Administrator
The repository on the Malsheem was becoming a familiar haunt.
Her little stars, with lungs of gold, had finally settled for the evening. For all of the trials and intergalactic hostilities she had endured throughout the last decade the pale-skinned woman would have thought herself prepared for any eventuality. There was not a weapon she could not wield, not a world she could not buy, nor, a creature she could not break. And yet—Two squalling babes of her own blood sought the death of her. She seemed to have adjusted. Put together, carefully, like a crafted statue. It was the little things that betrayed her. The way she breathed, in which rocks, did not. There were endless lengths of ivory hair that poured from the crown of her head. Too soft, too effervescent, to be stone. It left her with a misleading halo in the moving firelight. A play pretend moment of...Humanity. Of acceptance that...She was indeed made of flesh and blood.
No matter her gifts, the only thing Srina was when she came to read, was an exhausted new mother. A mourning widow with a husband that walked the stars as a Corpse King.
Her attire was typical for such an outing. Something befitting the station she did not want, but something she could move freely in should the need arise. Black fabric hedged with the darkest blue accents and a cloak that spilled over a high-backed chair that she ignored. The Dread Empress found her place on the polished obsidian floor, legs tucked beneath her, with tome after tome spread out around her.
Darth Carnifex
had once likened it to a silvery dragon amongst her horde—And he wasn’t far from the truth. The curator of some of the Sith Lords most precious works and artifacts was close to having heretical heart-attacks every time he saw her place a skin-bound book on the floor…But he had learned not to interfere. The diminutive woman was…Frail. So, it seemed.
Demure, soft-spoken, and feminine to a point where pallid skin seemed to be made of glass. There was nothing in her deportment or carriage that denoted she was a warrior of any kind. At least, until he glimpsed her face. It was her eyes. So cruel. Gold-hued orbs were a shade of gun-metal that seemed to critically impale and tear asunder anything they perceived. She saw him, saw through him, in a way no one had any right to. They promised…things…in their stillness. Eternity. Horror. Death.
Thusly…The wise custodian of the repository merely refreshed her tea, and biscuits, and brought her more to read.
More knowledge to devour.
She kept a data pad nearby and absently made notes when required. Things that she did not quite grasp the meaning of, that, which required further study. Briefly, she let her arm rest against the cushioned chair while her line of sight followed the glimmering gold inlay of the floor. She dimly recalled that Carnifex, Kaine, had likened it to some sort of ancient Atrisian art pieces.
Srina had spent a rather unpleasant time on Atrisia.
Nothing about it had the regal charm and rich spirit that the Malsheem held. It was one of the few places that held an entryway to the nursery that had been secretly constructed. One of the few places she could imagine, possibly, bringing life into the world. Not because it was a place of light and hope but because it was an impenetrable bastion.
Her head rest down in the crook of her arm for a moment.
Frustration ran through her. Frustration—And Exhaustion. The answer to the Emperor was here.
She could feel it. She just couldn’t find it.
That same frustration that so often led to long nights of determination seemed to have momentarily drained the rest of her battery and her eyes fluttered closed. Not awake, not asleep. She was merely existing in the blissful quiet while remaining all too aware of the constant weight against her chest. The phylactery had been remade, smaller, and was attached to an unbreakable chain. She kept it as she had once kept her unborn children in the cage of her body. Close.
Safe.
Ironic…That she sought to protect two Sith that were both stronger than she was. But, she would protect them all the same.
From themselves, more than anything else.
