia hissed through her teeth, breathing through the malfunctioning her artificial lung, fatigue, and the overwhelming feeling of dread that threatened to drown out her mind. Her hands shook, still feeling the dark side flow through her even as she had been felled, fueling each struggling breath she took.

Even when her mind yelled at her to continue fighting, to cling onto the hope of victory, to bring down The Dark Lord once and for all. A larger part of her felt... spent, exhausted all of options, all choices. She could not escape through death, she could not bring him to free her through death or otherwise. There was nothing she could think of that could work, save for finally submitting herself to his will.

The mere thought of it was akin to hot dagger to her heart. She hated it, Roshia wanted to deny it as an option to herself at all, but there was no other path she could take, no path she could create.

She looked up at him, eyes full of fire and hatred, yet it seemed like she was looking past him at some unseen object. No more tears filled her eyes and she begged no longer, not even flinching at her burning skin. It felt numb to her regardless.

Roshia did not speak in response. Instead lowering her head and gaze from Eosfor in a gesture of submission and acceptance.

 

[Eosfor]

@Roshia Chamiane

The air grew thick with the pitch will of the Dark Lord. As her gaze fell, so did the dim light produced by the malfunctioning lamps flicker in the Darkness. The Galaxy lied Shattered, with tendrils of the Dark Side corroding the deeply wounded Stars in a whirl of entropy and torment, dwarfing all other memories of strife before the coming mayhem... Heroes rose, heroes fell... But she, would be neither. Trapped in halls of horror, wrapped by chains of Darkness, she finally embraced the hate that bound her to the Dark Lord's will. The Will of War. The Will of Defiance. The Will of Darkness.

The darkblade of the Sith loomed over the shoulder, the pain caused by the burning no longer having the meaning it once had against the flesh. Suffering would never again be what it used to; Defined by things so foul and despicable, any past memory was erased in a single instant, moulded by dozens of different horrid memories of the hellish life now she was part of...

Faithless...

Nameless...​

Hopeless...​

"You have fallen." the Dark Lord declared. His voice demanding as much as usurping, cherishing the moment as he experienced it. "Banish doubt and Regret. Kill Hope and denounce Death. For you have been with Death. Killed by Regret. You are dead no longer. After the Darkest hour, you shall now Ascend. Chained and bound to the Dark. Through me, you shall embrace your Passion. You shall find your Strength and claim victory through Power of your Will. And then... Then your chains will be broken. Unchained. Unrestrained. The Galaxy, will be yours for the taking..."

His blade moved over her head, looming over her other shoulder. The screeching whispers of malice, burning sensation quick to banish the cold of exhaustion and fear, as if the very blade consumed them, cleansing her;

Or sinking her into Corruption too foul and unfathomable to comperhend....

You have fallen, a Jedi; Blind; Defiant.

Rise, now. A Sith. A Harbringer!​

The blade banished from the hilt, as the Dark Lord took a step back, offering his claw to her. A symbolic gesture, elevating her in body, as his will did so, in Soul...

Reborn. Remade.

My Apprentice... My Will. The Will of Defiance.

Valia Muqai​

 

[Valia Muqai]

The Dark Lord's words to her were meaningless, falling onto the deaf ears of one who had been utterly broken and profoundly defeated. Unable to escape in anyway, losing the identity she had been born into as it was beaten and burnt away as if it were nothing. Eventually, the faint glimmer of hope in her mind, for escape, for a savior, was snuffed once and for all by the dark side she had submitted herself to in her last desperate struggle.

Her breathes came steadily, no longer struggling as she had done so earlier. She remained unflinching as her paled skin was burnt once again by his lightsaber. It was painful, she could feel it, smell the flesh burning, but her mind simply did not care for it then. Still numbed by the gravity of her own defeat.

She looked up at his hand. The very same hand she had spurned away from not too long ago, but no longer. Her bloodied hand reached up, resting on his own. Standing up with his assistance.

It was then that Roshia Chamiane, the Jedi Padawan, had truly died. Valia Muqai rose in her place.

 

[Eosfor]

@Valia Muqai

The Dark Lord followed her ascension with his gaze. Each of her breaths, a lament he could hear sung in the thin fabric of the Force, twisted and corrupt by the crushing presence of the Dark Side welcoming yet another lost soul to her shroud. The fate of Roshia, once killed by her own hand in Karideph, was sealed. She was dead. Her bones warm, and her skin yet to decay, for blood still pumped in the veins of her corpse, now claimed by Valia Muqai. Born of malice. Born of pain. Born of Regret.

His hand gestured down the corridor, which still bore the burning marks from the earlier duel.

"Come, my Apprentice."

His voice commanding. The ill-intent yet to be satisfied, regardless of the torment caused.

It was then, as the Dark Lord's heavy steps led onward, deeper into the maze of corridors, where the echoes of screams returned, as if they had withdrawn back to the hollows of her mind, while her own fate was being determined. Now, they re-emerged, loud as if they originated just behind the very durasteel that enclosed the hall.

Finally, the Dark Lord halted his pace, before a blastdoor that marked the end of the hall. The end of the Path. He turned his hooded gaze to her and extended his hand forth, gesturing towards the door. He did not speak. There was little meaning in spending any more words now. Actions, mattered much more than words...

The screams twisted. A chorus of suffering, piercing through her chest as if becoming ever more real to her, the more the Dark Lord's oppressive presence in the Force withdrew...

Cries of agony...

Cries of pain...

Cries of despair...

Amalgamating in a chorus of Darkness and Fire, burning loudly through her chest, as the weight of the Wound of the Force caught up to her...