Private Swallowing The Rabbit (W)hole

[Avernus]

[It's Deeper Than Before]

Things had changed.

The New-Imperials had far surpassed their initial appraisal with their victory against the Sith Empire over Mygeeto and Muunilinst. The 'spring-cleaning' attitude that many individuals in the higher-echelons of Sith-Imperial leadership had regarded them with had been replaced with confused astonishment and silent panic. The growing Galatic Alliance aligned themselves with the New-Imperials despite the formation of the New Jedi Order and the Sith presence within New-Imperial leadership. Confederacy First makes a massive dent in the galactic economy and stagnates the IGBC, causing the Trade Federation to sprout from the ashes of New-Imperial liberated Scipio and swallow much of the galaxy's premier corporate enterprise. The Confederacy is sent into disarray as the Agents of Chaos liberate Ryloth and Siskeen from their isolationist hold and set their sights on Rodia and Talay. In the farthest, darkest reaches of the Unknown Regions, the Qotsisajakaar slowly builds its strength guided by the invisible hand of Darth Avernus and by extension Darth Voyance as well.

His 'death' had more or less helped to facilitate some of these things. The fingers of Avernus were sunk deep into affairs spanning across the galaxy. Being dead allowed those fingers to be invisible, for his hands to tug the marionette from the shadows. The building blocks of his legacy were slowly but surely being slotted into place. The time for ostentation, superfluousness, and carnal debauchery had come to a close. Avernus had never found himself infected by the hubris which came in the form of the desire to cheat death. Even at the hands of what was done to him by his estranged romantic interest, Telis Taharin, he found the ability to persist.

He'd been reduced to a charred, limbless stump that lay in the silt and muck of Dromund Kaas. Only gulps of rain and a constant focus on his hatred and anger kept him hydrated, sustained, and alive for the weeks he spent discarded in the mud. Had Zhani Amadine not found him through the empathic-hated beacon that emanated from him, he might not have made it. In her weakness, she returned him to the Qotsisajakaar world of Sepulcher. Any reasonable apprentice would have ended him immediately, but Zhani, for whatever reason, still failed to value power over those she cared about. Rather ironic that Avernus would subsequently expel her from his tutelage after such weakness, legitimately disappointed that she didn't take her opportunity.

She was far from ready, anyway.

For some time, Avernus had been in the process of growing his perfect heir. The sixth attempt, the most visually pleasing of the five previous abominations, was shaping up to be a success. DNA and genetics cherrypicked from several sources all to create the perfect mix fitting to replace Avernus. The unfortunate reality was, there were many pieces still to be set in place. As such, a vessel was needed to facilitate the completion of his work. The bulk of Qotsisajakaar cultists under the command of Avernus performed a ritual to aid the transfer of his essence into the Sixth Heir. Despite the reports and readings on the progress if the heir, the body was, unfortunately, imperfect. The genetic modifications done to mirror the Sith Species had succeeded in yielding a midi-chlorian count of well over twenty-thousand, but only half of those midi-chlorians were viable. Thus, the count remained misleading to the actual force-potential the heir held. The brain, however, developed well given the genetic input that was given to influence its development.

This came at a price. Avernus was losing himself to the influence of various biological factors. Biology has a massive effect on personality, view, and preference. As the days progress, his mind seemed to expand, intelligence and pragmatism reaching peaks beyond what he had before. All the same, his personality began to mold with the will of the new body. His lax and facetious attitude began to slowly replace itself with something more assertive and forthright. The once flashy ensembles that brought him joy before slowly became more and more grating on the eye. The desire to live lavishly and posture his wealth over others slowly withered in favor of achieving such status with no desire to flaunt. Many things that had never been appealing to him in the slightest, including women, were beginning to become more and more desirable.

Disgusting.

The project to grow the perfect heir would not continue. There would be no seventh attempt, nor would any similar projects come to fruition. Those with the potential to be worthy had been in front of him all along. The one hubris he'd fallen victim to up to this point, was that only he or someone he engineered could ever hope to replace him. Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt was stubborn, rash, and clung too heavily to her Imperial culture. She also possessed far more potential than any other force-sensitive, or Sith for that matter, that he'd ever met. Even among Athiss where all could use the dark side, no one matched the wellspring of dark energy within her. He'd always genuinely wanted to see her succeed as a Sith, hence the torment and 'exercises' he'd subjected her to.

It was time she was groomed into his perfect heir. Or was at the very least, made aware of just how deep this rabbit hole goes. Treating her like an experiment to see how strong she could become was no longer practical. Given how deep he'd become embedded in galactic affairs, he would very much be grooming her to become the next Dark Lord of the Sith for all he knew. They hadn't corresponded since before the New-Imperial invasion on the Sith Empire. She likely assumed him either dead or MIA, which made her just as clueless as the rest of the galaxy. This would be a jarring union for many reasons, the most apparent being his new choice of venue for his being.

He'd seen what she'd done on Muunlinst. The dark side had granted him visions of her struggle against the Sithspawn created by Darth Prospero, the use of a Lightsaber, and even her calling forth of lighting. Such raw power would be squandered should he continue to grow genetic amalgamations in the attempt to have a perfect heir. He felt like a fool for not seeing the obvious before. He'd extended his time to put things in place with the essence transfer, and thus he had all the time he needed to make her all she needed to be. Another test as in order, one in which passing relied solely on her finding him.

Beneath the farthest outskirts of the consolidated Phaedan metropolis was a vastly ancient subterranean ruin. Hidden behind miles and miles of wilderness and dense jungle brush, the ruin had seemingly been undiscovered for several millennia. The origin of these was so far yet to be determined, not matching anything yet recorded. Whoever or whatever carved this ruin was very clearly kin to Sith within the force. A dark side nexus, weak and fleeting, hidden in the untamed wilderness of the Phaedan outskirts, but a nexus nonetheless. Within it, a meditation chamber had been constructed.

Using the aid of the chamber and the nexus, Avernus assaulted every moment of Lyra's sleep with visions, nightmares, and deceptive premonitions. He forced her to relive the horrors of war, subjected her to visions of Irveric Tavlar betraying, and even killing her, gave her nightmares of the things she feared the most, and beckoned her to the very ruin in which this was all made possible. The fear these false premotions and confusing visions may instill would well serve as a foundation for what was to come. Relentless and dogged, these visions and dreams would continue despite any remedy she may attempt. If she broke beneath this burden, then what sliver of doubt remained would only be confirmed to him, and Darth Sinestruss would be the very next in line. This went on for weeks, and weeks, constant meditation to allow his anger and fear to fester, only to project it onto her. This was not a welcoming gesture, but when have Sith been of a welcoming sort? She would find him, that much he was certain.

Soon, all would be in place.

Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt ​

 

[Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt]

// Location : NIO Space, Outer Rim Territories, Cademimu Sector, Phaeda
// Thematic : Devil's Resting Place

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She was enthralled by sheer bloody panic, shaking. Fear. The Commander could barely make out her hand, trying to find purchase on anything, a weapon, somthing-her legs kicking out blindly beneath her as she suffocated. Raise..hand..The Commander couldn’t breath-she couldn’t. Disgust. Lyra gapped like a fish and the pressure grew as the helmet began to collapse in upon her skull. Her eyes bulged behind the mask and choking upon her own blood, drowning in iron. A dying soldier’s wrath rippled beneath her skin.

It was only the beginning, every night the blast doors closed behind her-she was entering the fray if only to save some face. There was not a single soul to tell, so her stubbornness won out every time her eyes rolled back into her skull. If she had been wiser then, she might have recognised the signs-understood the influence of the Force. No her first thoughts had led to a single question, was this the great break every soldier faced? Personal horrors had no place in the throes of command, so Lyra had first resorted to stim injection.

There was a smoke in hand at every odd hour on top of that, she reasoned maybe the nicotine would help.

The abuse of both narcotic and bad habit worked well enough to get her through the reports, to stay awake amidst march but there were whispers and then the whispers. The eyes of roaming staff could be tolerated, they were watching her and she was watching the holo recordings of the war. Lyra had viewed them just enough of those in the waking hours that they imprinted and replayed again that same evening, but unburned by the blue cerulean screen. She was living out the fight first hand. Echos of snapping bones and ghostly screeches creeping into conversation the following morning, she felt the barrel kissing her temple.The thought growing more and more enticing, she was losing control of her own mind and body. Unknowing of her own Master’s own hand in the instrumenting, not that he needed to push that hard to topple down the house atop her.

There were golden charric shots sputtering and eskew flying through the air, nothing seemed to keep it down. Pushing herself-It was the only sign she had that one man still lived to fight and she reached out once more. Gritting her teeth until pain took her jaw, her eyes burned and she let out a desperate cry. Her heart beating against her chest, hammering-Another trooper was flung out of the chaos as the thing turned, before pouncing. Screams, she could hear men screaming in their final moments, could taste their death.

This manipulation from her own mind turned into a stray blaster going off with no source, the smell of burnt flesh when loading up in the back of ‘Trio’. These wounds had scabbed over and something was peeling them back open. Then Lyra was awake at twenty hundred picking at them herself, picking herself apart; face plastered to the durasteel wall trying not to vocalize her terror. Screaming a constant companion in the back of her mind, it wasn’t so much as her fears dancing between both ears but truths-she understood these things would surely come to pass. Irveric Tavlar would put her down like a dog, it was only a matter of time. She’d cut her own tongue out before she voiced it, steeped in bitterness-in the fear. His very image enraged her these days.

Lyra couldn’t even bury herself in her work to save herself.

A dull ache constant, pressure onset behind her eyes-threatening for them to bulge. Lyra was close to begging for someone to pull the trigger by the end of the first week, she hadn’t hit the bottom of the fathomless pit after Muunilist but now with time to reflect-without true danger raining down upon her. There was more than enough time to dig deeper.

No, her mind was a dark theater, and it’s playwright crafty.

Lyra was still staring down the Sith Spawn Irveric in her mind, hand on the saber when it he had snapped. Worse yet she had stared back in to her own eyes, seeing his revulsion-something had changed. Raising her arm, her entire form shook..she looked upon a stump, her hand..was gone. Jagged bone protruding, fresh blood burned hot and she could faintly hear the drops hitting her chest plate.

There was no explanation besides her failures and the shadow hung in the back of her mind. The weeks had become debilitating. There were no nails to sharpen on the board, she was already on her knees, kicked and whipped; cut down to the bone, bleeding out. She wanted to sleep but it seemed to no longer exist. Lyra was a walking corpse when she caught her reflection , when another night left her with no rest. Trauma, they had called it trauma and when the pills had done nothing and no vice gave her an edge. Lyra had stopped reporting to sick call, dark bruises growing-every night she shut her eyes it was some new macalation of this presence. A conqueror brought to heel, though she didn’t consider her much of one. She was losing the will to raise her chin.

Another night they had her on her back, heel crushing her throat. Lyra hadn’t lasted long in work and took herself off staff, if only temporarily-her skin was crawling. She wasn’t fit for the field, even after she had been outfitted for the wounds she had sustained. Two hands to toil but a mind toeing mania had no place in command. The Order couldn’t suffer her lapse. When she had reached the worst, when she had snapped out against an innocent man; it had been plain vicious as she laid him low with words like knives. Appw’rii had been her witness, the one to call her out. When had her Captain started to fear her...? It was something minuscule, one might find no fault in or second thought but there had been too many eyes watching amidst such a simple slip up.

Her temper was one thing but that had been most uncharacteristic and Lyra had excused herself entirely. In fatigue there was no guilt, maybe she should have just asked for help..

That night she laid down, she had placed a cold calm hand on the ankle of her assailant, the one that wore Irveric’s face. She could stand those visions, he was killing her softly and she had expected it. Lyra was tired, and she had twisted deeply until the things dispelled and saw past it. The thread tied around her neck-a noose pulling her into consciousness. Heaving for breath set upon by a cold sweat, tangled in the sheets of her bed. Lyra knew she had to go to simply go, delirious as the thought was, she had to. With only a whim to follow, it was the only thing that made sense when the ground itself shifted like a serpent these days.

She had become a slave to this madness.

The shuttle and pilot she commandeered would not be missed, a simple jump to the rotting back water world. The woman had stared long at the map until she had picked the coordinates wearing her noose silently. Lyra was far too gone now to air the side of caution and she jumped in with only a pack and her rifle to accompany her. Her orders to the spacer were, simply not to return unless contacted. There was no fear, but a primal instinct to seek out. Lyra welcomed Sybilla back with a single breath, she was the predator stalking at the back of the soldier.

The woman hacked through the overgrown and the wilds of the Phaeda. Chipped away under the pressures, armor caked in the mud. Seeking out the epitome like a hound sniffing out it’s prey until she barely could stand. It was there on the horizon unseen by the eye, but she’d turn over every stone until she found it. Moving under dark skies like a ghost, the ranger had become something sub-human. Any resistance met with the wrath of her blade when she had run out of ammo. The woman had burned through clips with impunity until there was just her and her blade, a clumsy undertaking-but there was a feral act behind each hack and slash.

It was weak, but she knew the same hum of the darkside when she came upon the overgrown ruin. The green hues of the world tinted and marred by it's hidden presence, she couldn't appreciate the land which she stood. The hunt was had consumed her. Her presence was not one she sought to mask, whatever had led her here..well it was only the beginning.

Avernus

 

[Avernus]

Lyra's presence assaulted the psyche with an undeniable tension. It was kind metaphysical rigidity one could feel in their chest. Every swipe of the blade that sundered the vegetation, the tension grew. Seeded within anger, frustration, and frantic confusion. Exquisite. 'I'm nothing like him.' was something Avernus probably imagined she believed. They were of much the same struggle, the same energy. Morbidly magnetic, the senseless retention of suffering and torment. He needed not to call further, he knew she could feel him near, even if she wasn't quite sure what that feeling was. Perhaps she was, but he doubted that'd make the reveal any less jarring.

From the obscurity of the shadows that lay just beyond the light that poured into the ruin from the singular fluorescent lamp he'd brought with him, he waited. Leaned against the wall, his eyes closed while his mind focused on the closing in of her presence. Vague visual inclinations flooded through his mind. He could see her approach in sudden blurry frames of concept. His eyes crept open just in time to catch her descent into the chamber. Something was different. The subtlest shift in her stride, her gait, her posture even. In such a short time, had some much happened? Such perception was not possible before. This new vessel was showing promise.

"Sybila," he addressed, creeping out of the large swath of nothing beyond the reach of the lamp. His voice sounded nothing like it once had, the nasally posh tone was replaced with something much slower, smoother, and lacking in any uppity diction. Where once gold rings had stared from his visage, cerulean irises had taken their place. Crimson had become olive, black had become blonde, rough had become smooth. Utterly unrecognizable aside from the commanding aura and familiar presence. There was no telling if that was enough for her to put the pieces together herself. She didn't look like she'd been sleeping, as intended, so her perception wasn't likely up to speed.

The lack of any flamboyant ostentation meant that the most glaring tell was absent. Dark fabrics and long, draping fitting didn't have as much of a 'stand-out' quality as red feathers and full bodysuits. She probably thought him dead, or otherwise indisposed. There was only a short time where he was truly absent, lying in the muck of Dromund Kaas with only his hatred keeping him tethered to the mortal world. Even in such a state, little went beneath his notice. Even now his mind probed through the important memories, passively prodding the secrets and insecurities of their hiatus. A familiar feeling, having one's mind pilfered on a constant basis. Was that enough of a tell? Or was she too tired?

It was all part of the game.

Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt​

 

[Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt]

// Location : NIO Space, Outer Rim Territories, Cademimu Sector, Phaeda
// Thematic : Tourniquet

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Facets cut from the same presence she had experienced in the wake of Muuninlist, unseen but there stalking the grass-drilling into the center between her eyes. A dark presence that had no issue with invading her mind space, that tore and sundered her peace. It was just stacking further pyre that was built in her chest, the energy to push back unfathomable-she was being led by the nose but she was dragging a Jackal in one hand ready to put the sensation to rest. Trigger finger itching, feathering it dangerously without the practiced discipline her rank required. Deranged was a fair assessment of her condition, the woman slipping through the temple. Her boots scraping and dragging against the stone.

The light hummed and flickered across her HUD, the solar lamp drawing her in like a moth to a flame. The presence there, she was a slave to this hunt. Raising the barrel of the rifle, the soldiery persona shred as she hoisted it up blindly. Her form quaking, armor cast in the earth and the precision gone. Sybilla found herself staring down the line of red dots the A.I offered on the screen at the man that emerged, far to manish and clean cut.

The whispers that echoed between both ears knew things weren’t so simple, gold was his shroud...Sybilla knew him but could not summon face or name, the closer she peered the more the facets grew and took shape..the screaming nature had tempered. A name threatening to tumble off her tongue, but she kept the blaster aimed. A smear of a distraction, she had seen what little good a gun would do in the wake of a Sith.

He knew her name, and she stalked forward, each step a heavy thud against the temple. Lyra may have concerned herself with the greater game, whom had he obtained such a name from; something cold and calculating. Now she was only interested in retribution..but sharp pain seized her mind and her gait failed-stumbling and dropping to her knee. A gauntlet flying to touch her helm, as if she could reach her mind. The slip of her memories..The servo they had outfitted, dragging down the durasteel forming into a fist before her vision threatened to darken. Summoning any scrap of mental fortitude to cease this pilfer, enough had been taken from her in the weeks following.

What may have been seconds felt like eons and all she had was the erratic breath, she was constricted under these plates. Something begging to release far more greater, that deep dark little pit she never wanted to acknowledge, herself in the fathomless pit-caused by this soul. Sybila raised her chin, hand slipping beneath the seal-a solid click and hiss filling the ancient room as she pulled off her helmet. Somewhere through the throes of accounts and report, wasn’t he supposed to be dead..? Her damned gazed falling on the politician, the wolf himself.

“You dragged me out this far..? Explain yourself...master isn’t it?” Sybila acknowledged, disbelief beyond her in this state. It was something to be accepted humbly, her demons were not gone. She could not deny the feeling in her gut. She knew and with absolute bitterness admitted to herself, this is what he did. Her second knee falling into the stone; far too tired to rise before him. Contempt was buried under all her layers, she remembered his threat well enough. The phantom pain creeping up her spine. How much farther could she go, if this was his hand; she had been played. This was all just another lesson.

Avernus