Ishfwilf.

[Symfora Karr'khash]

She didn’t make a sound.

Not a single one. There was no whimper. No pained exhalation of breath. There were no pleas for it to stop...Symfora knew better than to ask. It would only make it worse.

Only the sound of his fist meeting her flesh echoed in the cold marble foyer of the grand house, while her blood splattered across the pristine white floor. His enraged voice soon joined the cacophony of her pain, calling her everything he didn’t dare say to his wife’s face. Giving Symfora the beating that his darling Arissa so richly deserved...it was why she’d been purchased at all, of course.

His rage finally spent, he straightened his suit jacket and used the handkerchief from his pocket to meticulously clean the blood from his hands. What little splattered on his clothing was unnoticeable given the dark fabric of his suit and shirt alike. Delicate stiletto heels echoed down the stairs behind Symfora’s battered body, followed by the lithe form of Arissa D’levian-Wolff. Aric Wolff extended his hand, assisting his wife as she stepped over the body that lay in her sparkling foyer.

“Are you feeling better, darling? We don’t wish to be late for the gala at the Arboretum.” She said with a soft, almost deferential tone, gazing up at him with baby blue orbs sparkling beneath long lashes.

“Much better, my dove. The limo is waiting...let us not dally any longer.” He rumbled softly, dipping his head to kiss her hand to her delight. He led her out the door, and neither one of them so much as spared Symfora a backwards glance.

It was amazing, she thought as she lay there, that they could switch facades so very quickly. Of course, the rage was the only one she ever saw. There were servants in the grand home, but she was not one of even them. No, she was not fit to be seen...both because of her status as a slave, and because she was always in some state of healing. Almost constantly covered in bruises and half-healed wounds, and the raw, scarred flesh at her wrists and ankles where the durasteel manacles dwelled. She couldn’t even remember a time when she’d not worn them.

A solid half inch thick, they’d been forged to fit her wrists and ankles, and welded closed. There was no key that would open these.

She stayed there, unmoving, simply listening as the limo pulled away, and then for a few moments longer to be sure they would not quickly return. In spite of the glittering darkness that beckoned at the edges of her vision, Symfora slowly got to her hands and knees. She crawled to the steps first, trying her best to ignore the excruciating pain that every movement sent shooting across her senses. Breathing proved to be a challenge, and she wondered if he’d cracked one of her ribs again.

That was when she smelled the smoke.

Self-preservation kicked in at the sight of flames, driving her up the stairs she’d been leaning against. If the house was burning, then this was her one chance at escaping alive...and if she was going, she was taking a few things with her. Adrenaline fueled her to move in spite of the pain of her injuries, the possibility of freedom spurring her forward. Upstairs in the master bedroom, she dragged a travel bag out of storage and into the mistress’ walk in closet. As fond as the woman was of clothing and shoes, Symfora didn’t pay much attention to what she took, only ensuring that there were long sleeves, slacks, and long skirts that would cover as much of her as possible.

What she took more of was the jewelry that the woman never kept under lock and key. As good as credits and untraceable once she pried the gemstones out of their settings, she took as much of it as she could hide in the deep interior pockets of the travel bag, stuffing scarves on top to keep them hidden. Securing it as best she could, she hastily changed and washed what blood off of herself that she could, enveloping herself in a soft silken cloak that felt like so much armor for the way it hid her from sight.

She merged into the growing crowd that watched the house burn, and eventually slipped away, unnoticed.

-------------------------------------

The time she’d spent hiding on Coruscant was mostly a blur in her mind. It was amazing, she’d noted, what money could buy. She’d barely picked apart the first necklace, and she’d found herself discreet medical attention, passage off-planet...and the removal of her manacles.

The second had gotten here to where she was now. Aboard a luxury casino liner, the name of which she couldn’t remember just then, with more credits than she knew what to do with. In a shockingly expensive suite with a glittering pale blue bathroom, and a real bathtub, she was up to her neck in hot water. Softly scented floral soap gave her all the bubbles she could possibly desire, and she lingered there...savoring the warmth and the sensation of being clean.

Fear still remained, coiled at the back of her mind like a serpent sleeping in a shaft of sunlight. But she refused to give in to it. She was free for the first time in her life, and determined to enjoy every moment.

And for tonight, that meant taking her meal in the most exclusive restaurant on board. A table in a discreet corner awaited her, and the promise of another delicious meal drew her out of the bath at last. Symfora did not dress in anything she’d taken from the house on Coruscant. Those garments she’d had destroyed upon her arrival. Instead, she dressed in a simple pair of long black slacks with a slight sheen to them, a soft, cream colored sweater that was fitted to her curves but revealed no skin, and a pair of simple heels.

Dark, crimson streaked curls were loose, tumbling around her shoulders as she made her way around her suite, tucking everything away and then securing her door. With her room key in her pocket, she tucked her clutch under her arm and made her way to the restaurant.

 

[Ferian Adair]

So long had he toiled on the path of regaining what was once his by rights. All that he had worked so hard to acquire in ages past, all that had been stripped away. It was that much more difficult with years of experience in the way - knowing how did only so much, and was not enough to remember how to learn such that he might relearn all that had been lost. He once was one of the most powerful, the most feared and now remained as nothing more than a shadow with an unsettling depth and breadth of knowledge. At the very least he could still fight, could still rend flesh and bone asunder, and yet the well of power in the Force that had once coursed through his veins like wildfire was not the only thing he craved.

No, it was not, and it was these other trappings of the before which had him in the most exclusive suites on the sharpest, most highly tailored to deck of this vessel. It was the draw of a certain way of living to which he had long ago been accustomed that seated him at a table in a corner that gathered more darkness than the rest of the restaurant, with one bottle of deep, red wine of an undeniably good year and... two pieces of stemware set upon the table as if he was expecting someone; the only catch being that the former Lord of the Sith, former Master of Assassins of the Mecrosa Order did not know for whom he was waiting or if the other knew they were waited for. It was a strange yet familiar game of waiting for what he knew would come, without knowing the face of it - at least not until the waited-for came into view as she most certainly did when cold, pale, luminous eyes drifted in a controlled way to the entrance.

Ah, yes, a thin, knowing smile pulled just so on the corners of his lips, there you are.

This surely was the one he had felt so deeply in this place.

[member="Symfora Karr'khash"]

 

[Symfora Karr'khash]

..:| [member="Ferian Adair"] |:..​

​

There was some measure of peace to be found in the way that people skirted around her as if she were something to be feared. It meant, at least, that she was not bothered as she walked slowly from her sumptuous suite to the nearby turbolift. Alone save for the droid attendant, she leaned back against the velvet padded wall with a faint sigh. It had been perhaps a week since her flight from Coruscant, and though her wounds were healed, the scars remained, both those upon her flesh and those harbored deep within it. One did not simply snap their fingers and walk away from the only kind of life they had known with few consequences.

But Symfora was determined to try.

Towards that end, in spite of the peculiar looks she received, she held her head high and sauntered through the broad hallway and into the restaurant as if she hadn't a care in the world. Inside, however, she harbored the fear that somehow, someone would know what had happened and what she'd done. And that faster than the young woman could blink, she'd be right back where she started, with manacles welded closed around her limbs.

She swallowed hard and managed to find a small smile for the maitre d', who bustled forth to greet her. Symfora nodded as he checked his datapad and confirmed her reservation, but a soft frown crossed his features a moment later.

"Your gentleman has already arrived...please follow Armand, he will guide you to your table."

There was no time to argue, and out of reflex, she simply followed the neatly attired waiter through the restaurant to the inviting corner that darkness seemed to cling to most stubbornly. Breath caught in her throat as her chair was held out for her, and she soon found herself seated opposite a startlingly handsome gentleman she did not recognize. But part of her...that tiny, flickering flame that dwelled in the depths of her depraved mind...flared painfully bright.

Symfora swallowed hard and forced her gaze to rise, chestnut orbs meeting those of pale luminescence. There was a measure of fear, to be sure, but improbably, alongside it, was fascination.