Private A Whisper of Tomorrow

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Vivacity expressed throughout countless shades; each beckoning the watcher nearer, deeper into the seas of its dreamscape. The depths appeared to stretch into eternity, with only the faint strokes of a brush guiding the path. . . there was naught more than the shapes that slowly brought forth an end to the oblivion–a light waiting to be witnessed. Each detail added was another word written into the tale, as it gradually unfolded before her hazy eyes. . . Symphonies composed of flowers filled her sight as Isobel sought to bring them forth on the grand canvas before her: the white lilacs depicted through a series of dotted stems, and the faint blue outline of another flower in the far distance.

Each petal shaped its own story, connected to a person, to the future or even deeds within history. . . Their shape and colour oft-gave away its importance, its primary meaning to her, but one must look further than the surface to uncover the Force’s cryptic foretelling. Too often had the dreams eluded her, been cast aside by time and its blades–war and chaos. Too often had their meanings become yet another passing thought, a dandelion on the wind, floating past her in search for a place to root.

Her brush shifted over the canvas, gently applying its coloured bristles to the sheet as the image blossomed into an artwork. There was only the soft lullaby of the wind carrying through open doors, the gentle caress of the sun upon her face through the narrow window-frame and the song of the Force echoing in her mind akin to a never-ending melody.

Time had ceased to exist as she painted within the Zardossan palace, had it been hours since she had begun or mere minutes–no doubt the former, from the looks of the composition. She could hardly recall waking up and getting dressed, the only thing on her mind being this strange sensation that shackled her to the same picture, the same scene that replayed over and over again, with only one detail exposed each time. Bel questioned whether the planet’s living force was resonating with her being, tying her to this place and its peculiar thought. . .

A foolish notion.

It must be something else; Isobel had no desire to return to the Academy, to be haunted by feelings of anger once more, to be forced to hurt those she wished not to–be it physically or verbally. And in spite of the bacta sealing her wounds, she could still feel the hurt taint her within, its poison spilling into her veins, and fear blighting the well of courage she might have built.

Her brush ran over the canvas again, fixating on the centerpiece of it all; twin figures of sorts, with faces never drawn within her dreamscape. A blur that mesmerised her, drawing her back to meditation, to the sealed vault that entrapped these mysteries. Gentle waves of silver found its way onto the piece, as pale and hypnotising as moonlight. But amid it all lay a core, a heart concealed from the greater galaxy, sheltered by fabric bearing the Lotus’ gradient.

Life. Ashla’s light burning even in the darkest corners of the galaxy. . .

With a contented sigh, the dreamy omen parted ways with her being, and she was left with a canvas consisting of many elements. . . Too many. White lilacs, a blue flower, a lotus-esque fabric, a figure obscured by silvery waves. Her head pounded at the sight of it all.

Isobel stepped away from the easel, and tossed aside her brushes, her wrist ached from all the exercise, but it could be ignored–until one of the servants would inevitably fuss over it. But they had all vanished this day, and it had never been or felt this quiet before–or had her visions devoured so much of her attention that all else had faded into the background? She wished not to find out. . .

Instead, her fingers wrapped around her chalice, bringing the rim to her lips as she carefully observed the fruits of her labour. . . determined to bring some sense to its existence.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

For months the Core had become a cage, a sprawl of bureaucracy that felt increasingly like ash against the tongue. Strange it was, to think that Lysander found he had little patience for the machinations of the Covenant lately.. when the true weight of the Force began lulling him elsewhere.. beyond the veil of duty, toward the sweltering humidity deep within the Tapani sector. The scent of blooming night-shade, pressing against his skin like a heated palm. It was a ruinous indulgence, perhaps; the high lords would call it an abandonment of the station, but to Lysander, it was.. a pilgrimage.

He moved through the shadowed architecture of the wilder-lands, the Dark Side here not a cold void.. but a fever dream. The visions had begun to bleed into the waking world.. mythic, fractured glimpses of empires falling to ruin and stars weeping in the dark.. and they no longer carried the sharpness of a blade, but the weight of something more. Something beyond the battlefield he'd come to intimately know so well. And so in the stillness of the planet’s golden hour, he found himself watching her. To Lysander, this Mystic was the.. chain in his roiling sea of foresight; her vivacity was a flare in his obsidian sky, casting long, desperate silhouettes against the stone.

Obligations to the Council might have been forsaken, as though they might gather dust as he dared to linger more in her orbit. Mayhaps there was an intimacy in the neglect, a quiet treason committed in the name of something older than the Sith code. Maybe this was a lie he told to himself, for a time.. he did not care that he was losing his way. As the planet’s sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the landscape in a bruised, violet light, Lysander felt the hum of destiny shifting. In the warmth of Zardossa Stix, with the scent of her nearby and the future screaming its beautiful prophecies into his mind, Lysander wanted to acknowledge that he understood what it meant to be found.

Solitude within these spire walls had become a sanctuary for contemplation. Fresh from the bruising exhaustion of the secluded training grounds, muscles still singing with a residual hum, a sharpness remained in every movement. Despite the many uncertainties, it was important one remembered that constant vigilance was the only currency of a Sith.. who was to say when the Core might ignite with the fires of war.
But curiosity.. an ancient, dangerous hunger.. drew him toward the studio.

Beyond the threshold, movement caught the eye. A sudden clatter of bristles hitting stone broke the stillness as brushes were cast into the void of the floor. Watching that impulsive display of frustration, a darker part of the soul felt a strange affection; a foolish, romantic spark would have been content simply to stand in the shadows and watch the light catch those maple eyes forever.

Low murmurs drifted from the hallway.. servants gossiping about the peculiar nature of the mistress.. specifically the way a glass of wine was drained with more desperation than grace. Their voices faded into the ether as they retreated.. sensing perhaps that this space no longer belonged to them, for the Prince of the Core had arrived..

Phantom like steps carried a Dark presence forward, betraying the lethal nature of a Sith Knight.. with the delicacy of a drifting leaf. How many times has this dance been repeated? The approach felt like a recurring dream.. Yet every heartbeat accelerating in the chest made it seem like the very first time. Sunlight sliced across the floor in sharp.. golden slats, and stepped through those patches of illumination. The destination was known.. Isobel’s Light. And only the slightest exhale signaled his arrival. Arms encircled her waist until the only world might be the shared heat of their skin. A youthful visage tucked into the slope of her neck, a nose grazing the texture of a cheek, followed by the soft brush of lips that tasted and refused to leave. Fingers tightened with a possessive and playful squeeze.. Before surrendering, the hold loosened just enough to allow a stray in focus. Or so he thought.. focusing when her beauty was nearby proved challenging most days. Stepping aside, a gaze finally fell upon the canvas, studying the chaotic symphony of lilies and silver waves, demanding to know the secrets hidden within the paint..

There was a scrape of wood against stone as he stooped to retrieve one of the discarded brushes from the floor. Then another. And another.. "You're impossible," the words spread in a gradual bloom. Once gathering them all into one hand, he let out a softer breath. "I disappear for an hour and you've apparently decided to recreate an entire mythology." The jest faded as his focus wandered across the art itself. "Do they ever get quieter? The visions.. or is it always like this? Like something standing hiding a door, refusing to tell you its name?" Only then did he look at her, and the expression he wore was gentler than usual, relief woven through tired, twin emerlds. "I missed you.“ Which admittedly, was a ridiculous thing to say considering he was gone for all of an hour. Maybe two.. "Still.. turns out I've become rather accustomed to you being around." Even the pause was too fragile to shift the mood. "What does it feel like? Not what it means. What does it.. feel like when you look at it?"

 

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Warmth blossomed from a truth beyond their grasp, a scenario not yet enacted on the grand theatre of the galaxy. . . Its elements--luscious fabrics, vivid symbolisms and general ambience--casting a gentle light upon her heart, blessing her with a newfound comfort. One long cast aside by the wheels of time. It almost resonated with the melodies of a home, a familiarity she had long sought out, only to feel the abyss set in again. The artwork was a cooling balm against a stinging wound, temporarily making her forget the pain it had poisoned her with.

The array of flowers upon the canvas kept her entranced, each of them held a similar meaning, though what they might allude to precisely lay beyond her. Innocence, rebirth, mystery. . . The Force adored a challenge, a riddle to keep her mind in constant motion, akin to the seasons of a planet, ever-shifting. She knew the puzzle pieces, but how to arrange them in a coherent tale. . . And how it connected him to her dream lay in a dense shroud of oblivion. The chalice was empty before the realisation had truly landed within her mind, the last drop of blossom wine swirling around in the metal cup as her eyes trailed its path.

Its pale yellow nigh on appeared to match with her own dress; Zardossa Stix possessed a warmer climate, different from a Naboo--or even Ukatis--it was dryer and its people adapted to it. Lighter fabrics that danced at the gentles breezes, jewellery to show the merchants' opulence, who now thrived compared to the. . . nobility within the sector. And styles that cast the heat from their skin, rather than keep it entrapped between body and fabric. Isobel herself had been given a light-weight gown in the shades of dawn, embroidered with numerous moon-flowers upon its bodice, its airy fabric and cut leaving her feeling more exposed than she dared admit to the servants.

The cup had barely grazed the surface of the table when two familiar arms closed around her waist, and she was pulled back into the hard line of Lysander's chest. A warm breath trailed the nape of her neck before drawing to her cheek--her heart pounded so loudly, she questioned whether it had begun to thunder outside. All thought of the painting, of the visions, had ceased to exist. This felt like home, a comfort that needed no explanation for it felt right the way it was. A flower rooting in soil without a hand to plant it there.

A breathless murmur of his name slipped from her lips as his arms ended their vigil, seeking to put some order into the chaos she had created. "I am impossible?" A bemused noise left her without caution, as she tilted her head toward him in tease. "Bold words from the man who nearly gave his guest a deadly fright," For but a glimpse, her eyes trailed the line of his back as he gathered the brushes, as though still needing proof that he was truly with her. It surprised Bel still that he had kept true to his word, and that its simple truth had begun to affect her in a countless ways.

"An hour stretches into eternity when we are apart, Lys." Her fingers sought out his arm, tugging him back to his full height. "As if time itself seeks to punish me for your absence." Her voice was gentler, softer, as if carrying a fragile message--a weakness that must not carry on the wind.

Part of her longed to know whether all her dreams were visions, whether they were the only truth to exist, but of late, they revolved around him. . . More often than she dared to admit, fleeting indulgences she had only read about in foolish tales; follies that mustn't come to fruition for the sake of her sanity. Courtship was the only truth the Lady Serraris had known, but even so, it had only ever been limited to dances and. . . now her heart thundered so loudly she could hardly think! Let alone control her deeds, for her eyes had settled upon his lips. CONTROL YOURSELF! The thought rampaged through her mind, dragging her back into reality as she fixed her gaze solely on the canvas.

Her fingers squeezed around his arm, a frantic plea to ground herself amid the turbulence. "My... visions have become worse, very-- vivid, very... strange. And your dreams?" The thoughtless blabbering--and foolish query--drowned out the war fought within her thoughtscape, a robust remedy for the rising pestilence that tugged at the threads of her being.

Deep breaths, keep breathing. . .

His question echoed in the back of her mind, extinguishing the first set of flames as serenity gradually returned to her soul. What feeling did the painting evoke within her? Not its meaning transcribed in symbolism, not the purpose of each brushstroke. . . What did it feel like? Isobel's grip on his arm faltered as her eyes danced over the artwork once more. "Peace." Was the only thing she could say. "The end of one tale, and the beginning of another."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Low and melodic laughter escaped the Sith. Sunlight catches the dust motes dancing between the two. Only Bel could make Zardossa Stix feel like a kingdom of gold. With fingers having made contact with the brushes, they then found a wandering path across her wrist.. a smear of paint marring her skin. Foolishness flowed through the veins. And why not? Why could they not just ignore all the galaxy's problems for a day?

"Aye, impossible indeed, but at least.. you are imaginary." And Lysander wanted it that way, with how teasing whispers belong to the tongue, this dance.. this back and forth. "Then time is cruel to us both," words escaped like another prayer before the altar of Light.

Soft exhales of her voice dance upon the air, music far sweeter than clashing blades or screams of the battlefield. Bel's confessions were a cadence he could drink in for an eternity. A gentle touch ignited a warm riot. Strange how combat was a child’s game here.. restraining the hunger to pull her into the deepest reaches of his own soul? That crusade was the most challenging. For a moment, memories of Ilum conjured behind closed lids. Ashla’s pure grace guided him here.. though his blood hummed with the song of Bogan, beckoning toward ruin. Should the Fates decide to weave a tragedy from this heresy, then let the tapestry at least be beautiful..

Gazing down into the depths her, there was a tempest churning beneath the veil.. a dragon's hunger to pull more secrets from her mind.. to map these visions. But curiosity could never become a shackle; if she wished to unveil her truths.. then they should be gifts offered on the Nabooan's own time..

"I confess, my dreams are not always so pleasant. Most nights, the visions are nothing but iron and blood. It is an endless fighting, a never ending cycle not only against our foes beyond the Core, but soon against the brothers within our Order." Be it from ambition, or because they'd lost their own way, one was never certain. "And yet.. far in the distance, I detect a Light. It is a soft.. one that draws me near, one I am.. perhaps, terrified of wanting."

Then she spoke the word itself.. peace. Darker mandates, all that he'd known for years, preached only conflict. To many of the Dark arts.. this was a glass pond reflecting nothing; to him, in her presence it arrived a sanctuary of light that briefly scrubbed the char from a soul.. one mapped by constant catastrophe. Within that cathedral.. logic whispered to Lysander, that such.. tranquility was a grand deception.

Tracing the curvature of the canvas, his gaze slid from the myriad of colors to the elegant profile of the woman before him. Another smile breathed itself awake. The mirth, momentarily, might've been deception too.. clearly a droid kissed by lightning, his mind whirring erratically. Were she naught but an illusion, a beautiful mirage conjured to soothe a dying man? If her serenity were truly a lie, then let it be his salvation; let her touch be the alchemy which.. purifies.

With palms anchoring him, how could he not rise into devotion? "Tell me.. what changes in you when I’m gone?” The inquiry drifted between them. “Is it fear? Loneliness? Or something you don’t yet have a name for?" Lysander’s tone surrendered a few decibels. “I don’t know how to be the kind of man someone waits for.”

A slow and wicked curve suggested that this entire performance had been nothing more than theater. Beneath that gaze, his mouth tilted. "Maybe I'm just a sucker for you," bled the whisper, fingers twining deeply into dark silk at the nape of her neck, reeling down until their breaths vanished into one another, lips molding against the softness of hers.

 

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

How can one stay afloat when the tides shift ever higher, when the waves beckon her into its endless depths, devouring her body and soul with each second passed? When the symphony of Sirens bewitched the woman's core, when all actions, all deeds had morphed into a haze. A blur that drew her ever nearer to the Light, to the mend of this rift within her, to the answer to the endless number of queries that tainted her psyche daily. Must one resist the allure? Must one give in? The threads of her heart were pulled back and forth, unable to decide for it had already happened without her outright say.

Murmurs of the past echoed through the forgotten halls of her mindscape; delighted squeals of noble ladies as they had been rewarded with a kiss by her oh-so-vexing brothers, followed by the snickering of Sebastian and Florian as they rejoiced in their petty triumphs. Their tales had often found their way to the Serraris dinner table, where they had proclaimed all manner of theories on what ladies truly desired, whilst Isobel feigned not to care. They spoke of challenges. Of how a man was not thrilled by a lady who simply gave in. . .

And yet, how was she meant to enact a challenge when Lysander gazed upon her so? When his thumb traced her skin with a reverence that shattered every fabricated defense in her mind, as her resistance scattered like petals on the wind. . .

Her gaze strayed from his pulchritude, settling upon the swatch of silver, red and blue upon her wrist. The shades were a stark difference upon her sun-kissed complexion, so unlike the soft florals and golden hues she so often favoured. And yet, she did not find the contrast displeasing. Quite the contrasry. . . Naught more than ink upon paper, its message remained unwritten, its meaning undefined. Balance was not found with two of the same pieces, it was the harmony--the reward--of combining two fragments that were better destined to be one.

The notion of fighting, of pursuing those who have strayed from the Order rested uneasily upon her heart, the choice was theirs to make, but she wished not for him to keep plunging himself into harm's way. Distance narrowed between them, as her warmth became a constant against his being. "Then break the cycle. . . One cannot live if all they face is death. I wish not for you to become a fading memory, not even in dreams." A gentle, loving whisper grazed his skin as her brown eyes refused to look away from the hypnotising emerald.

How she had longed to map out every last detail of his face, to savour it even in the blur of her visions; his dazzling eyes, the gentle curve of his lips that oh-so-often rested in a smirk, the scar upon his cheekbone. . . The silvery mane that shone like gold in the sun's final moments. "You do not know how good the Light looks upon you," A fragile murmur uttered without a particle of thought. "So do not fear it..."

The sea did not relinquish its endless assault upon her senses, for with each word spoken in her presence, the waves climbed higher and higher. . . She could not breathe, could not control herself, could not cling to the shore when the depths had lured her with its song. And thus, Bel's chains snapped, unable to maintain the frail promises of defiance--of an opposition that was not hers to begin with, that nigh on did not exist!

Time permitted him no answer, for he had single-handedly stolen her breath. Her lungs felt shallow as his lips brushed against hers, her head grew heavier until her body and mind felt like two parting entities. She did not know how to act. No man had ever granted her this, no man had ever. . . dared to do this--Her soft lips hesitantly followed his rhythm, clumsily, unable to anticipate what he would do next as she maintained it for but a few fleeting seconds. Parting only to uncover whether there was still air to breathe here, whether some fragment of herself had not yet yielded to his advances. . .

"Why," A breathless whisper danced in the narrow space between them as her mind spiralled.

With all armour expelled, with only the raw emotion to fuel her, Isobel found herself leaning in once more, tentatively brushing her soft lips against his own, trying to mirror his motions whilst her fingers dug into his arm... Her eyes drew shut as she savoured every second of it, feeling the same warmth she had felt on Naboo, the same warmth she had once felt in Ashla's Light. . . Yearning to never part from it again.

A door opened, followed by a single: "Mistress," A formal title she had not grown to love. . . but the voice was easily recognisable; a servant who had made it her sole duty to listen to Isobel's every word--even if such devotion meant this woman fuelled the storm of gossip swirling around the palace. In fright, her nose bumped against his as her head tilted away, earning a grunt, before the darkness overwhelmed her once more.

The distance between them swelled, as she retreated to the other side of the studio, unable to look upon her failure. . .

A loudened gasp left the Wroonian as she gazed between the pair, offering a hasty curtsy, while dropping a wrapped item on the cabinet before murmuring: "My Prince. . ." And scurrying off like frightened prey.

Silence consumed the chambers, for each word felt more akin to the plague than a remedy. What must one say in light of their deeds? What could be said about what she had just done. Heavy breaths eased her body, as her stained hand grabbed a portion of her skirt, clutching it so tight, one might wonder if her hand didn't cramp. She needed to do something, anything that would draw her mind away from whatever madness consumed her.

In time, the Force guided the freshly painted canvas aside and placed a new canvas upon the easel beside him. "Painting puts my mind at ease,,, I- I... use a brush, think not about the colour, about what you must do. You only act." As much an instruction for herself as it was for him, she grabbed a smaller scroll and began to dot out some ink, absent-mindedly putting a sense of order within the fractured composure of the chambers. Diverting her passions, her confusion, the terrible abundance of this feeling within her onto that little canvas, for she knew not how to bring it into words. Knew not how to answer his question. . .

For what changes in her when he was here? And moreso,

What changes when he was gone?

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris
​

Deep within the hollow of his throat, a hum vibrated.. a melody birthed of years of cold ambition and this sudden, searing ache. Starlight caught in the tangled mesh of his dark internal tempest, shivering at the surrender in her touch. For all his years of training in these arts, a lifetime of mastering himself, he was so easily lulled into a horizon desperately craved. Every instinct screamed of being a Sith, where power is kept and guard, yet this vulnerability.. this blinding Light she carried, stripped away the walls fortified around his soul. Silence stretched, pregnant with the weight of unchosen destinies, broken only by the frayed seam of shared breaths. Twin emeralds burned like a dying sun before lashes shuttered them.

Why? How to answer that the shore was never a safe place for a creature of the storm. The distance closing a second time was anything but theft, but an offering.. A worshipful hunger that contradicted his colder philosophy. Their first was a question; the second for Lysander was a vow. Hands slid upward, palms cupping the curve of the skull, to tilt her head back. The softness, the desire for.. ownership in that moment, terrified him.

Mistress.. a single word fracturing the air between them, sharp enough to draw blood. To hear that skeletal title bestowed upon her by the servant was surely a transgression against the very divinity of her presence. Reverently, the blonde's fingertips traced the phantom warmth on his skin where her nose had collided with his. Was this some cruel, celestial prank to have their intimacy interrupted by the clatter of a palace gossip?

Poetry, riddles, the dizzying structure of so many metaphors.. an opaque veil woven to protect the fragility of his center that none ever bore witness too. Admitting the truth, naked and unadorned, would've been like stepping into a sun that incinerates a soul accustomed to finding residence in the shadows. To speak truly from the heart beckoned a thousand deaths.

Graceful, slow blinking, Lysander adjusted his posture; shoulders dropped, hands clasped behind his back as if to resist against the tides pulling him toward her retreat. "Bel," whispered, the name carrying the weight of a prayer stolen from a temple. The air thinned, ever prophetic, as if the very walls of the studio sensed an ending.. or.. an inevitable beginning. But he wouldn't finish articulating his thoughts then.. cowardice, it seemed, was a habit the stars found endlessly amusing.

Shadows elongated across the studio, lengthened as the intruder vanished. Standing amidst the scent of turpentine and the nervous energy of her retreat.. the stillness was akin to cooling wax. Regret pricked at his conscience.. whispering that the fire he had ignited with a single, impulsive kiss might have been safer left as dying embers..

A complex surge of longing and paralyzing caution made breathing feel choreographed. Fingers brushed his brow, pushing back the moonlit hair that had fallen out of place, a reflex born of a man suddenly realizing he had surrendered his composure to a whim.

"I…" The word tethered itself to his tongue, striving to bridge the chasm Bel had carved between them. But the sentence died in the air as he watched the frantic, beautiful precision with which she applied paint to a canvas. A mirror, mayhaps..

Gentleness dictated his movements, abandoning that of a Prince for the vulnerability of a man simply.. outmatched by his own heart. Rather than attempt to bridge the gap with an intrusion of speech, he chose the sanctity of quietness. The truth was.. she looked ethereal in this focused agitation. How to inhabit the landscape of her own dreams as stars too he could chase, to create a shared horizon? "Bel.. translate the bleakness of my soul into color; paint all I dare not utter.. please."

 

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The whirlwind of thoughts plagued her mind in rapid succession, quandaries daring her to ponder on how she had behaved in recent days, in past hours, with only an impassable haze to obstruct this 'clarity'. His absence was akin to a day without night, a wellspring of light and energy given no chance to rest, no chance to dim, no chance to be escaped--a labyrinth where each path led one further into cecity.

The Moon to her Sun. For the calm, the adoring comfort of his being soothed her psyche when her dreams dared to consume it whole. When Lysander's journeys drew him elsewhere, the endless assault of the visions ensued. There would be no shade, no quiet, no water to temper the inferno. Only the scorching heat and fury of the Sun remained, burning her body until peace might overcome it once more. . .

Though embarrassment kept her in its hold, she gradually stalked closer to him, step after step--as though navigating an active minefield. Her hand remained on her fountain pen, whilst the other clutched the inked notebook--with but an imperceptible move of her finger, the sharp click of the lock shut off the studio for a moment. "Your absence makes the day incomplete. There would only be the scorching sun; nature's fury never ceasing in its assault--my visions to tear my mind asunder." Though confusion tainted them both, the lightest flickers of clarity shone through the mist when near him.

The vellum and pen landed upon the wooden surface of the table, as she fixated on the empty canvas beside him. "The peace I had found in my painting resonates with you. The ease, the righteousness of being near you runs through my veins, I feel it with each heartbeat." To not falter under the weighted admission, she took a brief moment to recentre herself: "It feels true to be beside you, and no word truly matches its worth, its meaning." His soul was not bleak, it sparked life within her that had once been thought impossible, this thundering heart, the blossoming warmth upon her cheeks.

A sharp breath escaped her lungs, whilst the Nabooan took hold of a brush, dipping its painted bristles into a cup of water, before taking hold of his hand, and placing the tool in his palm. Her thumb brushing over his skin once, before reluctantly parting from his. It grounded her to be beside him, as if one might have found the eye of the storm whilst it consumed all around them.

Akin to a shadow, Isobel settled herself behind him, not daring to lay another hand upon him, but her breath grazed against his skin with each word murmured. "You need not think about painting--not think about what you might depict on the canvas." Words of reassurance, attempting to be his guiding light amid the process.

In time, her heart gently slowed, finding a steadier rhythm, as her right hand gestured to the wide array of paints displayed upon the table, layered, and carrying just about every shade one might think of. "Choose a colour, there is no wrong or right. . . It- It merely must call out to you; a mesmerising wine red, an aquamarine blue or whatever else." She awaited his choice, before softly adding. "Painting is akin to dancing or fighting, one must merely find the rhythm that suits them. The rest is history."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Pinned to the spot by her confession, shoulders squared but posture.. softened. Shadows of the sun stretched long across the studio floor and yet the world of Zardossa was lit entirely by proximity of Bel's presence. Thinking back to the hours she had been gone, he realized with a jolt of alarm that his mental landscape had functioned only as a desolate, grey wasteland.. a vacuum of color and sound. Was it inherently pathological, he wondered, to tie one’s sanity so firmly to a single, living soul? But as his gaze traced the line of her throat, the question became less scrutiny and just another very necessary.. surrender.

“Do you not know? You are not just some presence in my day; you are the Light by which I see my own path."

Speaking the truth to her.. simply and plainly.. was as tortuous as dragging a fingernail along stone.. yet wrapping this devotion in the language of the sublime, the celestial and the tragic, was as effortless as drawing breath. Like water to a tongue.. to reach for poetry was to reach for a language pulled straight from the vernacular of his heart.

It was the curse of the hopeless, he then realized. “I suffer when you are gone.. when I am forced to hold the damage of my own thoughts, starving for a mercy you carry in your palms.” The Nabooan's own dialect of the spirit rendered his armor.. obsolete.

Finally, his gaze drifted away, tracing the grain of the table. When his eyes rose to meet hers again, they were flickers of shadow behind the iris. "The attachment you feel, it is the dangerous, Bel.. forbidden nectar that scholars warn us to fear. You see.. peace is a lie, if one is to believe the old creeds, but looking at you now.."

The brush was a whisper against his calloused palm, and the ghost of a thumb sent a shiver down one's spine, a sensation that was dangerously distracting.. and still, that connection would feel more real than the canvas waiting before them. To hear her speak was a melody composed by starlight, one so impossibly fluent. Every nerve ending felt mapped by her nearness. Wanting, primal and aching, rose in the dark.. a shoreline perhaps he had no business haunting. Then, that one word.. again. "Peace is an illusion we sell to the weak, Isobel, though I find myself dangerously close to it... You offer me light, a reprieve from burden.. the part that is tired of the war, tired of the reach for power. But then I remember that comfort is a cage, and the only way to be truly free is to let the hunger consume.”

A soft laugh escaped, breathless, and perplexed. "You tell me to let go of the thought, to just... exist in the movement, but the canvas stares back like a mirror I’m not quite ready to look into. How do you find the shape of a feeling before it even has a name? I’ll try.. I promise I will.. but frankly, the pigment feels like it wants to tell a story entirely different from the one I’m trying to create. It’s all a bit of a.. scramble in my head.”

The pigments of color were like a crushed rainbow. His fingers hovered until they settled on a deep forest green.. a color that pulled at his gut, though he couldn’t quite name why it affected him so..

He dipped his brush, the bristles soft and expectant, and pressed it to the pristine expanse of the canvas. The first stroke was a weeping line that bled into the weave. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to map the horrific smear. A second stroke joined the first, wider and more desperate, attempting to weave a foundation for a field that existed only in the mind’s eye. To an outside observer, it was likely little more than a violent scrawl of sludge..

Lysander could live in eternity with ink and parchment, capable of symphonies and tales, but here, he felt like a child fumbling with some broken instrument. "It looks.. like a disaster, doesn't it?" he murmured softly. Despite the mess, he looked at the canvas again, gaze softening. "I can write a thousand lines about how a leaf catches the light, but this.. this feeling of putting it there yourself? It’s terrifying. Tell me, is it always this clumsy at the start?”

An unbidden urge bubbled up from beneath the surface of thought, though the why remained an ever shrouded enigma. "I’m not trying to capture a memory, exactly," the admission slipped out quietly. "This is more.. a feeling of standing where the light stops reaching the ground, I think?”

 

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

A guiding light; a wisp shepherding the souls toward a treasure she herself could not behold. To be declared a Light, a lantern denying a wanderer their oblivion, , , her heart admittedly pulsed with glee, shadowed only by the vestiges of a lost sorrow. If for but a glimpse his troubles may fade, if serenity may yet be obtained--admitted or no--she would embrace the title and its burdens without a thought spared. To divert Lysander's path from the ruin he preached in her absence, for was that not part of caring about someone? In whatever shape or form. To be beside them, to be their bliss even when all else had dissipated?

Words found no claim upon her tongue, and incomprehensible stammers parted her lips once or twice--a shield shattered by his mere admission, a weakness laid bare for all to observe. The Force thrummed in her presence, a radiance that enchanted her, with a blessing she had scarcely sensed in past moons. Its lustre shaping as her lips softened, the tension dwindling from her visage as a smile conquered her. No different than the innocent glow once brightening that rainy day on Naboo, an affection in her eyes that persisted longer than all of the forces of the galaxy might will it to have.

Akin to twinkling stars upon an endless field of night, she met his gaze with an unspoken devotion, silently observing the moral joust; his every tilt with the fates, with the code once shaping the playing field of his life, with this.... disturbance that was her. A foreign bloom finding root within his garden, invasive mayhaps, but not hostile. "You need not preach the words of the faithful to an unbeliever, Lys. . . Peace is no lie, for had it been, our blades would have crossed, our. . . my heart not beating with this... fervour." Softened confessions danced throughout the studio, filling the ample space between them until it no longer felt that way--Its baroque walls seeming to draw nearer with every word or deed. . .

"There is a person beyond the war, beyond the Sith's doctrines. . . The one who sat with a hopeless girl, had tea, entertained a dance--and a stumble amid her. . . turbulent family's feast." The recollection of memories had kept her comfort when life forced her into solitude, into the absence of all her heart's love and of all the kindness shown amid the gloomiest of days. "He who wished to know me in spite of my Jedi nature, in spite of all the galaxy's strife, Light and Dark. . . There is that part within you, and it is the side of you that draws me ever nearer."

The strands of life that had weaved their path around her being did not falter, refused to abandon their mistresS. For but another page within this novel, all other priorities and troubles vanished under the weight of this ardour. The only melodies to remain within the symphony remained composed by Ashla, and most of all the irises blossoming within the confines of her heart. Hope, unbridled joy and Light. A--temporary--remedy for all her aches.

"Lys. . ." A giggle slipped from her as she shook her head, her curls swaying left and right. "I asked you not to think. How your mind wishes to instruct you should be of no consequence, if the paint--or the Force guides you to a certain path--follow it." A purr neared his ear, as her hand parted from her skirts, rising to veil his eyes with a softness as though she were holding a delicate flower. The tips of her fingers moving ever so slightly against his skin with each breath he drew.

Without sight, one failed to gaze upon a mirror, to be drawn in by their slanted perception of themselves--of who they must become. It. . . might prove more difficult for him, but her ideas were never the easiest to pursue; for where was the fun in the ease of things? May the Sith Knight not be challenged anymore?

A moment slipped by without her notice; "It shall be beautiful either way. So do not fret about it." Pressing her weight upon her toes, she rose a little higher, nearing the nape of his neck before seeking to kiss his cheek from behind. Her gentle lips, quite traitorously, landed upon the sharp line of his jaw instead. .

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Golden tresses framed a gaze glued to the canvas, though focus had long since splintered into a thousand jagged reflections. And of course, it was entirely the Nabooan's fault! How impossible it was to maintain and sense composure when the room tightened around the friction of her breathing.. a silken sigh that seemed to dictate the very pulse of the studio.. and even his own. Agonizing, dry rasps of bristles against linen punctuated the air! And what did it yield? Only a stroke both stagnant and morbid; what a wretched testament to a mind caught in its own decay.

"You call it passion, or fervor, but that’s too small. It feels like a star is collapsing in the hollow of my chest every time you're near. This.. whatever this pull is between us? It’s not just distracting. It’s making it damn near impossible to just.. exist."

Melodic ripples carried through the air, vibrating with warmth against the static of Dark that usually screamed within his skull. Softness was a foreign topography, though his actions amid the Nabooan's presence surely suggested otherwise. Sight blurs at the periphery; the walls of the studio melt, replaced by a ballroom floor and the clumsy, endearing stumble. The phantom weight of her hand in his, the grace of her spirit, remains etched into his palms as if it were a brand.

"That man.." The words emerge raspy, carved from a throat scorched by too many confrontations. "That man was a fiction written by a boy who didn't yet know the reach of death.." It was painful to maintain the chasm then, wires stretched over a bottomless abyss. "Every memory.. the tea, the dance, the way the light caught your eyes while your family burned with their own petty grievances... are relics I stowed away beneath the wreckage of who I had to become. I hunt for that ghost in every meditative trance, desperate to tie that former Jedi to the surface. But the galaxy is cruel, and the doctrine I serve.. it demands a toll that consumes the person you’re looking for piece by piece."

A heavy sigh left him. "I try to be that anchor for you..I promise you, I fight to be.. but the man who danced at that feast? Somewhere between Deservro and the Tapani sector, no.. for so many, including the masters I serve, that version of me is dead. Burnt away.."

Pressure against the jawline shattered the reverie. Tremors raced down the spine as those lips moved with a.. disarming, honeyed design. Breath hitched, the brush nearly slipping from fingers.. a secondary concern to the sudden pull of her proximity. A free hand roamed upward, fingers splaying into labyrinth of darker locks, palm molding firmly against the nape.. to cradle her closer, and the unraveling reality to her warmth. Turning was a languid, agonizing negotiation of muscle. A nose nudged the hollow beneath the Mystic's ear, grazing skin with unhurried friction that ignited an ancient and famished craving.. to reclaim the moment stolen by palace's servants. “Isobel..” Her name left him in a hush. “You ask me not to think,” murmured low, by force of habit. “And yet you touch me like this and expect thought to abandon me willingly? You underestimate the chaos you summon.”

 

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

The aegis of rationality toiled under the repeated assault invoked by his being; each unsteady breath within his proximity driving the grooves deeper into the metal. Absolute collapse was imminent. . . A shadow that awaited the opportune time to strike an unsuspecting foe. Thoughts begged for her to return to the instruction, to shy away behind the walls of her keep, and yet he lured her away from her haven--and resistance apppeared nigh on futile, a strategy she did not long to deploy even if it was wisest.

The confession lingered restlessly within her thoughtscape, to be compared to such suffering, to be the agony he had to endure each time she was near. Part of her longed to withdraw, to spare him the further burden of her company. . . But even the Force was not blind to this turmoil, the pulse of air around him echoed with a want, to not be abandoned in the darkness--abandoned by her, even. . ?

Isobel drew not away from his being, her fingers gradually slipping away from his eyes as their conversation drew away from the sway of bristles upon the canvas.

Was that part of him lost? Truly lost?

"That man," her voice refused to louden (or sharpen) for him, maintaining its quietude: "That man stands before me still, an echo of who I have come to care for. Whose presence is a constant I yearn for within my life; unable to be persuaded to leave at the hands of petty whispers." Momentarily, Bel shook her head, thoughts retreating to the scandals forged by the maids within the palace; rumours trailing the young lady amid her stay here, declaring her to be a witch, a seductress or even a mistress--in the rarest instance. "Libels declaring ulterior intent, beyond my. . . profound captivation with you."

Her eyes trailed the scant strokes of paint upon the canvas, a realisation running through her mind akin to how lightning may strike a tree. And though he sought to try and indulge her teachings. . . It read more like a lost cause, not the right key to his heart, to. . . repose.

"Lys, who has declared that I am the very same person I was months ago? That not a thing has altered my life or my being?" The query lingered against the fabric of his wear, no more than a light pressure upon his skin. "I do not ask of you to become a copy of some version of yourself already lost to time. Merely… if-- or when this part of you reappears, you do not resist it. Nurse it, as one might a flower."

The warm breath upon her neck felt akin to a sword, a blade that made the crimson of her heart pour out --the frail defenses falter. There was no servant to intrude, no query to be asked, and she sought to sate the feeling, to memorise it so that the darkest of nights may yet be lit up by the... indescribable feeling that overwhelmed her senses.

"Does thought still guide your hand now?" A softened grunt slipped past her lips as his hand sought purchase in her bountiful curls. "Has all reason not been dispelled from your mind like my own?" Resistance eluded her, for her heart longed to be curious, to explore more of these. . . strange feelings blossoming within her chest, what they meant. . . what made them act so vividly.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she surrendered to his deeds, to the words he whispered so tantalisingly. Each murmur, each acheingly sweet admission! It was a hymn that she could not bring herself to silence, listening endlessly to the choir of her own downfall. ". . . then I wish to know what chaos I summon,"

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

Paint flecks were scattered at their feet like fallen stars; Bels last words curled through his bloodstream, an invitation.. to bring havoc he'd never dared unleash. Tremors seized digits that'd only known the glide of the brush just moments before on canvas as they threaded further into the coils at her nape. Shared breaths drowned out all reason until her scent became the only truth he wished to grasp. Her nearness rewrote the laws of gravity, gravity surrendering it's iron command; he was no longer falling.. only transforming into intoxicating strength. Lips hovered at the junction of throat and jaw, as though savoring the gallop of pulse.. and yet Lysander's voice was hushed, ragged even. Emerald fire sparked in the Sith's gaze, tracing the slope of her cheekbone like a living brushstroke.

An ink drop of a confession.. "Because you make me care," bled past parting lips, a reckless spill of truth, before thought could dare to steal them back in cowardice. Another slow inhale of her fragrance painted a new spectrum inside him, straining all architecture with shades so vivid he had no name for. "When you're happy, I want to be the reason.. need it, the way you need to understand a color before you can use it honestly in your paintings." Her happiness was a color he wanted to learn by heart, to mix until it stained him. Heat pooled in ways it felt like a sin to ignore the lesson hidden in her tutelage. "When you're gone, I always notice.. and that is a dangerous amount of influence for one woman to have." Because she made him want to be know, finally..

A single exhale slipped, fingers abandoned the handle of the brush and wove into the curls at her nape, sliding upward until every strand trembled against a palm more accustomed to battles than caresses. The space between them was treated as sacred ground; though the solitude of the locked door surely granted him every liberty.. Lysander remained a man before an altar. For her.. she was no woman, but a deity descended, and he.. a supplicant, worshipping the Nabooan. Gods and masters alike could not make him kneel so.. for blindness in her Light felt like salvation.. freedom over loss.

Softness collided with softness, and then a sigh of pure capitulation serving as a white flag in the eternal war of his defenses. Brow pressed against brow, the pair whispered in secret languages of skin and breath.. while a thumb traced circular vows along the gentle curve of her neck.. "Let me create the art that lives only in your nearness, and shape it with both my hands." Seamlessly, by an unseen conductor, one arm swept around the small of her back, the other sliding from Bel's hair to the small of her shoulder, steering her until meeting the resistance of a stone wall. Wrists were gathered, lifted, pinning her forearms against the surface above her head. Even then, the touch was easily breakable.. and a final glance sought her permission to begin. "Your Light frees me."

 

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

A surrender to terms veiled by ambiguity, a cession to the heart's downfall or its thrive, for what may yet spin the threads that shall grant her insight in the result of these. . . affections? Her visions had granted her no blessings, no insights beyond moonlit dreams of silvery strands; yet how can one delude themselves into believing this to be the Force's writ? When her heart raged with the strength of an inferno, a might herding her deeper and deeper into this madness. Each touch, each murmur that graced her skin, was another term added to the indictment, proclaiming her doom in a myriad of terms.

The confessions spilling from his lips were holy; a transcendence from what was mortal, what was. . . anticipated--for her thoughtscape lay besieged by a thousand blades, each only strengthening at the hands of her flourishing blur of emotions. Chaos had ravaged through her as she became a silent witness to his want, to the longing that lay between them. A breathless noise that almost sounded like his name was all that could escape from the mind's discord. Eyes pressed shut as though his gaze were lethal, an executioner awaiting its command.

For all the desolation within the galaxy, the pure bliss of their moments upon Zardossa made it all vanish, time and time again; it was his strength. . . or mayhaps the curse which he had tainted her soul with. "You speak as if from a distant dream, as though your being has not wrought joy into my life--one I had begun to deem myself unworthy of." The marks of the Academy clung to her soul, a violent gash that would not mend.

A frail smile danced upon her lips, the roughened feel of his fingers playing around the waterfall of her mane, before his head rested against her as though two fragments complete. The alignment of the Sun and Moon in a total eclipse--the Sun's attention for a moment entirely consumed by the shape of the Moon.

Redness bloomed upon Bel's face as his body molded against hers, driving her against the firmness of the intricate stone--the fabric of her gown sliding against its imperfections as Lysander's hands and arms moved elsewhere. His hands were a shackle upon her arms, guiding them above her head, pure surprise flickered through her gaze as eyes finally opened again. Her breath failed, and her lungs drew empty under his gaze, his word. . .

Her Light, the Light that had forsaken her as though she were a sinner--her Light that had dwindled to the strength of a solitary candle amid the dark.

And yet, it was fervent; hypnotising for it drew him--and her--ever nearer.

Though her voice hummed the terms 'power' and 'victory' in weakened resistance, it faltered as her eyes flitted over his features. . . Sense was but a faltering memory, no recollection of doctrine could tame the wilderness within, the unruliness which he had summoned. "My dreams. . . True dreams have been plagued by you, a--..." Rot? A bloom? "An essence I find myself unable to handle, to draw it nearer--into my unknowing embrace? Or to resist it in spite of my heart's calling?"

A sailor lost at sea, clinging to the remnants of a shipwreck because there was naught else. No shoreline, no stars, no path lit upon the continuous waves. Only the water, awaiting to consume what lingered in its territory. "Please. . . be my clarity. Make sense of what torments me so." A desperate plea, uttered as Isobel sought to lean in, her brow lifting in this. . . blend of anguish and confusion. She needed him to light the path.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Isobel Serraris​

The prophecy was a jagged splinter in the mind, a haunting cadence of ancient whispers that suggested our collision was not random chance, but a preordained unraveling of the galaxy's tapestry. Was it woven by cowards, afraid of the chaos inherent in the living? The lore had been read until ink blend into his own veins. It spoke of the Sun and the Moon, of inevitable eclipses, and here they were.. a young Sith who had tasted the void and a Jedi whose radiance was an affront to the shadows Lysander called home.. a place he'd dwelled alone for years.

Within him, his Darkness.. a cold, roiling chasm with its own hunger.. stirred, urging him to devour this pristine Nabooan blossom until only the sweet fragrant ruin of her spirit remained. In recent weeks, The Prince scoured archives and psalms of the Jedi, and what had he found? Nothing. Not a single line of parchment describes the way Darkness screams whenever it nears the impossible brilliance of her Light. And that within was a hunger bordering on the divine. Lysander feared to truly let that monster out, the echo of his own void, for it would snuff out her flame and more. Yet the way her breath hitched, her pulse against the skin of her throat.. it was but a symphony of submission that made his blood run like molten fire. Hands were shackled to her arms, pinned against the stone, her not just to the wall.. but to the reality of the precipice, they were falling from. The proximity was intoxicating; the heat radiating from Bel was a counter-balance to the unnatural chill of his own aura.

"You speak of dreams, Bel, but you fail to realize that I have been blind to everything but yours for a lifetime." Years were spent years dissecting the currents of the galaxy, tracking threads of destiny in the dark, yet all roads, all omens, led to the agonizing ache of her proximity. The Dark in him spoke to next, "I do not seek to be your clarity. I seek only to be the fire that consumes your doubts."

Leaning in, the distance vanished breaths commingled, an exchange of essence. Lysander tasted the salt of her anticipation on her lips, a deep, a press that scorched all logic from his mind. Emerald stars traced line of her jaw.. a path of conquest.. before his mouth followed the trail, mapping the sensitive, pulsing hollow of her neck. "Does it have to make sense?" he breathed, words fracturing against her skin, only to be cut short by a grazing of teeth against delicate cartlidge of an ear; it ignited dormant brutality.. "Bel, we are meant to burn." He pulled away enough to look at her, searching once more for that dilation of surrender, the blonde's gaze reflecting the intensity of a pyre. "So, stop looking for the shore. Just sink. I'm right here in the deep with you." The shackles shattered like dust. They lingered still, savoring the heat of skin, tracing a reverent pilgrimage from the ivory slope of a shoulder down to the intoxicating arch of a waist. Thumbs dug deep into the dip of a spine, before the touch ascended to palm the porcelain swell, claiming the territory like an iron brand..

 

[Isobel Serraris]

A WHISPER OF TOMORROW​

LOCATION — Zardossa Stix
TAGS — Lysander von Ascania

Darkening skies drew ever nearer, condemning her garden of life to a fate of destruction; distant rumblings of thunder that conducted the song of their union into a crescendo--ruin, an ominous drum that loudened, and swore that no amount of resistance may yet force its path awry. The indictment had been served, and its sentence was a horrid, horrid path, an addictive punishment for this sweet surrender to his being. For how may she not be lured by the allure painted by his voice? How may one resist the Siren's song when it harmonised so sweetly with her psyche?

Repeated pleas with his name crackled in their midst, the flames within his emerald eyes that sparkled only the compliance within the depthless void of hers. The heat charred her skin with each fragment of time spent within his proximity, though her heart acquired a dependence on it--a desire to be burnt, a desire to wade in this spring until her body was all but consumed by its waters. Her nails found her cuticles, pressing firm against the bank of skin there, though no ache could distract from the pure floodwave of sensations he plagued her with. Nor did she truly long for it to fade. . .

Through unruly breaths and tingling lips, she tried to blossom the flowers of surrender; the ivy figuratively curled around his being as the whispers slipping from her lips begged his nearness. "Then I shall traverse the depths with you--roaming the oblivion that has forsaken us both." Her right hand curled into a claw as he ran his teeth along her ear. None of the tales she had read in both youth and her stay here had prepared her for such acts, not once--and yet. . . It was tantalising, a feeling she could not quite abhor. It befuddled her senses more than her first kiss had, made Isobel question whether she knew even a step in this elaborate dance?

The Nabooan's heart raced as though all life depended on it, as though danger may yet consume it if she remained stagnant. While her head tilted in search of his touch, the shackles of his hand upon her arms were gently broken as his touch trailed southward, forcing her body to squirm against the curiosity. Each touch a brand upon her skin, one she cherished--let it scar all of her body if it must, if it would not temper this flame within her.

The claw-like state of her hand faltered as her fingers wove a hesitant path to his shoulder, dancing with the cascade of silvery hair. The waltz of admiration was one only whispered about in the tales, in the legend of great lovers, and she feared taking the wrong step and forcing but another ludicrous stumble--like on Naboo those many moons (if not a year) ago. Though her body practically lay against him, she tried to press herself more firmly against him, wanting to hear the thrum of his heart as her eyes sought a dyad with him.

Words not dreamt about, not thought before, lingered on the tip of her tongue. . . They spoke the truth, the unabashed truth that would land akin to a war hammer colliding with armour. Her teeth grazed her lower lip as her brow tensed in hesitation, before it faded under the dying light of the Zardossan Sun. All that remained was a fragile whisper against the soft swell of his lips. "I am yours, Lysander von Ascania."