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Descent | Mandragora

A P E X
Character
D E S C E N T

Location: Sinner's Well, Ryloth
Interacting With: [member="Katrine Van-Derveld"], [member="Petra Cavataio"], [member="Srina Talon"]
Local Time: 0337

He saw.

He felt.

He cursed the tether upon his soul. Within darkness did the Demon rest, seated upon his gilded throne. The hour was late. The Well was silent. The warmth of his abode had gone away - with her as it always did. Yet, as one eye witnessed the native shadow of his Hall, the other...burned. They were close - Master and Apprentice. So close that thoughts and emotions bled from one to the other. So bound that glimpses yet graced the other's vision.

And this night, the Demon saw the Light.

His hands gripped upon the arms of his seat. Heat erupted in his belly, erupting many times over. His thoughts raced - conclusions tripping over themselves as his sight continued to burn. Questions. So many questions.

The answer? Wrath. Yes. The only path forward. The only way to remedy this newfound problem. To raise the fist and strike down this anathema. Wait. No. To strike...to strike would be to harm her, would it not? What price was he to pay for this? Could he make it secret? No. She would know. He could never keep truth away from her sight.

What then. How could he stop this.

Reason? No. She knew his thoughts. Knew his ways. Knew his heart.

Not force. Not words. What then. Release? Ultimatum? No. Not a price he was willing to pay. Nor a gamble he was willing to lose. A gamble was was likely to lose.

His fist collided with the arm of the seat.

In this, he was less than mortal. He commanded armies. He could conquer Death. But in this, he had no more might than a predator howling at the sky - demanding the rains to cease. It mattered not how large a pack the predator amassed. It mattered not if it were King of the Forest. When nature decided to move, there was nothing the predator will ever be able to do. It was powerless.

So too was the Demon.

What else is there for a predator to do then?

Get out of the rain.

His rise was somber. The fire yet burned within. With arm outstretched, the Darkness bent to his whim. The Hall became a Gate. Like glass, reality shattered before his wrath - emerald cracks formed and fell to shape a swirling abyss. Wails of the beyond filled his ears - the spirits and the damned were eager. His steps were brief and quiet. And once he had breach the abyss, the Gate slammed shut.

His presence was gone from this world, and yet he lived. Here, he could dodge the raindrops. Here, the Demon would do what defined his life. Every defeat...every hurt...every loss...every pain was met with creation. The Demon would only ever suffer defeat from any one thing once - and in this, what beat inside his chest was the enemy. But what could an alchemist create to remedy defeat when the adversary...was himself.

The answer...would require assistance.
 
Heir to the Throne
Character
En route to Stewjon

The demon was roaring, emitting a fire from the very depths of his being. One of his own was in pain and it was causing him to feel, and in return, causing the Nightmother to stir. She'd woken screaming in the comforts of her bed, the pain unbearable as an image had formed in her line of sight. She saw her Uncle, in pain, barely holding on to a chair as if he had been in her own room. Nocte Aranea had been on its way to Stewjon. Katrine hadn't been aware but she'd tossed and turn throughout most of her short sleep as the spirits knew no concept of time. They lived in the now as much as they lived in yesterday and tomorrow. And in her sleep, they had been hours ahead of her, with Doashim aware of what was to come in one of his chosen.

Blood inside her boiled, the traces of ichor coming alive and shutting down her connection to the Force without her willing it. Katrine had always walked between two words but rarely did she part with one to enter another. Now, everything around her began to warp and change, the realm of the spirit washing away the realm of the living. Katrine still sat on her bed as everything shifted but she could no longer feel the presence beside her. Instead, Ceta stood, adorned in white among the darkness. Inside the spirit realm, the space that should have been her room was scorched, reflecting the pain Doashim was reflecting inside her.

The Nightmother moved to her feet, white fabric wrapping her own skin as she walked. "What's happening?" She asked her ancestor, who had died as Witch she had been born as but had ultimately been a chosen of Jart despite her later beliefs. She stayed quiet now, hand raising as she pointed to the doors of her bedroom. They opened at the thought of the spirit and suddenly, the whispers filled the room. The spirits were loud, chatting among themselves, talking, discussing, greedy with the recent development. It only made Katrine move quickly, picking up speed as she moved, passing through the doors before she'd stopped.

She hadn't looked to be sure but the mirage of her bedroom faded once she had entered and suddenly, she couldn't see anything. Except a single pair of red eyes glowing through the darkness. Doashim was present. "Uncle Isley?" Katrine called out through the darkness.

eye.png


[member="Darth Metus"] [member="Petra Cavataio"] [member="Srina Talon"]​
 
A P E X
Character
Remember.

They were not alone.

The Demon. The Nightmother. The Spirits. Though they were together in the boundless sea, they were not all which wandered. They were not the sole occupants nor masters of the realm beyond. Doashim, the stalwart guardian of wrath stood by the inquisitive Witch's side as she was brought deep into their realm. What first awaited her was Darkness...but then there was Scarlet. Like a blood moon rising in the nighttime sky, the black was pierced by red.

A spiral had formed around the Sith Lord. A literal twister of the Dark Side. His wrath. His pain. All had beckoned something he had long since forgotten. So long ago, when there was an Isley Verd and there was a Darth Metus, the two lived at odds. One body, two souls. One body, two purposes. In death, the two became one...but the aims of the former blurred the ambitions of the latter. Though his name was Darth, his life was Verd.

He had forgotten what he had been born to do. Who he had been born to be.

And within this realm of Spirits, the Darkness would remind him.

Thus, when she called out into the Darkness, there was no response. "Uncle Isley" meant nothing to the one who was trapped within the vortex of crimson winds. "Uncle Isley" were words for the pained man who wandered into the realm. Words for the one who had forgotten everything. But it was time that he remembered.

Doashim growled in defiance, urging its charge to move. With every moment, the Sith was slipping. The Spirits' hold on him, waning.
 
Heir to the Throne
Character
Katrine felt the presences. Doashim stood firmly at her side as she had called but it wasn't just Doashim she was aware of or her Uncle. The realm was filled with so much more, crowded, loud. The darkside, the anger, the pain around them were almost palpable. Katrine could almost taste it on her lips the way she did her tears when she cried her eyes out. It wasn't salty though, it was bitter and warm.

In the darkness, something was moving even though it was staying. Even when she had called her Uncle, she felt a multitude in a singular place. Her call resulted in silence.

Doashim growled.

The sound only served for her to see further, sapphire gaze adjusting to the darkness, seeing the moments more intently. Katrine had wanted to call for her Uncle again but Doashim moved from behind her, large arms coming around hers, controlling her limbs as of a puppet as he reached into her mind, melting, joining. Her eyes fluttered closed as the demon shared with her what red eyes saw. As her eyelids opened, they weren't sapphire anymore, the red burned in her irises.

"Metus." The demon spoke through as she saw. The twister, the wrath, the truth. When had she last see the man she knew as a child? Katrine didn't know but with Doashim's sight, she could suddenly see, eyes wide opened.

[member="Darth Metus"]
 
From the dream visit, Petra had marked Metus being as protection until they could make time to lift him up from the mortal realm. It was the same spell that she had used on Optivus Res. He did not need to know the details, but she gave one. It did make finding him easier if he was killed. There were enough bodies to dump a soul in. They were Cavataio bodies, but that was a minor detail. One should always ask about the tiny, fine print to any deal.

The mark on the soul(s) made the unrest noticeable to the witch on Leritor. At a bad time, her focus was a heavy spell. She needed to bless the world that her witches and cult was moving to. Miles under the surface, green and purple ichor was swirling about as the stone dripped like water. Her symbol drawn out to measure about to be almost three meters long and wide. It had been done in her blood. The marks on her arms were still there where she cut, but they were healing. It was just happening slower than normal as she worked on the spell.

The ritual was not going to be stop. Like in the dream, multitasking had to be done. There were two Petras, well the rotten one kept reminding her she was there still. She was just getting used to ignoring the voice. However, rotten one could be useful now. Letting her continue the ritual as Petra could address her son issues. Of course, she sort of wish she had her avatars around. They would have been helpful now. Maybe, just maybe she would bring them back to assist her again.

Wrapped up in the force for the ritual, she knew what she was going to do was going to slow the ritual down. However, she wanted to continue her plans. It meant dealing with Metus. So, like a boss, she kicked the door down. Not really kicked a door off the hinges. She projected herself into the room her boy was sitting in. Purple ichor rolled in across the floor. The waves in all the realms she made was her announcing not only she was there, but the affects she had in the past would happen again in time. Rising up from the ichor, she stood looking at her boy on his throne. The ichor stretched out and remain a couple meters out from her while she walked towards him.

All that came from her was a sharp motherly tone, “Son, get any louder with the noises and the whole galaxy will hear you… not just these spies called spirits and myself.” Yeah, a little jab at the Nightmother using a spirit to see her son. Wanna-be witches in her book, but of course she would be all nice until they stopped being useful for her.


[member="Katrine Van-Derveld"]
[member="Darth Metus"]
[member="Srina Talon"]
 
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