Consolidation Litanies of the Dark Side: Heralds of Ruin

[Eosfor]

The burned hacks on his armour bled electricity, as the torn cybernetic intestines cried out leaking energy from its already stressed systems beneath. The wounds, though, regardless of the pain caused, the mindless fury far too overwhelming to allow the Dark Lord acknowledgement of the damage suffered. And yet, regardless the many wounds delivered, the Dark Lord couldn't bring himself to slay the Jedi, for her determination had marked him as deep as the wounds her lightsaber did. Her skill was no rarity. Yet, her valor, was...

"You are a flame, young one."

The twisted growl of the Dark Lord sounded with a mechanical undertone, disturbed by the malfunctioning voice chip, due to a mark by Roshia's lightsaber in the upper throat of the Dark Lord.

"The Dark Side consumes you. Kills the air around you..."

As his almost repetitive choreography of motions, maintaining his defensive stance, continued, he searched for an opening in her strikes. A fault of fatigue, or exhaustion, that would allow him to reach out and twist the Force around her to squeeze her trachea shut.

"Fire cannot live without air... It will be swallowed in the dark, until only embers remain..."

His unstable blade suddenly bursted in action. His once defensive Makashi stance rapidly changing, as the Dark Lord finally went to the offensive. The trial was over.

One after the other, the successive strikes descended upon the Jedi, roaring in wrath and plasma. He would now see the Jedi fall. He would see the fire starved... into submission.

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

There were moments where Roshia thought she had come so close to victory, the few times she'd managed to pierce his body with lightsaber, or the one strike against his throat that ruined the breathing apparatus attached to his mask, so infuriatingly close, a few inches closer and she would have taken his head from his shoulders.

His words fell on deaf ears, she did not acknowledge them or respond to them, remaining solely focused on their duel. Unwavering focus even through her body's escalating fatigue. When the Dark Lord finally switched to more offensive, hard hitting attacks, Roshia was forced to move fully defensively, becoming focused on keeping herself defended from the barrage of attacks.

Eventually, she faltered.

One powerful downward strike broken through Roshia's attempted block. She instinctively moved back, but had been too sluggish to completely dodge the attack. It left a deep laceration from her left shoulder slanting down to the right side of her upper torso. A severe wound, had she been any closer, it would have sliced her in half and killed her instantly.

Roshia stumbled back away from him, dropping the lightsaber she held on her left hand. All she felt was searing pain and a coldness washing over her body. She did not dare look down to see the extent of her wound, her gaze was on the lightsaber she had dropped. Roshia stumbled on her, yet refused to fall on her knees even as she slowly lost all of her strength and still gripped her shoto-lightsaber tightly, even if she knew it was the end.

She looked up at the Dark Lord, the fight and valor in her eyes still apparent even as her lips paled and vision blurred. Roshia could continue her futile attempts at fighting, or wait for him to land the killing blow. She did not want to give him that satisfaction, she could not defeat him or his army, he had won the battle on Kerideph, and slaughtered hundreds of her fellow jedi.

But, there was one thing she could deny him of.

Roshia raised her shoto-lightsaber and plunged the blue glowing blade into her body and tore it out soon after. Lips curling into one last smirk at him, as she landed the final blow on herself.

At least, that is what Roshia thought as she finally collapsed back on the ground, gazing up at the grayed skies as she teethered on the edge of consciousness.

 

[Eosfor]

The Dark Lord's mask had cracked open, with the lower parts covering what should have been the space of his jaw fallen off, the edges still fiery by the bite of the lightsaber. Thin tubes and cables hanged like foul beards, spilling out like intestines from where the jawline should have been. Sparks of electricity blazed momentarily in the hollows of the Dark Lord's cybernetic trachea, revealing he extend of the augmentations and life support's latching upon the rotting corpse that refused to pass into Chaos...

His thirsting blade blazing still, unstable, screeching in satisfaction after claiming her poud of flesh. Blood drops marked the ground. The Dark Lord approached, silencing his saberstaff, as his claw reached out to the Jedi.

"There is no peace, for the Wicked..." his voice now a cacophony of desynchronized mechanical noises, as the damaged system refused to cooperate after the lightsaber's hack. And yet, like poison in a milk's pot, his voice washed the Jedi with a freezing sensation.

He did not act, as the Jedi disemboweled herself, in a final act of defiance against his will. An image that struck more pain to the Dark Lord than the physical strikes received by the Jedi's saber. She had power. She had will. And she gave it all away... Away to embrace Death. And yet... He had plans for her still.

"There is no Death, after the End... Only Madness.... Only Regret."

Beep... Beep... Beep...

The console's sound barely covered the chorus of malfunctioning oxygen release tanks and sparking cables hanging from the maze of the chamber's ceilings. Dim white light illuminated the bay, originating from the blinding surgical tables that dripped of gore and discarded organs. The pulp splatching of the boots hinted to the age of the stale black substance on the deck, source of the abominable stench that burned the nostrils.

Cries of pain occasionally shook the foul laboratory, as victims of the bleak cybernetic engineering performed regained their conciousness. Specimens deprived of any painkillers or paralysis drugs to reduce the horrific sensation of the fusing machine with the bleeding flesh. There could be none such, for the Sith masters of the nightmarish ship revelled to the pain caused. The maddened scientists who operated these nightmarish laboratories? They had long forgotten what pain truly was...

As oxygen invaded her lungs by the flexible tubes dressed in metal that ran into her mouth, the latching flesh protested to the Cortosis elements planted into her, embracing the bone beneath recklessly stretched muscle tissue, before the wounds were stitched by the arachnid droids, auxiliaries to the wicked specialists performing the operations.

"There is no Death, after the End..."

The Dark Lord's voice reverberated in the thin fabric of the Force, torn by the oppressive darkness that birthed within the durasteel halls of the damned warship.

 

[Roshia Chamiane]

When she closed her eyes as she succumbed to death, Roshia never expected to open them again. Yet, she did. All she could see were the hanging cables of the durasteel ceiling. The sound of the beeping console filled her ears, it was steadily increasing in pace. She was utterly confused and disoriented, her vision still fuzzy.

It was not long before she was spurred into full alertness as she felt herself wrack with the most horrid pain she had ever felt in her life. Incomparable to even the slash and stabbing. She could not raise her head to see what was exactly being done, but her eyes could observe the moving hands and mechanical limbs working on her. Burnt flesh and bone being cut away, insides being moved around, Roshia felt it all.

She could not breathe. At least, that's what it felt like with a metal lined tube down her windpipe, and she could feel lungs rise and fall at a steady pace, just not by her control. Her throat hurt, extremely so, and she choked as if asphyxiating from the harsh, foreign object forced down her windpipe in a vain attempt to try and remove it.

She thrashed against her restraints, her fingers digging against the metal table she rested on, wrists bruising from her attempts. She could not scream at them to stop. There was nothing she could do as pain overwhelmed her.

Fear and desperation filled every fiber of her being, wordlessly begging her captives to stop in her futile attempts to speak, tears flowing down from her eyes. Sobbing, pleading, and struggling.

Eventually, her fear, desperation, was joined by *rage*.

It was by pure instinct in an attempt to stop the unbridled suffering being inflicted on her rather than a calculated move. One of the specialists working on her was thrown back across the room and slammed hard against the nearest wall or immovable object to stop their momentum. The others were at risk of the same fate or worse if they didn't act in time.