Nothing Can Be Explained

[The Hound]

Thump.

"Who is this guy anyways?"
"I don't know, some Jedi Master. The Master wants a look at him."

His vision flitted in and out as he was dragged through a corridor, red glow rods lighting the path. To soldiers, clad in black armor. His head shifted slowly to one side, his entire right side was swollen from his last trip down the red hall.

Thump.

His heart beat was so slow, he felt as if he was missing breaths. But he knew that if he let it slow any more, he would never be able to see the woman at his feet, dead. What woman? The one that pecked at his mind day and night. She was always in his head. He gurgled, one of the soldiers looked down at him. "Karking hell Joseph, look at his face!"

"Yeah, the last group did a number on him. Something about attempting to escape. Trouble this one." He didn't even bother looking down. His feet dragged along the ceramic floor, the cloth around his legs and feet attempting to protect him from the friction. His vision began to swim, red blurred to black, black to white. He could feel her even now, stronger than before.

He realized what was happening. Muffled sobs escaped his lips, the tears burned the cuts on his face as he struggled, pulling back. But he was too weak.

At least they didn't bat him with the baton.

She was here.

And he wasn't ready. Not yet. Not yet.
[member="Darth Isolda"]

 

[Darth Isolda]

No ̧o̢n͜e ̷i̕s e͡ve͜r r͟eady͠.̀

The words would be spoken from the depths of his mind as clearly as if whispered by a lover. One could almost feel the heat of her breath at the shell of his ear, smell the intoxicating scent that was both woman and mysterious allure. Throaty. Husky. With a hint of provocativeness that would herald the image of a minx of a temptress blooming in [member="Turin Val Kur"] 's psyche.


Çóm͘e li̵t̕t͟le̢ Or͏ac̀lę.͏..͏


That same singular beckoning would resonate around him, through him like sifting leaves in the distance.


Wh҉ispèr m͟e ̵th̛y ̵F̕ąt͞e͝.̵ ̸

 

[The Hound]

Pecking. Scraping. Inching through his mind.

The doors opened, dark save for a single woman, at least he assumed she was a woman, standing, maybe sitting. His vision was far too obscured by tears and his swollen face to see clearly. The men dropped him at the door, gave a curt salute and exited. This was his only chance. He had no doubt that they would kill him after this meeting. Why else would she be sick enough to see him in person? He grunted in pain as he tried to stand, the cuffs at his ancles making it far more difficult than need be. He gurgled a battle cry and hobbled slowly over and tried to swing his cuffed fists. Exhaustion, fatigue, and hunger all took its toll though.

It was a pitiful sight to behold.
[member="Darth Isolda"]

 

[Darth Isolda]

[member="Turin Val Kur"]

What manner of strike he expected to land would reveal the image to be a mere ethereal being. Illusion? No. This was the spirit of the Eye of the Dark Lord herself.

Her mocking laughter would echo within the walls of his prison, both mental and literal, as the silken dark mane of Isolda's head would sway slightly at the small panning of her face to follow his pitiful attempts.

"W̨h̡y̨ d͏ò y͡o҉u f̧i͡g̸h̸t͢?" she would ask. "what ͡i̛s̸ ̛ìt t͞ha͏t̡ y͜óu c͜ra͟v̨e? ̸Whąt͟ ̸i҉s it ́t͡h̕at͜ y̨o̴u s̡e͢e̡ķ?҉" " she'd muse, no actual spoken voice but merely an echo of whispers within the confines of his head.

"Y̨o̴u ͠ha͘v͜e so̕ ҉muc̛h po̕tentiąl.̕ ̨ A ̧d͜e̸s͟tin͝y.͞"