Resilience and Retribution

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Panatha​

Black clouds rescinded and the violet veil over white irises fluttered away. Her wrists were decorated with bonds that were not her own. Disorientation swept over her, and the ever-alert Grandmaster blinked to attention, forcing herself to fire up her senses and recall as much as possible.

Oh.

Shavit.

This is why Kiskla never fell. This is why she trained tirelessly. This is why! It didn’t take long to recall the last images of the Panathan queen’s crimson face, her former student being swept away into battle, and the towering [member="Darth Vornskr"] pointing his blade at her. Assessment began of her surroundings, evaluating the potential for outs. She was in pain, she could feel the aches as she often did after battle (would you be surprised to know she often refused bacta?), and she was alone. It was just her, and The Force.

Confused features hardened into resolve. This was not her doing, she had been bested. Bested once, did not have to mean twice. Kiskla knew who she was, she knew her position and the gravity it had on The Order. The Order she’d combed and conditioned to making a pinnacle of refuge in the galaxy. There had been many to help her, and by her own clumsiness and imperfection she couldn’t have that undone.

Lashes clasped together as she closed her eyes and rested her head back, engaging in a mental precaution that would trace back to every memory [member="Jorus Merrill"] had ever shared with her. A technique she’d used on another, a grey Jedi, but not something she had ever wanted to use on herself. This time, she had to be precise. She still wanted to maintain her memories, the girl had too many secrets to not know who she was, but time. She could maestro back to times and slowly, slowly eradicate those instances of locations and passwords.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

​

​

There were floors beneath floors, halls beneath halls, chambers beneath chambers within the very bowels of Vain Hollow, the dreaded citadel of the Sith Lord Vornskr. They spiraled down for miles into the volcanic earth upon which the castle was built upon, and only the Sith Lord himself had a complete knowledge of their inner workings and layout. Not even his family knew how far his dungeons spread, or how deep they ran beneath the ground. There were cells outfitted to hold a number of creatures from monsters, to captured test subjects, to Jedi, and all so much more. However; the Black Cells were kept for those in Vornskr's captivity that he treasured deeply, and wanted to keep hidden from the accursed light of day. So far only one individual had ever been condemned to occupy one of those vile cells, and that individual was just now waking up to find her limbs bound to the walls by thick iron chains.

A rattle by the cell door might catch her attention, soon followed by the door slowly opening to reveal the Epicanthix Sith who had imprisoned her within these dismal halls dressed in a form-fitting leather garb. He entered the chamber, alone; and with a small twitch of his hand he sealed the door behind him. On his hip rested a heavy leather collar outfitted with techno-doodads, which he removed from his belt and held it aloft before the captive Grandmaster. Without saying a word, and with the speed of a viper, he wrapped the heavy collar around her neck and fastened it. The moment the collar was fastened it would begin to inject doses of Ixetal Cilona into her bloodstreams, enough to cancel out her connection to the Force directly upon injection. The sudden loss of which might cause a unique sense of discomfort and nausea within the Grandmaster.

Now, Vornskr lowered himself so his face was parallel with Kiskla's, and said: "Welcome to your new home, Grayson."

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Her eyes didn’t open when she felt the dark presence approaching. She was focused on pinpointing, based on priority, which memories to erase. Big artifacts. Big secrets, gone. Jorus had made a visual hierarchy which she could recall, and one by one, those items she was finding unsearchable. It was almost panic inducing, tiptoeing around your own memories and being sure not to brush the magic eraser against ones held dear.

She remained stoically indifferent to Vornskr’s presence even as he sprung on her, and the cold touch bit her flesh.

It was jarring.

Kiskla had been severed from the Force once when she was a Jedi Knight. She hadn’t felt the sensation then — her presence had immediately taken over by an ethereal entity and all consciousness of Knight Grayson had been completely revoked. This time though, she was very, very conscious. She inhaled sharply, and clenched her fists against her holds, pulling forward without success. Her restraints just rattled, reminding her that Shatterpoint would be very useless right now.

It was an unholy feeling. As if she were stranded alone in an ethereal world, and then that world collapsed on her. The cell became darker, and everything that had been sharp dulled. Everything was also spinning, suddenly. She closed her eyes again, involuntary liquid poking at the edges of her eyes. Her stomach churned and she clenched her fists, squirming despite the protest from her shoulders.
Lips quivered in protest to any sort of responsive gag wanting to voice itself. When [member="Darth Vornskr"] looked at her, and came so near to her, all she looked was annoyed.

Very.

Very.

Annoyed.

And uncharacteristically silent.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Being pissed won't change the outlook of your life, Grayson." He said with a contemptuous sneer, forcefully grabbing her chin and cheeks with his right hand as he slowly moved her head back and forth as if to study her. He chuckled once and let go of her face, and stood to tower above her shackled form like a monolith of darkness, his piercing hateful gaze stared down at her menacingly as he mulled over what best to do with her at this moment. "I could sense increased brain activity just as you came to, and I'm afraid it is all for naught, my dearest Kiskla. I did not capture you for whatever secrets you had stashed away in that noggin' of yours, but rather I took you because I wanted you. Perhaps a little cliche, but you enraptured me the moment we clashed blades in the Jedi Temple so long ago." He combined his words with meaningless hand gestures as he talked, a little unconscious habit of his when he was monologuing to his captured foes.

"From that day forth a deep hunger boiled inside me, a monstrous hunger for something so anathema to myself, for something so absolutely Light. I could no longer stave the cravings, and I began to spend oh so many sleepless nights formulating how I would capture my coveted beauty, and at last all of my work has led up to this moment. With you, Kiskla, bound in my domain, and subject to my whims. It is a feeling I had not experienced for so long, and I must thank you for that, Grayson. However; I am at a terrible loss for words on what I will do with you now, but I have been thinking..." He sneered again, his lips pulling back to reveal his teeth in the form of a terrible rictus grin that was sure to send chills down anyone's spines.

Another twitch of his hand unlocked the cell door behind him, and from beyond it's borders came forth a hooded servant wheeling a cart filled to the brim with surgical tools, and malicious instruments of torture. Kaine turned his gaze away from Kiskla for a moment to grab a serrated dagger from the cart, and held it up for Kiskla to see. He gently fingered the blade as his eyes burned with a bright hatred, the fuel that kept him going for oh so many years coming to the surface. "I never wanted what secrets you held in your head, but I will take the secrets of your flesh, and I will create a masterpiece with you as my canvas! And all will look upon it, rejoice, and then despair!"

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

That gaze didn't waver when his cold flesh touched hers. Her jaw did tense in protest, however. Even when he let go. She could feel The Force receding. That was her major concern. Her hold on the constant Art of the Small was rescinding, revealing the black tattoo that spread over her eyes and fingers. The branding of a royal heritage. One only [member="Marcello Matteo"] and [member="Jericho"] knew of.

As [member="Darth Vornskr"] went into the details of his obsession, she remained silent. Her eyes fretted about the cell though, continuing to evaluate it versus her current situation. When the servant came in, and The Lord produced his instrument of pain, she finally spoke.

"You don't want to do that."

Kiskla didn't like the idea of her body being a canvas. Who in their right mind did? And hers took a lot of training for maintenance! What's more, she was as usual perceiving this situation was temporary-- and considering how Marcello would respond to a change in her physical. Nothing was ever ultimatum in her perspective --- unless it affected The Order.

"You beat me with your bare hands." She hated to admit that, and it came out through gritted teeth. But it did vocalize. "And here we are. " Kiskla had never been beaten before. Never. Not in combat, nor in any other situation. She knew she was a prize. Be it to a Sith, or any other situation. Her qualifications spoke for themselves, but she still a managed to twist them on her tongue.

The chains rattled noisily once more "You've taken a lot if precautions."
Her head moved, neck straining beneath the ugly and inconvenient accessory as a brow quirked. Blonde strands slipped over her shoulder.
She met his gaze with ferocity, the next words thick like honey dripping from her lips, a thin smile evidencing despite the circumstances "I'm glad I make you nervous."

Pause. Head cock. Simper.

"You want to talk about it?"

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Nervous? You misunderstand, you do not make me nervous, you make me anxious. You instill a sense of anxiety in me that is not unlike the pause before the explosive genesis of a mighty battle, that small moment of breath before the carnage begins. That is what you make me, Grayson, and it delights me so." He gingerly toyed with the knife as he looked over the change in Grayson's face, the ink sewn into her flesh slowly appearing before his eyes as her control over it's concealment faded entirely, now revealing to Kaine the true heritage of the young woman he now held within his captivity. His vile smile broadened greatly as he slumped down on his haunches and began to gingerly trace the tip of his dagger across the outline of part of the tattoo that marred her face. "Ah, how curious. It has been a long time, a very long time, since I've conversed with a Kiffar before." He chuckled, "Then again, I suppose that's not true. I've been after you for so long, but you've kept this secret from everyone, yes?"

He rose back up and regarded her chains and the precautions he had taken to make sure she was well-restrained, "And I wouldn't place so much hope on your friends coming to rescue you in some vainglorious raid on my compound. I will rewrite the fairy tales, and in my revision there will be no knight in shining armor coming to save their beloved princess from the terrible, calamitous dragon." He suddenly brought himself closer to Kiskla again, his eyes burning with a madness reserved with those who thought so little of life that they would eradicate an entire galaxy to obtain what they wanted. "Because this time, this dragon is going to burn everything. The flames of war will rip this galaxy asunder, and from it's ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundations of reality. Soon the dreams of my forefathers will be fulfilled, and no one can prevent the cataclysm I plan to unleash, especially not you."

Wow Kaine, hogging all of the monologue spot-light are you? Selfish.

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

She didn't need to vocalize confirmation about concealing her heritage. They both knew it from the change in pure flesh to a stained veil. Her white eyes were now against an onyx canvas, still trained on The Lord as he spoke. She felt the blade touch against her skin, and her lip quivered as if to speak --- but not a sound was made. She didn't move with the edge that near. Plus she was still annoyed with her situation. If she had been a thorn in Kaine's side, he was the whole rose bush. Minus the flora. It was almost ironic when he referred to her as a princess. In fact, it made her lips tuck inward for a second. With her tattoos exposed, someone versed in Kiffar lore would recognize those were the marks of the current Sheyf and family in power. Not a good thing to broadcast when she was already in such a public spotlight.

The idea of a rescue was not in Kiskla's mind. She hoped that the Jedi had more important things to do. She'd been told once not to obsess over a single individual--- because if she did, she would be miserable. She hoped that wisdom was somehow common sense among those who she had been the chief administrator of. Besides, Kiskla had a chip on her shoulder about being a damsel in distress. Even in this dismal scenario, she did not want any Jedi venturing to Panatha to rid her of her chains. If she was to get out, she'd do it herself. Like she did everything herself. She wasn't one to request help frequently, and only accepted it when her patience was at it's end. As had been the case with [member="Harland Gates"] and Dagobah. They'd almost died.

"Not your own ideas?" Kiskla asked, both legitimately curious and stalling. "But the plans of your forefathers."

She rolled her shoulders, attempting to straighten in her confines --- bothered by the fact that he'd checked them. She glanced warily at the slave in the room with them, before refocusing on the long-haired [member="Darth Vornskr"]. Kiskla didn't have blueprints left for her when she was elected to the role of Grandmaster. Her conceptions were her own. Gloat point!

"That doesn't seem gratifying.

Unless you plan on them coming back and acknowledging your success versus theirs."

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"What would you know of gratification? You know nothing, [member="Kiskla Grayson"]."

The Epicanthix tyrant then took the dagger he had been gripping throughout this entire talk, and held it before her once again, blood shining on the tip of the wicked weapon. With a wave of his hand the chains that held Kiskla's limbs began to retract back into the walls, yanking her back violently as they began to pull on her limbs painfully. They would not stop until they had displayed her against the wall, each of her limps being pulled back in different directions. Now, Kaine put the dagger to Kiskla, and began with her left arm. He began to make small incisions with his blade, just wide and deep enough to draw forth a steady trickle of blood. He repeated this several times over her arm again and again, letting the wounds leak her precious life fluid out onto the dark floor of the cell.

What may not have been evident earlier, was now painfully clear now.

The floor of the cell dipped down towards the center of the room, where a drain, previously hidden by the darkness, was lying in wait to hungrily lap up the blood that spilled from Kiskla's veins. Where this blood would end up, Kiskla would have no idea, but Kaine knew exactly where it would go. It was lead to another chamber below this one, where servants were already moving to collect the spilled blood in clear vats, not only for some vile purpose yet to be revealed, but also to collect samples of this blood so that they could replicate it. Why replicate it? Well, Kaine had a horrible method of torture where he would bleed his victims to near death, but would bring them back from the brink by replenishing their blood with synthesized blood created from the blood already spilled.

The Grandmaster was in for a long, long ride.

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

"I know a few things." She replied. If he didn't think she knew, she had a strong feeling he was about to show her.

He stopped playing along with her stalling game. Kiskla hadn't believed that she could maintain his level of interest forever--but she had hoped to get some level of information worth ascertaining from him. The strain game in waves. The first roll from her wrists and crashing against her shoulders. The second from her elbows up. Then her shoulders raced with screaming nerves. Her head rocked back and she clenched her eyes shut, teeth grit as she exhaled through the thin walls of bone. A whisper of pain passed from her clearly distressed face-- she was very short of breath and trying to stabilize her comfort levels with only basic training a based on genetics. Not the Force.

With his canvas exposed, the macabre Picasso poised his brush on her flesh. Marks carved into her armdrew blood easily — the thick crimson liquid eager to race for exposure under the stretch of the veins. The kiffar’s placid façade cracked into winces and general contortions of pain. Though she refused to give any sort of audible gratification.

Despite the physical intrusion on her flesh, Kiskla’s mind was racing. She was reflecting on Manaan as a whole, distracting herself with the visual recollections of the occurrences that had taken place. The Republic soldiers and the Jedi had gone in together to celebrate — it had been a Republic affair. Some Jedi had gone too, completely innocent as they’d assisted in the restoration of the city. They’d been there to rebuild. And while they were wholly qualified to defend that city, and the citizens of The Republic, she wondered if this was something they’d have been inclined to do if they hadn’t felt obliged. "I know gratification comes from --deep breath ----unselfish deeds."

Did The Republic offer The Order security? Or was it visa versa.
Did Kiskla care more about her Order and their roots than the general public? This in turn twisted her reflections back to a conversation with [member="Caid Centurion"]. Would The Republic be safer if The Jedi Order was not part of it.

She gasped at another puncture—disrupting her thoughts. Would she have been in this situation, if her affairs were more parallel to the triumvirate? She had already got her fingers sticky by inserting a Jedi commander into the fancies of military.

[member="Darth Vornskr"]’s meticulous incisions showed no signs of slowing. What was slowing, was her body’s activity in reaction to the loss of millilitres. Those millis would shortly turn litres, that she knew —but the agility of her mind was tripping up; she felt more human than she had ever felt in her life.

"Acts that benefit more than ones self."

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Your are so very blind, Grayson." muttered the Sith Lord as he continued to carve deeply into her flesh, creating an intricate pattern of gashes that began to crisscross the entire length of her left arm, blood now pouring profusely from his incisions. Blood now stained Kaine's own skin and clothes as his cuttings became more and more brutal, sometimes he'd dig the blade in deep before ripping it out in a cloud of blood and skin. However; he was acutely aware that his prisoner was beginning to wave in and out, and with a curt command in his native language several servants quickly entered the room with several contraptions, and began to hook a menagerie of various tubes and probes into her flesh. They began a twisted form of blood-transfusion that began to replace the blood that had been lost with synthetic blood crafted from Kiskla's own blood that had been already spilled, and collected below by his servants. Another pair of servants worked to close the wounds already inflicted by Kaine's blade, searing the wounds closed with various instruments, and forever cementing the gruesome patterns Kaine carved into her flesh.

"You've been led astray by the teachings of your Order, but I do not fault you personally. The teachings of ancient Krayt tell us that we Sith must band together for a common goal, and goal of everlasting galactic order and stability, which the Jedi have opposed since the very beginning. They are so blinded by their dogma that they would rather see the galaxy torn apart and eternally fragmented than to accept a powerful, strong, united central government ruling over all of the galaxy. Yet, they have the gall to call themselves defenders of the peace, so called guardians of the galaxy? It is the biggest farce ever known! The most abhorrent lie that they constantly cling to to protect themselves, rather than what they could accomplish if they only saw the galaxy the way we did. But they never will, I've known that despite what some of my more hopeful colleagues claim, and I know that the Jedi Order must be dismantled for the security of all, less we wallow in stagnation and chaos forever."

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Naturally sun kissed skin began to pale. Here eyelids felt like lead, and she was struggling to keep her head up — at this point in time staring angrily at her oppressor wasn’t doing her any favours, so her slump in posture (within the restrains allowed) wasn’t too detrimental to anything beside her morale. Her energy was reserving within her core, coiling tightly in conservation until an opportunity was presented for its release.

“This conversation,” she would whisper — barely able to summon a volume that she could usually command — “is what’s stagnant.” Through strips of gold, her force-burned irises would search for the silhouette of her tormentor. Crimson saturated through her clothing, pouring from the abrasions down her torso, hips and legs. It was surprising how much liquid such a solid body could contain.

She felt as though she were going to vomit — but she couldn’t. That would be too exhausting at this time, so as sick as she felt she attempted to quell the nausea with short breaths; desperate for satisfaction to grace her lungs. Her vision was blurred not only by her hair, but by salty liquids that surfaced in the almond curved perimeters of her eyes. With a dry mouth, she poked further to know more about her assailant. She knew evil existed, and [member="Darth Vornskr"] was almost too perfect a manifestation of it to be natural. Had he been born this way, or created?

Then her body was intruded by unnatural mechanics, almost hydraulic like with their functions. When Kiskla had felt her body begin to shut down, small pumps of her own lifeblood began to refill her.

And then out again.

Useless.

“Have you always felt this way."

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"No, not always. I was blind once, tutored in the archaic way of the Sith when the Old Empire still stood in the Tion Cluster, and I was nothing less of a power-mad schemer constantly looking for ways to rise above all others, seeing things only in the now and near-future rather than far beyond my own time. I was foolish back then, and that misguided ambition and pride led to my downfall, beaten by the Jedi Council, and bound in shackles en route to await your Jedi "justice"." With the last of Kiskla's wounds sealed, the machinery hooked to her would now begin to work in earnest. Kaine had only carved a myriad of scars into her left arm, but there was still so much left to be sculpted, and Kaine would not stop until every inch of her flesh had been kissed by his blade. "To be honest, I must thank the Republic for bringing me low, for if not I would still be stuck in the ways of old, rather than seeing the true path."

After a few more minutes the servants would finish the transfusion, and would begin to detach all of the machines that had been hooked up to her body. The removal process was nonetheless painful, but it was nothing compared to what Kiskla had already felt, or would continue to feel for quite some time. "If only you would see the truth, Grayson, then I wouldn't of had to take you down like this." Brandishing the blade once more, Kaine moved from her left arm to her right, and began to repeat the cutting process. More confident in his methods after dealing with the other arm, Kaine would waste no time in carving mighty gashes across her bright skin, unleashing another cascade of blood with each slice.

"But, then I wouldn't be having so much fun."

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Kiskla felt sick. Actually, she felt a lot of things. Pain, primarily. Nausea secondarily. Burns manifested on her one arm, while the other bled profusely. It was like a parallel of hot and cold, separated by her torso. A small whimper betray her and slipped from her lips while [member="Darth Vornskr"] explained that The Republic had been the turning point to his vile road.

He was a lost villain. Spurned by an opportunity for redemption, turned retribution — but archived before any sort of decision could have been made.

She closed her eyes.

He’d been tutored in the ways of The Sith, ambitious like the dark apprentices she knew of and had experienced. This was not surprising. But Sith were largely myopic, focused on self-betterment only. Thirsting for advancement among their peers.

“Do you..” she wanted to know, she really did “-think” — but speaking was difficult with her light-headedness and general aching in her head “the council” short breath “could have” short breath “shown you the light?” exhale. She might have been on that council at the time. And she had an excellent resumé for redemption.

Bring her down.
He hadn’t brought her down yet.

"Do you even know that which you hate?"

Kiskla Grayson did not go down.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Ha, the light."

Kaine spat those words out like they were the most venomous poison, his face curdling into a hateful scowl that exasperated his horrific, scarred features. "The shadows have already consumed my soul, Grayson." He continued to carve with a new ferocity not yet seen before in his efforts, carving so deep and so forcefully that it tore flesh with each movement of his vile dagger. Many have tried to reason with him, tried to sway him into "redeeming" himself, but what utter nonsense was that. Kaine could not be redeemed, because he had not fallen from any sort of grace before, what was there to redeem him for? He was who he was because that was how he was born, how he was raised, and such things could not be changed despite how hard any Jedi might try to convince him otherwise.

"You cannot redeem what is irredeemable."

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

re·demp·tion
rəˈdem(p)SH(ə)n/
noun

1.the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.
"God's plans for the redemption of his world"
synonyms: saving, freeing from sin, absolution
"God's redemption of his people"
a thing that saves someone from error or evil.
"his marginalization from the Hollywood jungle proved to be his redemption"

2.
the action of regaining or gaining possession of something in exchange for payment, or clearing a debt.



-------

Kiskla was known as The Redeemer. She brought people back from the shadows. The first step was having the person acknowledge their state of being, and which side of the ethereal fence they dwelled. [member="Darth Vornskr"] knew very well which side he was on. And he anchored himself to that side.

Redemption was also not conversion. There had to be a want, an innate desire to climb over the metaphysical fence to join the other side. She would be no better than a torturous Sith if she forced someone to be light against their wishes.

Choice was her motivation. Prerogative was what she fought for.

"The irre is your choice, Zambrano." Kiskla whispered, feigning a strength to her tone. The reality of the situation was that Kiskla had never experienced so much physical pain in her life. "There's always an option for your soul. For you." Even if the masses wouldn't accept it after everything he'd done, everything he'd been through --- she would always try.

And her trying usually turned into an accomplishment worth acknowledging.

As a Padawan, it had been ingrained in her that for her own blood to spill in a quarrel -- it was an insult. Throughout the Guardian elements of her training, she adopted that perception. She was agile and fast, nigh untouchable in combat. But those talents were useless when restrained so forcefully against a cold brick wall. The stones dug into her shoulder blades and butt, and provided no comfort for when she rocked her head back and bit her tongue to prevent screaming.

But this pain. This pain was a magnitude foreign to the Kiffar. It caused welling in her eyes, tears to roll down her cheeks. The veins that Vornskr hacked at carried many litres of vitality--- a crimson necessity that spewed and poured from the wounds to the floor. But she would only allow gasps and whimpers to slip from those prettily inflated lips. Her head was light and pounding, and a black tempest threatened her consciousness and vision. Her lids fluttered tiredly, and she attempted to focus on something else. Anything to distract her from the now.

His obsession with her stemmed from what?
Love? That would be most macabre indeed.
Hate? Perhaps.
Admiration? Unlikely, but also a perhaps.
Kaine Zambrano was likely not a man of few enemies--- what was it about her that caused such a violence to churn in his belly.

Her voice rose again. Likely for the last time, for it was weak, cracking and barely above a whisper. "Your obsession is also a choice. A consumption based on what?"

Eyes lifted, white and tired; curiosity sparked. A trait that would always fuel her above all else. The root cause was always for her analysis.

A mischievousness slipped past her misery, pooling into exhausted eyes -- one final joke to be passed between the two of them while she teetered on the brink; "Do you love me, Kaine?" She knew very well not. At least -- she hoped not! But my my, what a twist that would be. If she could cause any sort of squirming from her position, that would be most favourable indeed.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Love?"

Uh oh, Kaine's trigger word. You done did it now, gurl.

"Love is a lie. A terrible hoax created by those who want to mask their own primal urge to rut, a tool used to manipulate and coerce others, a weakness so crippling it has brought entire nations to ruin. A fabricated construct of deceit." His carvings increased with white-hot intensity, the dark and negative emotions flowing from the tyrant's body like a tidal wave of hatred, anger, sadness, regret, and then back to furious anger that if made manifest could literally sear flesh. Something had obviously traumatized the Sith Lord to such an extent that it permanently affected his mental state, but whatever that event was that led to this anger had yet to be revealed, if it even would be revealed. "What do you know of pain, Grayson? What do you know of betrayal? I have tasted betrayal, I know it's terrible sting, the wrenching of your heart till all warmth bleeds from it, and nothing is left but an icy husk!"

In a fit of blind fury, Kaine whirled and plunged the blade of his knife into the stone wall with such force that the blade shattered almost on impact, and cut through the flesh of his hand and forearm like a whirlwind. Hardly registering the blinding hot agony that exploded from his flesh, save for grabbing his bleeding appendage with his other hand, his breath came in ragged gasps until he had managed to calm his breathing and straighten his posture. This was perhaps one of the only times that Kaine has legitimately lost his shit, and it always seemed to stem from her. Even now he could picture her, and that image brought forth dark, repressed memories of a time where perhaps, yes, Kaine could have had a chance at being redeemed, even though he was still vile even back then. But now, it was far too late. Whatever sliver of good in him was forever smothered that day, and replaced with a dark void that hungered for death.

Kaine dared not look at Grayson, but instead he flung the chamber door open with his mind, and disappeared beyond it's borders. The last image Kiskla would see of him that day was the fleeting form of a bleeding tyrant, before a flood of servants rushed into the room to clean up his unfinished work on her flesh and to make sure she was well restrained.

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Kiskla winced involuntarily when [member="Darth Vornskr"] belligerently reacted to her one-liner. She had suspected some sort of revolt, but not to this magnitude. In a word, she was shocked. She had triggered an emotional chord she was surprised to have stumbled across. A man scorned by the betrayal of a lover? Vornskr was correct, she did not know of this. And with the stronghold of [member="Marcello Matteo"], she never would.

When he left, and the servants scurried in behind him to sear and burn her ribbons of flesh back to her arm — she was numbed by pain once more. But her gaze, barely conscious, remained transfixed on the doorway the Sith Lord had made an abrupt exodus from. Those were the words of remorse — and though Kaine had been swallowed by the shadows, the darkness was known to spit its victims out from time to time. She had that hope to hold on to — a potential that could perhaps be contagious to the Sith should she nurture it properly.

Days in passing..

A few days passed in solitude, and Vornskr didn’t return. Thankfully. In this time, Kiskla was mostly unvisited — except by the pain. In her uncomfortable solitude, she had nothing with her but her mind. Her ever-churning and curious mind; calculating and evaluating her situation and how to move within it. But to get out, she had to recall how she got in.

Such a reflection made her angry.

An irritation with self, mostly. How she had allowed the actions of another to distract her to the point of ultimate jeopardy. @VLPER’s actions had been horrifying to witness, but she could see where his justification would stem from. In the heat of battle, it was difficult to make the decisions a Jedi should make. And that’s why it was so tough to be a Jedi, always walking in a path of Paragonhood. This then, would cause a chain reaction and a boiling tempest to roll in anger at her life choices and the failure of her teaching. This was a stewing upset, one that could be most dangerous if she didn’t harvest it properly and manifest it to something else.

Each time she felt herself getting hot, she concentrated on the reasonings behind her anger. Meditating on her circumstances, and positioning this in her mind as an opportunity rather than a shortfall. Despite the grimness of the situation.

This was an opportunity, she told herself, because The Order would learn to function without an acting administrator. Hopefully. They would busy themselves in maintaining the flow of activity. Their operations would not come to a stand still in an individual’s absence. She did wonder how they were faring, though. There was a tendency in that world to react immediately. She of course, also hoped Matteo stayed focus on Alderaan. When she had ventured to Dagobah, he had let her. But that had been of her own volition.

This, obviously, was beyond her prerogative.

This was an opportunity, she told herself, because she had the chance to be intimate with Vornskr’s thoughts — thought at an obvious disadvantage. And yet, she’d stricken a mental chord she’d not known possible a few days prior. Something she wouldn’t have had the chance to do engaged in combat (which is how they so often met). She could work from the core, radially toward either redemption or retribution. Despite the restraint on her by the collar, she could do it. She would do it.

This was an opportunity, she told herself, because she had been so reliant on The Force for so many years. Although she trained physically without it, this was also a mental game. And learning to tolerate pain at a magnified level. She would be able to empathize with so many more people after this — and have an understanding about the fears and torments they had undergone. That had been a woeful disadvantage when talking to [member="Kira Liadain"] after months of her disappearing — Kiskla had been unable to identify with the nature of torture the lorridian had undergone. Also, in time, she would be the Kraliçe of Kiffu — a nation of warriors — but humans. They had no special Force imbued in their bodies to bolster their resilience. They were mortal. As she was mortal.

There were surely more conclusions to be drawn, but consciousness was fickle for the Grandmaster who was low on blood daily. These thoughts took time to develop and solidify in her mind, and she had nothing but time in the bowels of Vornsrk’s dungeons. Though the actual amount was out of her control.

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

More passing time​

The collar was a nuisance.

Nay, that was an understatement. It was beyond an inconvenience. It was the sole reason she was still concealed from daylight. Her awareness of time was hardly in check; the concept of hours, days, weeks, etcetera was beyond the skinny blonde. Reality a misconstruing ideal that she'd never had much of a grip on; It was worse than ever now. The only thing that had her focus was that collar.
It cut her off from her prodigal hold of The Force. Her premiere ally no longer at her side, ready for whatever whim she wished to execute. Not in the wealth she usually had, anyhow.
Though a pauper to the metaphysical, she still had rations. With more concentration and focus than she had ever exercised in her entire life, Kiskla cherished and concealed those rations. Her forté growing and building within her. Day by day, those midichlorians built their colony for her command. It was a painfully long process-- but she really had nothing else to do in her literal suspension. She had matured beyond her thoughts and her emotions, and turned to a more conducive path. One she had to pace second by excruciating second. With molasses instead of cement.

But that collar was a nuisance.

And Kiskla had a low threshold for nuisances-- be they animate or otherwise.

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Kiskla had been brewing for days, weeks, perhaps even months. Longer? Maybe. The stretch of time she’d been confined to the catacombs wasn’t something she was aware of. Even though she was technically down for the count, she was not down and out. Kiskla never stopped working, never stopped fighting — even when it appeared that there would be no salvation for The Redeemer. But her body had been like a distillery for activity, slowly coiling and tightening together ready for release. With low energy levels, timing wasn’t important to her so long as she reserved for sooner rather than later.

And that sooner was now, when the cumulation reached its climax.

Her frame ached and she had never felt more drained in her life. There was no clarity for her, no select area that was more painful than the other. She was malnourished, her vision clouded and pained across all her muscles. But she could not wait any longer — she’d been away too long. And knowing The Order, as capable as they were, they needed oversight; despite the direction she’d hopefully set them up with. There was too much to be done to remain suspended for the rest of her life as [member="Darth Vornskr"]’s rag doll for flaying.

White eyes closed tightly, and her fingers curled into her palms. Her arms tightened, the rest of her body flexing in response as she focused on the only reservoir in her body she was aware of. The culmination of the midichlorians on a subatomic level for her manipulation — and they were directed solely at that annoying collar against the flesh of her neck. A surge bubbled in her core, touching her veins with a familiar feeling, but one that was as weak as when she had been a Padawan.

Small breaths of stale air cycled through her system, balancing on her lips before expelling. As if The Force were a solid, tangible weapon, she felt it roam through her body — from her abdomen, pulling from her fingertips, tearing from her shoulders, and racing upward to her trachea.

“Bigger.” She whispered, vocalizing her instructions for herself — a reminder of her voice among the shadowy silence she’d grown so familiar with. The voice that had redeemed individuals, and an entire ancient Order for the better. Invocation was her best practice.

It felt as if a nail were driving through her temple. The Force was a pain to her, causing cells to explode and deflate rather than charge and surge with the power she’d brandished so freely before. Despite the pain though, she had her objective. She knew her goal. She would reach it. She flexed again and encouraged that surge to manifest, and to break. The collar was an impressive suffocation but no longer the enforcer in this cell.

The Force exploded.

The clasp where the collar’s arms met was fragile and separated instantly—clattering to the ground noisily as a result from the Grandmaster’s shatter point. Her subsequent gasp was drowned out by the noise of metal and stone celebrating. Although she had achieved success, The Force continued to roar and expand it’s explosive reach. Shatter point stretched down from her neck back through to her wrists; touching the metal and searching for the most impactful and damaged area. Success met it’s maker once more, and gravity took over. Metal became powdery debris from the surge and Kiskla felt a downward celerity take over. No longer restrained, she fell forward, snapping from the chains and tubes and breaking her fall with a crack of her elbows.

“Augh!”

With as much pain as she’d been suffering, you think she’d be mute to the agonizing impact.But she was feeling so much more right now. It had been like three of her senses had been removed with The Force, and the sudden resurrection of it’s touch was overwhelming technicolour. The room spun with incredible velocity and she quivered on the ground, skinny body shaking as it adjusted to becoming the host to incredible intimacy with the metaphysical once more. Colours brightened, the scent of metal from her blood flared in her nostrils, the dampness of the stone made it feel as if she were on Dagobah with [member="Harland Gates"] again. Everything was superlative, hyperreal and served to her on a brilliant dish of supernatural volumes. “Ah,” she croaked, curling in her arm for support as blood cumulated around the fresh raw wound on her elbow. Her ankles were still awkwardly restrained to the wall, and she sent another wave of searching — causing the metals there to separate as well; her toes dropping to the cell floor and inducing another wince-worthy wave of realism.

Propped on her elbows, Kiskla tried to anchor herself in a rotating room. But it was too much. Her system was overloaded, shocked with the reacquaintance. Her body revolted, rebelling against the change with a violent purge that poured from her mouth in a bile heavy churning of her stomach. Considering her lack of nutrition, the vomit was mostly liquid and pooled around her arms as she gagged and gasped to refill her lungs with the stagnant air. ‘Hhhngg’ she groaned, pulling herself forward and encouraging her knees to follow the motion of her elbows and the heels of her hands. This was good. She was crawling now.

Crawling through her own bile and blood, but it was still progress!

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The war had been long, and taxing on the aging Sith Lord. As the Force began to act erratic and chaotic during the sixth year of the war, so too did his ability to keep the degradation of his physical form at bay. Now, he looked far more haggard than usual, his eyes sunken, his skin beginning to sag as it once again took on the unhealthy pallor of a corpse. The limp in his left side was returning, an an ever-present pain began to spike through where the rounds of Sarge's bolter had ripped through the skin and muscle. The Lord of the Epicanthix slowly walked through the militarian halls of his mighty keep, his back arched forward as he walked, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he finally reached his private chambers within the apex of the tower.

His chamber was decorated with various trinkets derived directly from Epicanthix culture, and a large bay window overlooked the main courtyard several hundred meters below. Besides the Epicanthix trinkets there was various Sith artifacts dredged up from the wastes of Korriban, Ziost, and Dromund Kaas, remnants of the Old Empire that Kaine had managed to salvage before the entire region fell into chaos. Closing the chamber door behind him, and moved to sit at the edge of his bed. He breathed in deeply and allowed himself to delve deep in the living Force around him, drinking in deep of the Dark Side of the Force as he fell into a trance of meditation. Normally this would be a surefire way to slow the decay imposed upon his body, but he was still frustrated to discover that the Force still would not answer his calls as he wished, there was some compliance, but otherwise the Force remained unresponsive to the Sith Lord.

Then, suddenly; he felt it like someone had punched him right in the gut. An explosion of Force from deep below the castle floors, and in an instant Kaine was on his feet. Despite the Force being so unresponsive, he was still able to send a telepathic alert to his non-Epicanthix guards down below in the dungeons, and within minutes they began to marshal whatever forces they could to converge on the lowest dungeon. As the Sith Lord exited his private chambers, he stood up all the more straighter, and the limp in his side melted away as he pushed himself into a sprint, determined to not lose his prize, but also consumed with a gnawing fear in his gut that he could lose the object of his obsession.

And that fear pushed him onward.

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]