Liberation

[Pom Stych Tivé]

It had been a very long time since Pomsty had seen her master, in fact it could be perceived that she avoided him for in return he never came to Ryloth, at least not to the mandragora castle. She found it superior to the cold steel of his Dread Queen; which she loved at first, as it helped seclude her whereabouts from her husband of her past incarnation, an intense torrid relationship Pomsty was not emotionally prepared to inherit. He had called for her many times, but she remained rebellious, her nose stuck in her books where she could fathom to develop new Potions, disinterested in his tasks she thought minuscule…kill this person…push these papers…spy on that ship, all things that go on about the galaxy with or without her; but as for Potions, please, she is the Potions' Mistress the likes of which never before engaged with the Mandragora!

She had a secret, she longed to reveal and yet hide away all the same, like a treasure all her own. Her past incarnation always whispered to her during times of duress, the secrets of the Sith magick, things which actually frightened her, as she knew not how to control the Darkness of the Force like she is able to her Nightsister magick. To this day, she isn't certain that [member="Darth Metus"] had ever discovered her sleeping talent. Because she feared it, when it reared its ugly head to strike, she likewise feared his response to witnessing her obvious weakness.

It had been an evening around the bonfire last night, and for Pomsty that granted a freedom of reckless abandon. This day she had begun her way to the garden grounds with a slight skip in her step. Then a little more joyous attitude prevailed as her memories of the night before flooded her thoughts, until she trotted in a full blown double skip. Her beautiful Moonstone Talisman and her long black locks bobbed and swayed wildly, and at times she deliberately swung her head around twirling her hair while she skipped straight into the courtyard.

She stopped abruptly, her countenance dropped instantaneously, surely seeing another specter! What to do? The Mistress paled, hoping her day is not railroaded to perform some meaningless task for the Vicelord. Lowering her gaze, she curtseyed to her Master awaiting his address amidst the clearing. "Master," she said. She knew if she offered any immediate excuse as to her avoidance of his recent direct orders to come to him, it would come across as deliberate an act as it actually had been!




TAGS: [member="Kasca Fen"]

 

[Malok]

War.

The bitter clash of nations had the uncanny ability to dominate the totality of one's being. When matters of supreme life and death were on the table, what was once a priority could sometimes fall by the wayside. Such was the reality of those who called the Vicelord Master. There were few who had that privilege among the stars - and of those three, only one had remained at Darth Metus' side. The alabaster Echani, Srina Talon, had effectively become the man's shadow over recent months. Where he went, she followed. And when they were apart, it was solely so that he Will was made manifest.

In doing so, she earned the greatest teachings and the deepest portions of the Sith's power.

And when the fires of war finally waned, those matters which had been temporarily stayed became paramount once more. Darth Metus - while tugged in the direction of the Mandalorian war effort - was not blind, deaf, or dumb by any means. When he called for the Nightsister [member="Pom Stych Tivé"], his voice had went unanswered for many months. At times, his commands were to enact his will abroad. At times, he had valuable teachings to impart between battles. Yet, regardless of why or when, the Witch never hearkened to his words.

The Sith had almost assumed the woman had been deceased, were it not for a glance into the Knights Obsidian. A mere glance saw reports of the Mandragora's flourishing and their citadel on Ryloth. A mere glance revealed that Pom had been very busy - and very absent from the Sith's side. He had assumed that he and the Witch had an understanding regarding what it meant to be his Apprentice. Yet, it would appear as though he was sadly mistaken. Therefore, as a punctuation to his returning to Geonosis, the Dread Queen parked in orbit above Ryloth.

And the Vicelord descended upon the Citadel.

The night was young, yet the Bonfire had been lit. The Sith could feel the ancestors' ebb and flow throughout the very earth. But, this day, he walked not as the son of a Nightsister. He walked not as one who practiced the very same rituals and knew the very same spirits. No. This day, he arrived as a Sith - intent on reminding his apprentice where she stood. His presence concluded her advance towards the festivities immediately, and she politely offered a curtsy. As if nothing had transpired at all.

"Were you dead?" The man took a bold step forward, his dominant hand reaching out. "Incapacitated? Maimed?" Gingerly, his fingertips came to rest upon the porcelain that was her left cheek. From thence, they were unmoving. "For what reason did my calls remain unanswered, oh Apprentice mine?"

[member="Kasca Fen"] | [member="Pom Stych Tivé"]

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

“I swear to you, that indeed I have died.” Pom hated herself for allowing a man under her skin. It’s one thing to play for a time, but dreams about the future surrounding any man is just suicide. The soul’s sacrifice of love often not received with honest affection, and the shame which followed!! Definitely death. (At this point she also still remembers her pastlife and had not yet received her blessing from the Fanged God which sets in motion her metamorphosis, unlocking specific learned abilities, and eradicates her memories of the men in her life who stole her attention and focus, and strips her of the awareness of her origins.) “Literally,” she added, the exemplary on death, personified both physically and emotionally.

A woman’s ways did not escape her charm. Pom peered intently back at [member="Darth Metus"], a sparkle in her eyes blossomed just for him. Admiration. He is one very interesting soul dwelling apart from so many others that she cares not to deem family, those who do not understand her ways; his magnetism perhaps a valid reason for any woman to pray for strength to evade him.

His relationship with her is the extreme opposite of a lover and yet he is the one man who sticks around. Always a pleasure. Any attention is better than none; yes? Pomsty would honestly prefer the company of her Master in any of his moods, over that of any other man alive, for in the end, as much as the forefront, he is honest and true. She knows the drill of what is to follow. Thank you for caring enough.

The glistening of admiration in her eyes evolves into jocularity. He is strong. He is deadly. His ego is highly deserved by his earnings. Pomsty however does not fear him. No matter his mood or intent, she does wholeheartedly trust him. She would apologize later, maybe; she did not want him to go soft on her quite so soon!

Let death not be in my way right now, and the true festivities begin!

 

[Malok]

So it was that the Witch had perished.

When the Sith Lord voiced his inquiry, a small part of him had anticipated an excuse. Disappointment in the form of students was not something he was a stranger to - and thus, time's cynicism had seeped into his bones. Yet, as his fingertips graced the porcelain cheek of his apprentice, she spoke her truth with conviction. She claimed to have died - quite literally. Darth Metus found his eyebrow ascending from the claim, yet said nothing initially as a response. Instead, the sulfuric depths of his eyes stared back upon the Witch.

He found admiration there. Earnesty. Trust.

And there was the absence of Fear. She did not fear the Sith Lord outright - nor did she fear the outcome of this conversation. Perhaps there was a nugget of truth in her response; and thus his hand lowered from her cheek entirely. The appendage descended until it was deposited into his pocket. "I see." The baritone of his voice carried a weight to it - for he was a child of Dathomir as she. He knew that Death was not something to be feared, but rather to be embraced. Moreover, he knew that death bestowed great power to those who mastered it.

Thus, the man raised his offhand slightly. "If what you say is true...then let me taste of what you have learned in dying, oh apprentice mine. Show me, lest you return to the dust this night."

[member="Pom Stych Tivé"]

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

Pom immediately laughed at what [member="Darth Metus"] said about her potential for dying again at his hands. She did not know if a resurrected body and soul could actually die again. Does she really what to find out today?

Better by his than by hands on the battlefield; yes?

Lesson number one: men don’t have hearts.
Lesson number two: the only man worthy of a Nightsisters attention is a Nightbrother; such a pity for them both for different reasons, that her Sith Master happens to be one.

She would not voice her recent realization but put it into action instead. A little show for emphasis sake. How awful a lecture often goes unheeded, while certain interactions become memorable for the sake of their earnestness.

He had not made time for her existence as much as he had his other Apprentices in all honesty. Should he believe that he did she would tear out his tongue. Pom Stych Tivé is a woman who at the moment dwells with awakening memories of a pastlife filled with far more wonder and fulfillment than her current existence.

She could have gone anywhere on her own, and her Master would not have even thought twice about her. He thought her dead and he comes how much long after? Is she obliged to serve him? The Mandragora, even though not everyone who dwells here is worthy of her teachings, holds far more fascination than even Dathomir. The reason her Master did not spend equal time with her, regardless that he called for her a few times is, that he was chasing after—?

Pomsty raised her arms gingerly and draped her wrists over his shoulders. She looked him in the eye as she first twirled his hair before interlocking her fingers and pulling hard upon his neck, she used his body as leverage to put great focus into kneeing him in his manhood.

That is what this particular type of death did to the personality of Pom Stych Tivé. Men suck.

Pom smiled and quickly rendered him a peck upon his head, before Apparating away from his physical reach while he was granted a moment to take it all in. Her Amulet of Counterspell glowed in anticipation as she drew in power to reinforce her protections against him. Her pastlife memories stirred; everything she did seems familiar. Access to great power lay accessible within these memories.

Death. Trust me. It is death I suffer.