Private In the Wake of His Wrath

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

In the Wake of His Wrath
Nyssara Vethrisa ​

Dathomir. The Whisper of Peace hovered above, sensors active and crew at their stations. Lingering in high orbit, it prowled in silence as it slowly drifted into hiding, shrouding itself in darkness as it placed the gloomy red planet in between itself and the sun. Inside, there was silence. Chatter between members of her crew was minimal and the hyperdrive laid dormant. When her Lord, Kyrothian Ravoch, was away, there was little reason for activity and buzz.

Unlike the calm of the frigatte, Ravoch's personal shuttle was descending towards the surface of the planet like a projectile. Where the ship rumbled through the atmosphere, lacking the luxurious equipment to keep its interior stable, the Sith remained steady and unmoving. The laws of physics were beneath him. His massive form filled the seats at the very back of the cabin and his eyes rested on a datapad that looked tiny in his calloused hands. He had just recorded another log entry.

:::Static is interrupted by a click. Two confirmatory beeps can be heard before the audioreceptors starts the recording. A loose metal component is clirring in the background as the shuttle shakes, entering the first layer of the atmosphere. The clirring sound isn't stable, instead, it is interrupted each time the ship bumps and rumbles on its way down. The engines can be heard underneath, roaring in an isolated engine comparment. It is wild and chaotic. Then, Ravoch's voice pierces the storm - calm, commanding and precise.:::

Log entry Aurek 902-46.1.

Keeping the arm has yielded results. Science Officer Lokke's research indicates that Acier Moonbound was half-Dathomiri. Pinpointing a specific region was beyond his capacities. His excuse is acceptable: Genetic data from the planet is scarce indeed. Credit where credit is due, he did his job well. Science Officer Mette could answer what he could not: The saber carried traces of soil usually found in the mountainous forests at the Paecian Plateau. That is where I will go.

My own findings examining the saber were interesting to say the least. I consulted the Holocron of Nutra Sesh to perfect my technique. The Force can be fickle when it comes to matters of the future and the past - but I am confident that I succeeded in bending it to my will in this instance.

The boy's overwhelming guilt and anger is likely related to what the lightsaber has been through. To have killed so many in such a short period of time - the fear, anguish and dread of it all washed over me as soon as I established a link. I have to find out what happened. I can sense it. I crave it. This site on Dathomir will give me everything

The landing site overlooked a plume of smoke rising beneath the crest of the plateau. Ravoch stood at the very edge of the rocky surface, back straight and hands clasped behind his back. A sense of realisation spread across his features as his eyes studied what remained of the village. There was no joy or pleasure in his eyes as he studied the eerie sight below - instead, there was anticipation.

His cape fluttered against his legs as a cold breeze picked up in power. A low growl seemed to escape him as he tilted his head up - at first it may have looked like he was pondering the sudden thrust of wind rolling down the mountain - but his gaze then fixed onto one of the huts that were still standing. His eyes narrowed: There was a tremor in the force. Something was calling to him.

Without waiting for a moment longer, Ravoch turned and started to descend the rugged cliff. There was no need to climb, instead, he leaped down ledge by ledge, pulling on the Force to dampen his descent to a controlled landing. Stones tumbled down, rocks came loose under his weight and crashed down as well. Loud and deep thuds would announce his arrival. Whatever or whoever was down there would soon meet a Sith Lord, descending from above to land at the very center of the village.

 

[Nyssara Vethrisa]

The Weavewood, a forest so thick and lightless that the air itself seemed woven from shadow. The trees were tall and ancient, their trunks slick with moss and braided charms that whispered faintly when the wind passed through. The scent of ash and damp earth lingered everywhere, mingled with the faint copper tang of blood that had long since soaked into the soil. The borders of Clan Vethrisa’s territory were unmistakable; scarlet-braided bones and ash-bathed totems tied to tree trunks, both a warning and an invitation; to step beyond them was to step willingly into the snare of the Weavers.

And yet, the domain lay bare of weaving threads as the land breathed in whispered wind. Fog coiled low over the ground, thick enough to swallow sound and shape alike. Trees rising like pale specters, their roots half-buried in shrouded black water, their branches veiled in mist that clung like gauze. The air was heavy with the scent of rot and rain, the lingering taint of a place that still clung to echoes of the Final Weave's massacre.

Underfoot, the soil gave way to patches of slick marsh, pools of still water reflecting only the red above. Marsh toads croaked now and then, but even their calls seemed distant, muffled beneath the weight of the weaving fog. It was a silence that wasn’t empty, but watching. The kind that pressed against the ears until every breath felt too loud, every heartbeat a trespass.

The oppressive descent of Lord Ravoch, the loud, deep thuds announcing his arrival, split the fog like the Crimson Mere; the once-still black marshwater trembled in retreat.

The first thing the Sith Lord witnessed was the fog slithering back to where he had banished it only moments before, reclaiming the soil where he had landed. Soon his eyes found the bodies, a grave of half-buried flesh. The marsh fed on their blood; pale limbs tangled in reeds, strands of hair drifted through the black water, and the mire whispered softly as it feasted. Then came the huts, their charred frames jutting from the earth like blackened ribs. Stone cracked and wood splintered under the memory of unleashed magick, the air still thick with the scent of burnt ichor. Each ruin quivered in the Force, a wound that refused to close.

Through the fog, he saw movement, a figure kneeling amid the ruin. A young woman, still breathing, her form trembling beside an older body that, unlike the rest, had not decayed. The air around them shimmered with a faint, unnatural light. Then the fog itself began to pulse, lit from within by a flicker of green magick, its glow washing over the still face of the dead woman and the desperate one who refused to let her go.

The young woman's eyes burned with green ichor, like flames dancing and glowing in the dark. Her fingers pulled at invisible points around her, threads only she could see. Her voice echoed through the leafless trees surrounding the village as she repeated strange, cruel words in a language unknown.

Ka’nath serrin morrith, Ikar kai Tirra.
Ka’nath Sath’reen kai Velith Tirra.
Serrin morrith kai Drath’kai, zha’kal verru serrin.
Lethar drath sath’reen kai Vorin.​

The same words, the same rhythm, over and over, the threads of magick weaving into the older, lifeless woman. Yet each attempt failed, and with every new one the young witch’s voice grew more desperate. Grief bled into anger, anger into fear, fear into hopelessness, until all that remained was raw, consuming hatred.

Ravoch felt an uncontrolled, unrefined, yet unimaginably violent ripple in the Force before he heard her speak. Her voice was cracked and ruined by screaming and weeping, surrounded by the decaying remains of her clan sisters.

“Why doesn’t it work?!”

Kyrothian Ravoch​

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

In the Wake of His Wrath
Nyssara Vethrisa ​

Could it be? His eyes narrowed upon the fluttering silhouette as he descended upon the village from the last ledge of the cliff. The Force slowed his fall to a crawl, allowing him to carefully study the ruins and their lonesome inhabitant from a bird's eye view before eventually settling down in the centre.

Destruction, devastation, death. It marked each and every corner. Poorly dug graves. Bodies yet to be buried. Embers threatening to ignite already damaged huts once more. And then, her. The silhouette that had called for him earlier started to take form. A nightsister, alive, still holding her lost kin in a desperate embrace. Ravoch could only assume that it was the girl's mother.

Surprisingly silent steps for someone of his massive stature brought him closer to her. Malnourished, her frail form almost matched the deceased body in her arms. It was as if she could be toppled by the slightest of breezes or brought to her knees under the weight of his arm on her shoulder. Even then, she captivated his attention - her every word, however small, caused rippled in the Force. Her signature was powerful - very much like that of the ashen-haired Rebel.

The scene was tragic. Although he did not seem to understand the words of her ritual, the purpose was laid bare for anyone to see. Eventually, he was close enough for his shadow to envelop her lithe form fully. His dominating presence provided an overwhelming darkness, both literally and figuratively. For a few moments, he hovered above her without a word. A deep red cape produced a wide silhouette over his broad shoulders. Both arms, the bare one and the one wearing the armoured sleeve, were clasped behind his back. Although he did not tilt his head down for her, his gaze rested low, observing her from above.

Finally, his deep and commanding voice pierced the silence. "She is gone" His words were measured, precise and somber. Perhaps he was being harsh - but he was also being honest and maybe even sympathetic. If she was not already looking at him, he would wait - and if that would not grant him her attention, he would bring a hand down to her chin where he would gently, but forcefully, usher her attention to him.

"No one can bring her back. Not as she was." He paused to let the words sink in - but not long enough to let her get a word in. "You will only survive if you give her up." each and every word he uttered was drenched in a thick coat of authority. He spoke as if the truth of what he said was evident. For now, he hovered above her like a statue, proud and mighty.

 

[Nyssara Vethrisa]

It was as if the fog reclined just a fraction from the Sith Lord's presence, yet, despite his deep and commanding voice piercing the silence, the near-malnourished girl before him did not seem to notice. Her eyes, two ichor orbs of ember, still burned with green dancing flames as she continued her obsessive ritual over the body of the older woman before her.

"No, no, no, no, I can bring her back!" she said manically

Despite giving no indication that she had either heard or reacted to Lord Ravoch's presence, she spoke as if she responded to his "she is gone" matter-of-factly voice, but it might as well have been her speaking to herself, not accepting the death of her mother.

A breeze pulling at the branches around them carried an almost whisper of the young woman's voice as she continued to perform her ritual. Just as Nyssara was about to begin the second incantation of her ritual, the hand under her chin, lifting her head, Ravoch looked into the face of a young woman who was so consumed by grief and despair that the Dark Side fed upon her pain, answering her without mercy. The ichor orbs that burned instead of her eyes started to flicker as the ritual's focus began to lose its grip, and the Sith Lord would see two brown eyes so dark they might as well be black.

The words struck her like a blow, their weight cutting through the storm of her grief. For a heartbeat, her hands froze above the still body. The green light flickered once more, weaker this time, then faded into the fog as if swallowed by the world itself.

"No," she whispered, but the word broke halfway, crumbling into something smaller, quieter. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her mother’s face, but the warmth that had once answered her touch was gone.

The Force shifted around her, the dark ichor retreating like a tide drawn back to the depths. What remained was only the scent of ash and salt, and the hollow sound of her breath catching in her throat. Her body sagged forward until her forehead touched the cold skin of the dead.

“I can’t,” she said, the words fragile and aimless. “I can’t let her go...”

She clung to the ritual, her trembling hands hovering above her mother’s still chest. But the magick no longer answered. Drained by fear and loss, she could not reignite it. Time crept back into the body she had held in defiance, and decay claimed the woman’s form, soft and inevitable, until she became one with the dead around her.

Nyssara looked at her mother’s still form, at the hollow wound in her chest where the lightsaber had pierced through. The young woman’s lips quivered, her eyes turning glassy and wet. Though already red from ten days of relentless mourning, fresh tears still found their way down her cheeks. Then she looked up at the Sith Lord. Their eyes met once again, and in the Nightsister’s gaze, there was nothing left but the hollow reflection of someone who had lost everything. And yet, the Dark Side had its claws buried deep within her, leaving the young woman fragile and malleable, a soul the strong could shape to their will.

Kyrothian Ravoch​

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

In the Wake of His Wrath
Nyssara Vethrisa ​

There was turmoil. Where the girl found herself ever more desperate and exasperated over her lack of progress with ever diminishing hope to keep her calm, the currents of the Force hardened and grew more intense. A storm was forming around them - the Force itself was a mirror of her imminent heartbreak. Trees rustled, birds sought shelter and cloth lines flung wildly. A few light branches and a fistful of leaves fluttered around them with increasing intensity.

But the eye of the storm was calm and dark. Ravoch's massive figure cast a somber shadow over the girl. Where the storm threatened to consume them both, the Lord kept it at bay. He wouldn't allow a single leaf to touch neither himself nor the girl. Powerful and utterly unaffected by what happened around them, he looked down at the girl with a dominant gaze.

Eventually, realisation started to sink in as the green magick waned. The storm intensified around them - for a while. Ravoch took a deep breath: Ripples coursed through the force and the torrent calmed, just a little. Then he exhaled and with it, the calmness around them expanded to push the turmoil even farther away. The self-proclaimed Sith was allowing darkness to envelop them fully and utterly. It was oppressive. Overwhelming. - And most importantly: It was bending to his will.

Then, he opened his mouth to speak. Darkness rose, swallowing the lingering green ichor. Instead of rustling to the uneven pace of Nyssara's storm, the trees now seemed to follow a different tune. A soft breeze, threading through the forest, picking up in speed and slowing down with every breath he took. Suddenly, nature itself seemed to be following his command - and it was going very silent, just to let him speak.

When Ravoch finally talked, his commanding voice was calm, his words precise, and his tone not at all lacking compassion. "You have lost everything. The wisdom to guide you right, the knowledge to make you strong and the home where you belong. This woman? You won't ever get her back. Not even I, can bring her back." Ravoch let out a slow breath. Suddenly, even the birds went quiet. Her loss was heavy and her trial had only just begun.

Seconds felt like eternities. When Ravoch finally spoke, the world around them came to life again. The storm that had built around the girl could be heard in the distance. The trees breathed with the Lord once more and the birds carefully resumed their chirping. A whining door slowly drifted open in the far distance. "But I can give you purpose. I will guide you when you are lost, train you to be strong and give you a place by my side."

The die was cast; the offer made. A beam of light pierced the darkness to brighten his features as he removed a glove from his armoured arm before extending it for her to take. "Pledge yourself to me. Abandon everything else. It is your only hope." Thunder rumbled beyond the horizon. This moment could change both of their destinies forever.

 

[Nyssara Vethrisa]

The storm had died, but the silence it left behind was worse. The air no longer screamed or tore at her skin. It only hung there, heavy and still, as if the whole forest waited for her to breathe again.

Nyssara’s gaze lingered on her mother’s body. The skin had turned a pallid grey, soft and waxen where warmth had once lived. The wound in her chest had blackened and sunk inward, its edges cracked like burned bark. A faint, sour scent clung to the air, sweet and wrong, the scent of time reclaiming what magick had denied. Flies gathered where the ichor had dried, their wings whispering in the silence. There was nothing left to hold on to. The world that had once been alive with voices and song now felt hollow, an empty shell that mocked her grief.

Her throat ached as she tried to speak, but no sound came. All that filled her head were his words, deep and calm, each one cutting through the remnants of her resolve. You have lost everything. The words rang true. There was no wisdom left to guide her, no home, no mother, no Clan Matron to anchor her to what she had been. Only the weight of her truly unknown future remained, and the quiet promise of the voice before her.

She lifted her eyes. The fog shifted around him like a living thing, recoiling from his presence and curling back as if in reverence. A shaft of light broke through the canopy above, spilling across his form and gilding the edges of his armour in pale gold. For a heartbeat, he seemed almost angelic, a figure carved from the very will of the Force itself. The darkness that clung to him was suffocating, yet it did not frighten her. It felt inevitable.

Nyssara’s lips parted, but the breath that escaped was only a whisper, thin and lost. “I have nothing left.”

Her hand trembled as she looked at his, the glove withdrawn, the offer plain. It was the same hand that had shattered her world with truth, yet in that moment, it was the only thing that seemed real.

Slowly, she reached out. The ichor that still clung to her fingertips shimmered faintly as it met his skin, slithering over it like a whispered mist, the remnants of her failed magick sinking into the dominating darkness that surrounded him. Something in the Force shifted. The grief did not vanish, but it twisted, reshaped into something colder, something darker, something that no longer wept.

She did not speak. Instead, she placed her hand in his, the contact sending a shiver through the air. His presence was unyielding, a force that seemed to draw her upward, pulling her from the depths of the mire. For a heartbeat, the touch felt like salvation, a light reaching into the dark. Yet even as she rose, the light that guided her was carved from shadow.

Kyrothian Ravoch​