Private Death And Rebirth

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

Shadowing the events of Return the Blade. . .

Solitude; A blessing so ordinary, yet so foreign within the life of a seer. For they wandered always among ghosts, seeking answers within the labyrinth of the Force. Accursed with a gift most cherished as precious, it blighted their very body until they were naught more than a husk--serving the wills of the Force, serving destiny and destiny alone.

Canvases were painted before her very eyes as her acheing body lay imprisoned within a tomb of bacta, her wounds grave and rest a need. Though within, time was a haze--had it been days or had it been weeks since the medics placed her here? Or mere hours stretched into eternity?

Each agonising draw of breath resonated sharply with the cruelty of her psyche, the same dream was haunting her in continuous rhythm. A torment as persistent as insects upon flora, a plague, a hunger never sated. . .

The theatre curtains opened to the vision; a mystic stood before her, her eyes hollowed-out and bloodied, her limbs moving akin to a puppet dancing on strings. Surrounding her red spider lilies bloomed across a barren field, their petals marred by blood--the Flower of Death, heralding the cycle of death and rebirth. Each step Isobel took along the path summoned more life from the barren earth. . . nature blossoming where it could not. At the end of the field, a figure appeared. Tall. . . impossibly tall. One arm hung stained with gore, crimson droplets falling from her fingers.

Beneath the silhouette bloomed not reddened petals.

But white spider lilies. . .

When her blood landed upon the white sepals beneath , distortion ran over the scene, and the abyss claimed Bel's eyes.

The darkness unraveled once more, revealing the same barren field, the same lilies, the same towering figure standing at the end of the path. Again. And again. And again. . . Without mercy, without changes. The vision followed the ceaseless cycle of rot and bloom, with not an end in sight.

A ceaseless loop driving her into madness' hands. Her mind scouring its archives; there were not many with this physique, not many so pivotal to be witnessed in her visions.

The Empress of the Core.

It took fifteen repetitions of the same horrid vision for it to register within her foggy mind. Fifteen cycles of blood, lilies, and darkness before the truth settled in. The realisation wrenched her from the trance. Her eyes snapped open within the bacta tank, and her right arm immediately began to bash itself against the transparisteel barrier. The noise echoed through the chamber, acheing to be heard. . .

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Present--aboard the Throneworld.

Thud, thud, thud.

The cane tapped against the firm flooring in unison with the march of the escorting personnel. The medics had ensured the exterior wounds inflicted by The Arkanian were stitched up properly, though the bacta had not been given enough time for it to fully mend her fractured leg. The ache coursed through her body with each motion, weighing her down, instead of fueling her resolve--her strength. An Acolyte's lapse.

The dreamscape clouded her mind, never-ending waves of doubt flooding her senses, sparked by the rising anxiety within. . . To be upon the Empress' spaceship and dare to proclaim a vision as hazy as this one, it was a bold--and dangerous...--move, though Isobel could not have possibly woken from slumber for naught. . . It had to hold a greater meaning, rebirth, death, rebirth. Its purpose was beyond her.

She was untrained, for even during her brief stay on Voss, the Mystics refused to impart her with their wisdom.

For how could a foreigner comprehend the weight of visions?

The guard murmured something as they neared tall doors, though what was uttered was beyond her grasp. Lost to the echoes of her mind. The Mystic had followed blindly, not once daring to gaze upon the intricacies of the interior. That was until the hall was opened to her; a masterpiece of marble, opulence and grandeur overwhelmed her, lighting a spark of longing. . . for the same luxury held on Naboo. The thought was discarded, as she stepped into the hall, her cane preceding her every step.

The Acolyte's presence here had been anticipated, all because of Lysander von Ascania and his wellspring of connections. It did not soothe the nerves still. The tip of her crutch danced an anxious pattern across the marble as she glanced around, each soft tap echoing a little too loudly within the hollow chamber. . .

It eluded her at first, but at the end, a figure identical to her visions was unveiled; tall, terrifying and imposing--"Empress. . ." Bel blurted out, as she sought to bow, as was demanded. Her cane wobbling back and forth, before she clumsily withdrew.

She dared not approach, shifting awkwardly on her feet. Her heart pounding about as loudly as a charging cavalry, and her force presence pulsing erratically. "The Emissary von Ascania," Why did her mind convert to formality? "Must have mentioned visions of some form, I. . . I wished to tell you of one, Empress. . ." Her gaze drew down toward her hands. "If you would permit me."

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[Mercy]

MERCY

EMPRESS | WARLORD | STAR-ARM

Location: THRONEWORLD | Tags: Isobel Serraris​

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Mercy had faired little better than Isobel during the Battle of Humbarine. Half her face had been burned off, her arm had been dislocated and broken in several places. Her back had been rendered into rinced meat. Half her torso burned to a crisp. Her eye gone, half her mouth gone, jaw dislocated, the list of things broken was longer than the list of healthy things.

A certain ghostly woman, Srina Talon , had stayed with her since Humbarine. Fussed over her for night and day, irrespective of her protests that it was unnecessary. Mercy figured that was what it meant to accept someone's care.

Even if you didn't need attention and care, they'd foist it on you and make you grateful for it.

By the time that Isobel was ready enough to waddle her way up to Throneworld and then further into the throne room, Mercy was pretty much back to normal. Her healing factor on a bad day was good enough to keep her going. With the attention of the Blackwall Empress, it had gone by even faster than that.

She had both eyes again and her face was back to normal too. But her body was covered in new scarring, forced onto it by order of Mercy. While her body had wanted to regenerate as new, she would not have it. Every scar, the thick rends on her arms and across her shoulders, had been earned piece by piece.

Even her face had a few new carves to it.

"Empress. . ." Bel blurted out, as she sought to bow, as was demanded. Her cane wobbling back and forth, before she clumsily withdrew.

Mercy glanced back from the viewport towards the new presence in the room. Eyebrow raised at the cane and the awkward demeanor. She send a probe down her mind and it returned a name.

Isobel Serraris.

The Crone had taken interest in her and Lysander was an acquaintance of hers. This was good enough for Mercy to see her.

"The Emissary von Ascania," Why did her mind convert to formality? "Must have mentioned visions of some form, I. . . I wished to tell you of one, Empress. . ." Her gaze drew down toward her hands. "If you would permit me."

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"Visions..." Mercy murmured amused before gesturing for Isobel to join her at the viewport. "What is it with Sith and their visions?" First Efret Farr , all mystical and mysterious. Then the Crone showing up out of nowhere. Eyes burned out and tongue a-waggling in mirth. Now there was another figure who claimed to see things without using her eyes.

"Speak, Isobel Serraris. But I doubt you will be able to tell me anything I don't already know."

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ERASE THE PAST

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

Dreams were shrouded in obscurity, their messages veiled by symbolism, by anomalies that made the mystic wonder. A part within burned with fears of untruths, of whispering the wrong omen in the ear of the Empress, whereas the other had grown certain this was the truth--its place within legend would unravel over time.

One entity would fall and another shall rise in its stead. . .

The studious and assessing stare from the Sith ran over her like a cold wave of seawater. What was it with Sith and this scrutiny? First the Instructor on Pelagon, and now the Empress, as if they anticipated deceit from a lass that did not dare lie about how she felt. Mayhaps it was another one of the intricate rules holding together the Covenant and its hierarchy--it was beyond her to grasp it.

When the figure beckoned her nearer, she wasted no moment, quickening her pace as her injured leg dragged over the intricate flooring.

"What others may dream of is but another note in the grand symphony of the Galaxy, Ma'am." Isobel dared disagree, as her body limped closer to the viewport. For it was the truth; Precognition, however small, blighted each and every one using the Force, be it to save them from immediate harm or to warn them of a shift in the future. To run from it, to spurn it, would not undo their verity.

The Empress was even taller up close, casting her shadow upon the Acolyte as she stopped next to the entity. Her words echoed in her mind like a dare, a challenge to be bested, a way to prove her worth to Mercy--hopefully. And she would rise to the challenge, no matter how much fear coursed through her body, nor how fiercely the agony within her leg sought to drag her down into the abyss. She would not falter.

Isobel's brown eyes landed on the starscape beyond the transparisteel viewport. "A dream of Death and Rebirth haunted me, not yours, not. . . literally." Her stance shifted as she leaned on her cane for balance.

"It began with a Mystic from Voss, red of skin, dangling on a set of strings akin to a puppet. Serving a purpose, an obscured master." Who was it? The Empress? Another? It lay beyond her knowledge. "Around her lies an endless field of death--an environment marred with blood." A breath escaped her lungs, as her gaze drew back toward the Empress and her right arm, her voice softening--begging her to listen. "In the far distance, a figure--You stand at the horizon, drenched in crimson, gazing over an unsullied field."

The cane tapped loudly against the marble, a loud strike after the whispered conclusion. "Fields do not bloom without being cleared first, Empress. . . Though what blossoms thereafter, may very well lie in your hands."

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