Private Hollow Heights

[Halketh]

SYMBIOTIC
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
DARTH CAELITUS
The Aegis of Woe | Ace | Lightsaber
Donne Toulemonde

ONBOARD 'The Prophet'
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Soon after Nirauan, the Dark Lord had returned to the ever-forward momentum of his conquest, his mobile respite serving as his point for rendezvous with much-needed time to himself despite the presence of his crew and acolytes. It was no brooding fortress high in the mountains of Carlac, nor was it the warmth of a bed familiar with company he craved, but it was serviceable in its merit, and what boon it could offer him all the same. The wounds suffered in New Carannia had seen him thrust himself into the tortured throes of his Darkside mending, and as a result, he had shut himself away in the heart of the mighty vessel, the doors to his meditation chamber sealed with his Perished present at their exterior, holding a watchful vigil to ensure his recovery was undisturbed.

The Mercurial Saint had disregarded and cast aside summons from his peers, his allies, and his devout, forsaking his duties to them to prioritize his health above all else. If his mortal shell failed him and his soul unchained to reunite with the Dark before his conquest was ended, there was no hope for rest and peace. So it was then, the miraluka sat in his runic circle, plunging himself into the ebb and flow of The Force to latch onto the Darkness hungrily, his greedy summons seeing his flesh weld back together at a torturous pace. Despite the wracking pain, the Dark Lord demonstrated no exterior pain, his composure gathered and kept, though his audience was none. The soldiers posted beyond the grand doors, however, twitched and growled, feeling the effects of his fingers plucking at the strings of the unseen.

Orders had been issued with his return to the vessel, the course set for Exegol, he was somewhat eager to return to the shadowy world, and far away from the New Imperial faces he recognized amongst the ranks he slaughtered and raised. He knew fighting them outright would be a gamble, a dangerous one not just due to the sheer power of the Empire, but for his already torqued psyche. He was a man divided in half, one the harbinger of destruction and invoker of nightmare, whilst the other begged from its mental prison to be set free. He longed for peace, the sole drive that unified the two halves, though their means and methods were so vastly different they barely seemed the same at all. Halketh had longed to take Cotan Sar'andor 's hand and find Ezra Dune , righting the horrific wrongs he had done until he would inevitably face the justice he was due. That was his peace.

Caelitus, on the other hand, sought to bring the entire galaxy crumbling down, plunging it into a Darkness the likes of which had never been seen, and rebuilding it brick by brick until it was as he envisioned in his fractured mind palace. Annihilation was the only way, death the only truth, and only by bringing the sentients of the galaxy unto it, could he truly unite them to peace.

Within his statuesque frame, the two halves wrestled with one another, sending ripples of conflict from him in his meditative state, plunging the entire ship under the influence of his creeping dread.

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[Donne Toulemonde]

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Tags: Halketh​

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The slight heel of her leather boots made a terrific click click click as she walked down the corridors that led towards the chamber. Even with the extra weight she carried in her right hand, she made powerful, assertive strides, ever forward; never slowing.

Her silvery hair, cut to shoulder length, moved with her head as she exerted the necessary strength to pull the weight, held inside a large sack of material, burgundy stains made deep on its surface. She dragged heartily, a fixed look on her face as she made her way past various sentries and guard positions, not to be disturbed by any as she carried out her mission.

Her gloved hand gripped tightly onto the leather strap, her fingers clenched onto the cord so that she wouldn't let it fall or drop behind her as she stalked the pathway towards her destination; him.

Her journey to this moment had been an eventful one. A life of servitude in Illyira, what felt like a lifetime of servitude to the Knights Obsidian in Confederate Space, and now this. She had been abandoned by her Master, abandoned by her Order and abandoned by her faith.

It stirred.

It sat, like a torrent, ready to explode and overcome her very essence with an overriding clawing, dragging, and picking and pestering and nipping at her consciousness. It was a rage she had suppressed and quelled for a lifetime, forced into a manner that kept it tight, like a ball in her chest. Words she'd dared to utter, ideas she'd burned and smashed with her iron will. She was filling with a vengeful ire, malice that she could no longer contain.

Her self-imposed exile from the Confederacy made her an interesting target, her understanding of the dark Force that permeated her teachings and learned knowledge a valuable one. The memories she could access, ones not of her own making but of aeons past, made for a handsome prize to any sort that might seek her out.

Beating, harder and faster, stronger each day. Calculating, urging, racing, dragging her down, shooting her forward.

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She had settled for a while in Wild Space, out of the reaches of most. She found time and the patience to meditate on her wants, her visions, her dreams, her ecstasies.

She found she was wanting.

She had seen him coming. He was a shroud, darkness moving through an otherwise calm and translucent utterance of the Force, breaking the waves of energy that flowed around her locale. He didn't announce himself; his machinations were clear from the way he carried hismself. He had come to kill her.

She had lain in wait, springing only when necessary. She often lamented that she could not see the future as clearly as she could the past, but that was a burden to bear.

She struck hard, her saber catching him off his guard, forcing him backwards. His hooded cloak caught on the side, his parries desperate as he retreated from her onslaught.

Attack, attack, attack.

She pushed forward with her energies, trying to force his attention elsewhere, confusing his understanding of the surroundings he found himself in. She pushed onwards, her saber moving deftly against his, sparks of dark energy clashing and snarling and erupting between the two parties.

She used her foot to dislodge him, catching his large cloak underneath and sending him tumbling forward, a shriek of frustration echoing through the room. She spun towards him, her other foot landing solidly on his chest, their eyes meeting.

He looked frightened. He looked angry. He looked annoyed.

She let out a growl and swung her right arm, the saber bursting through his head. She breathed heavily, gasping for relief at the moment.

It wasn't exhaustion that overcame her. It was a release of energy that she had felt curtailed for some time. A raging torrent of emotion that allowed her to excel and let fly the full force she held in readiness, rapid and great in its estimation.

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She walked on and on, the giant behemoth of a ship that held the dread lord, an archon of malevolence and malfeasance. She dragged the sack behind, pulling it with an added lurch as it caught in the side of the corridor. She grunted, following the path of darkness that called her on and on.

She stood, before the chamber, dark and ominous in its brilliance, emitting a burst of dark light that strobed in the clinical air, thick with foreboding and promise.

She watched as the Undead soldiers stood guard, unchallenging in their action yet ferocious in their demeanour. She breathed a tight sigh, dragging the sack with her and approaching, hoping to remain unchallenged.

It worked.

She began to bang loudly on the door, in some vain hope that she would be allowed entrance.

She had a present to return.

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[Halketh]

GONE WITHOUT YOU
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
DARTH CAELITUS
The Aegis of Woe | Ace | Lightsaber
Donne Toulemonde

ONBOARD 'The Prophet'
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The miraluka stood upon his balcony overlooking the icy world he had labored endlessly for, the life his scarred, trembling hands had brought to a planet long forgotten by the rest of the galaxy. From the icy plains had biodomes arisen, giving shelter and breathing life into contained ecosystems that supported the masses in turn. In the mountains, the gleaming city of Asoport had been erected, its towers and buildings etched from glacial stone. An academy for vagabond Force Sensitives had birthed a whole new age of sorcerers and devout, teaching them to control and channel the chaos which would otherwise destroy them. More than refuge, he had given dozens of thousands of displaced persons hope, and a new home to call their own.

Carlac had been much the same for him. It was more than his planet of operations, it was his home. Its people were his people, the citizens he toiled and endured the struggle of the war for. The citizens he listened to every month in the public forums, learning, taking criticism and suggestions for what it was that he could do to make their lives all the better. The icy wind grazed his cheeks, nipping at his nose on its quest to graze through his slowly silvering strands. He drew it in deep, pulling at the cold until he felt himself nearly cough from the sharpness in his lungs and throat. His Sight expanded, his projection coursing over the mountainous range sheltering his fortress, and beyond, he glimpsed the flickering lights of the gleaming capital his heart ached for.

He could feel them, the night owls wandering the cold streets, enduring the snow to meet with one another for their evening meals, the night shift workers boarding the monorail to travel to Nova Vox, the mirth of adults having a drunken snowball fight. This planet lived, it breathed as he did, every rise and fall of his chest seeming to stoke the flame of life higher. And from there, the ambition for more only grew. He was no tyrant, nor was he greedy, an outcast amongst the Grand Imperial Assembly it had made him, but here, he was beloved. Here, he belonged. He was welcome here, celebrated here even. It was the kind of love he had found himself missing for nearly as far back as his memory could tangibly reach.

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

Halketh turned his head, his ethereal vision fixating upon the double doors far across his chambers. He was not expecting visitors. A reluctant sigh pushed frosty clouds from his lips and he cast himself away from the marbled railing to cross the chasm, returning to the lavish quarters he dwelled within. Behind his desk, he situated, easing himself to sit down comfortably.

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

Gone was the warmth of his hearth, the joy of his ventures. Returned instead was the darkened chill of his meditation chamber, the vanta black span disturbed by the sigh of his breath spurring the artificial flames lining either side of the room to rise. Reality returned grimly, and the Dark Lord met it with apathy. Sitting cross-legged in the heart of a pulsing, runic circle upon an elevated platform, the miraluka resided, pieces of his gothic armor suspended by an invisible web orbited slowly around his figure. Both mangled hands rested with palms overturned and tucked together, supporting the hovering hold on his artifact, the orb turning in slow rotation above his lap. Empyrean talons reached through the void of space between himself and the twin doors sealed by his magic, pressing against to feel for the source of the racket.

An unfamiliar Presence crept through his intangible touch, piquing his interest sharply. Who was so bold as to interrupt him? And why had his sentinels not intervened? Gently his fingers curled inward, cradling the oracle stone as it landed, and there it rested against his lap. His armor remained suspended, kept upward by his control, and he was left exposed in only the ivory tunic and layered robes he was terribly fond of. Crimson silk wound about his empty eyesockets, embroidered with golden geometry which glinted in the flicker of the light from each side and to his flank. This curious person who dared intrude upon his place of peace carried with them the mark of death, that subtle mark of passing life force, though they were not dying themselves...

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

They had slain another. Connecting the dots made it obvious why his Perished had allowed the stranger to pass unimpeded. He steadied himself, sighing for the last. Beyond him, the runic sigil illuminating on the outside of the heavy doors flickered and turned, animating with his dispell of its incantation. And shortly thereafter, did those mighty doors groan open, revealing the Dark Lord in his nest.

"Come in then, why don't you?" Caelitus' voice echoed across the sprawling chamber, reaching to the figure painted in his unnatural Sight beyond the threshold.

 

[Donne Toulemonde]

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Tags: Halketh​

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She had come with so few expectations. If she was honest with her own feelings and her own self, she felt like her coming was a compulsion, not entirely of her volition. The doors held a secret, darkness, an embarrassment of memories.

Flash.

She saw dark entities, swirling, manifesting images of a dark conjuration, hanging in the void. She couldn't discern from when, or exactly if the visions were from this very place, the Force meshing and whirling to create a vortex of dust-like light that shimmered and evaporated into a dark ombre, neither fully red nor truly black. She heard whispered voices, crying echoes of tortured souls reaching for the top of the din, scratching at her own voice, yearning to be made corporeal.

She wretched slightly, standing back a little as the doors to the dark chamber opened, a flicker of light spreading over it as it somehow danced the thin edge of reality and the dream-like state it flirted with.

She took a hesitant step, her right arm finding an added strength with her quarry, the package feeling almost impossibly weighted now. She swore that she would cut a trench-like impression with it as she heaved, exerting a small cry as she shunted and huffed towards the dread Lord.

His voice spoke. It was…not as she had imagined.

She wasn't certain if the tone didn't carry a weight of…frustration with it. Or was it intrigue? Malice? A promise of immediate death? She couldn't discern the true intention.

She grabbed the other side of the open sack and, with a final frenzy of strength, deposited the corpse of the assassin onto the floor of the chamber.

"This Sith came looking for me. I saw flashes of his dark purpose about him before I severed his skull from his spine."

She swallowed hard. She may have sounded forceful, but she knew her thoughts would betray her to the Dark Lord. She was nervous.

"I have sought purpose in the galaxy, in the calling of the Force and I believe it has called me to you, Dark Lord. To serve. To obey."

She kicked the cadaver.

"This is just the start."

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[Halketh]

BURIED
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
DARTH CAELITUS
The Aegis of Woe | Ace | Lightsaber
Donne Toulemonde

ONBOARD 'The Prophet'
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Her entrance saw him grow motionless, the burden of company weighing his shoulders considerably. It was a rare, fickle thing, and though his hospitality was mostly unscathed by the depths of his new mantle, its cumbersome yoke revoked the patience he would traditionally afford. Something of an enigma amongst his peers, more so when pedestaled alongside those who bore his title previously, he was known for his temperance and solitude. His tendency to withdraw and resolve to the absolution of meditation and silence, the confines of which only he was responsible for his torment. Beset on all sides, far more than before, his reclusive nature had only expanded with his ventures as Dark Lord, where even his acolytes sparsely saw him, and they dwelled on the vessel with him. Barely, his shoulders rose and fell to the time of his breath, each tone of the cadence earning the same flickering ebb and flow within the fires surrounding the two of them.

Her voice reached him, a tangible sound crossing betwixt the plane of reality to grace his delusion, earning his attention. He took the time then to observe her, her words continuing without his interjection, as his nigh omniscient Sight pierced through her shell to uncover the esoteric mysteries dwelling beneath. She bore a familiar trail, a stain upon her soul as one of his few familiars and friends, Dimitri Voltura. He began to suspect then, stitching together the patchwork of a claim she made, that his audience was of another defector, something which he deeply understood. Ever the shepherd of the weary and lost, the Mercurial Saint had become somewhat accustomed to these interactions and welcomed them, his grasp upon the misery of purposeless wandering too real to deny.

"You've come a long way, Obsidian Knight," he began his prose, the curious harmonies within his voice decrying the disinterest etched across his features in permanence, "such a long way for a gamble." Caelitus shifted, planting his heels to the cold floor, and rose after, still cradling the artifact he possessed in his cupped hands. The gentle rustle of fabric saw his robe situate itself around his frame, drawn to trail behind the long strides he gracefully exerted to approach the edge of his elevated platform, where he stood over her. Kindness had reined in the sickening madness of his very aura, the control exhibited was afforded in temporary grace, and buried his intentions as true as ever, growing his mystery still. "Yet you would not endeavor as much lest you believed you possessed something it is that I seek."

Out of courtesy, he turned his head, demonstrating where his focus had wandered next; on the bloodied corpse strewn between the two of them. "You killed this assassin yes, congratulations, he's quite dead, so tell me why." It was a vague question, but a purposeful one all the same.

 

[Donne Toulemonde]

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Halketh​

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She thought on his words, silvery and flowing with purpose. There was a sense of bubbling urgency under his tone yet a solemnity that pervaded the very air around them. She daren't breathe, lest she invited his controlling essence into her own mind. He addressed her cautiously, considering each word and each idea with care and yet with flippancy, words tossed aside like they had no value. He was a dichotomy, a paradox made human...if human he was.​

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Flash. An eruption of dark energy flooding countless worlds. ​

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"Why I killed him? Because he sought to kill me. A simple exchange, in the way that living things do. I killed so that I would live to kill again, lest I be killed myself and enter what is to come afterwards unfulfilled, unready, immaterial and incomplete. My ascension must be made when I am ready, not when I am inconclusive and in want of betterment."​

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She twisted her head slightly.​

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Flash. A shriek of pain. ​

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"Why I come to you? To seek your guidance? Because you are a true manifestation of the purest emotion I can think of. I seek a path to a better, more economic, more sustainable management of my...creativity...and I wish to serve that purpose for you. I know you may not take me as an Apprentice, an honour I am not worthy of. But I wish to serve in any way I can."​

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She breathed in heavily, almost taking in the heady succour of his presence, her spirit and mind feeling strengthened.​

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"I want to burn worlds." ​

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[Halketh]

WAVES
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
DARTH CAELITUS
The Aegis of Woe | Ace | Lightsaber
Donne Toulemonde

ONBOARD 'The Prophet'
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Curiously, the Dark Lord cocked his head upon her, his focus returned as she spoke in an address of his question. Her words carried a hesitation, though minor, it betrayed the steadiness she attempted to project. She was fearful, anxious. But why? The orb supported by his hands was overturned by a palm and gently cast back to its pedestal of rest by a tender flick of his wrist, the spire itself humming with soft acceptance of the wrought gift. A leg kicked out, propelling his weight down, and he landed with lithe grace and a flutter of his ivory robes to stand more directly before her, rather than over her. He said nothing then, as he approached, and yet the silence allowed to settle was the tell of his judgment.

Behind him, distantly now, the armor left suspended upon the platform he oft recovered on spiraled inward to clasp around the form erected for its support amidst the empyrean flames opposite, and there it resided in glinting temptation. "You house the mirth of creative pride within your heart, I'll give you as much." Caelitus hummed, threading his fingers together to rest casually before his belt. "There is much within you that sings of purpose and power of will, yet it's been tampered with. Someone has trounced about in your thoughts and made you doubtful, has he not? This is the source of your drive, hm." The Mercurial Saint passed her by and lowered himself to crouch before the bloodied corpse cooling on his floor, where his mangled hands reached to overturn it, and one found rest planted against the assassin's chestguard. "Kill or be killed is something of an archaic philosophy," he iterated, "to think of Death with such little grace is undignified, however, I won't slight you for being brought up with such a mindset, it's mortal folly to believe it, nothing more."

A great power swelled about the Dark Lord, disturbing the lay of his silvering strands and the settle of his robes, churned up by the crackling rise of his will exerted. Threads wove from his spidery digits, an incantation offered through scarred lips, measured equally by the blessing bestowed upon their graven guest. The assassin's arm jerked abruptly, casting the necrotic chill of sorcerous magics into the hot air. Another twitch. It began as a simple staccato, the rhythm of writhe until at last, the corpse was all but seizing on the floor. Unperturbed, Caelitus continued his efforts to bind what had been severed, and only once glazed eyes erupted with reddish light did he cease, and rise. Hands tucked into the sleeves of the robes opposite and he shifted his weight to angle himself toward her, his weary features turning to follow, "And when there are no worlds left to burn, what will become of you, then? What do you seek for the after?"

Gurgling breaths strained by the wounds dealt to the throat and neck rattled ferally into the air by the Dark Lord's flank, accompanied by the shifting rub of armored limbs against the slick floor. In the puddle of crimson life, the corpse moved, rising to his feet with stiffened struggle, until he too stared at the fair-haired woman with the expectation of her answer.

 

[Donne Toulemonde]

Abject horror.

Halketh

Donne watched with a sense of foreboding in her that she had not felt for…in forever. The way the corpse reanimated was nothing quite like she had seen before. And yet she felt no strange compulsion; she felt perfectly safe. In any other instance, she would take her saber and make good what she had intended in the first instance; death to the man who had tried to kill her. But here he was, alive again, in some mockery of life at least, intent on doing the bidding of his new dark master. She felt a kinship in that; she too wanted to serve the dark master that had summoned her from afar, whether he was aware of that intent or not.

Whatever she felt, she knew it was a purposeful meeting, one intended by the Force. Like the meeting of her former Master, she knew this was meant to happen. Her skills in reading the past did not lend themselves to reading the future, events yet to pass but in this instance she was certain.

"When there are no more worlds to burn, I will build new ones. In a purer, more ideal form. The truth is that I only wish to serve myself. If that should mean I learn from your own instruction, then I will gladly accept that mantle for my own. I wish to enter your service. To learn. To be educated. To be freed. If I am killed before that, I will enter oblivion in a better form than the one that I entered it."

Donne knelt dutifully, trying her hardest to ignore the shuffling of the recently enlisted soldier of the Dead that stood beside her, recently executed at her own bidding.

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[Halketh]

WAVES
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
DARTH CAELITUS
The Aegis of Woe | Ace | Lightsaber
Donne Toulemonde

ONBOARD 'The Prophet'
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The Dark Lord nodded his head, the gesture moving far deeper than those previous, an outright admission of his understanding to her plight and terms. His lips pursed briefly, straightening out soon thereafter to press into a firm line that stole the color from their edges. He reached out with a scarred hand, his fingers brushing across the breadth of her shoulder, while the other hand remained dormant at his side. This touch issued to her bore no malice nor ill intention, and as such, the nauseating creep of his madness' bite would spare her. Rather instead, Donne would feel a surge of power, an offering, an enticement, that would transfer from his quivering fingers into a dancing verse shared. "Rise then, kneeling is reserved for my lovers and my enemies, you are neither." An amused chuckle rolled off his tongue, his hand patting the woman's shoulder before retreating back to his sleeve. "This gift you brought me, is sufficient, though next time, do try to spare the throat. It is so difficult for them to coordinate and communicate with one another if they cannot speak." Caelitus sighed, his head swiveling onto the reanimated assassin who was still staring at the two living beside him.

"I will teach you to be free, and most importantly, I will teach you discipline. These things are the basic fundamentals that our brothers and sisters are dreadfully lacking in, frankly, I've little interest in engaging with their barbarous methods. You'll find my own methods to be unconventional, but effective, I will push you to a limit that only you can save yourself from, and should you endure and learn to thrive there, perhaps I'll have the pleasure of bestowing your title. Until then, however." The Dark Lord stepped off, beckoning lazily over his shoulder with ringed fingers for her to follow, and soon the undead scrambled after him as he made his way toward the massive doors opposite, "What do I call you, mystery Knight?"

 

[Donne Toulemonde]

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Halketh​

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He reached for her shoulder, a shiver of terror running up and down her spine.​

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She gasped a little.​

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She felt revitalised as if life somehow had induced a surge of extra power that she never had accessed before. His touch was sublime in its terror. He commanded her 'rise' and she did, fighting her very real urge to collapse entirely under the weight of the command. His power was absolute and yet confined to a serenity she hadn't yet known.​

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She looked at the new addition to his undead army. She longed for that power, the power to corrupt. She made a vow to herself, there and then, to bring him as many soldiers as possible, to feed the ranks and make swollen the forces at his command so that she may too know its might.​

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"The name given to me was Donne, my Lord."​

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Flash. Her childhood. Darkness. Flutters of light, blinding. The Cascades of water. Rocks. Running. Fields. Grass. Fresh air, rushing across her face. A coldness, the ground. Her parents. Death. Fire. 'Rise'. Dark energy. A surge in motion and power. A flash of a saber. Screams. A blaster bolt. The destruction of a planet. Death. Birth. The cries of a newborn. Coldness. Wet. Darkness. Blinding. Air. Stale air. Peace. Sobriety. Calm. Energy. Sleep​

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She looked at him, her vision subsiding. It was as if he brought in her all manner of visions she had never endured, never seen before. Were they memories? Were they implanted by him? Was this a corruption of her past? Was it her future?​

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She dared to speak again.​

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"I wish to learn discipline. I wish to be a disciple. I wish to learn order and patience, above barbarism and mindless wanton destruction. I wish to find purpose, my Lord. Is that truly possible?" she offered the question.​

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