The Providence of Pain [Isolda]

[Reverance]

​

Coruscant

Manarai Mountains

Temple of Vahl


His feet drew his weight lazily upon the stairs of the Temple of Vahl. Each step was a question to his purpose, the sounds of his own inner thought rebounding against the thick mental layer that so often prevented extraction. Why was he here? In earnest, he wasn't sure. But he had heard the words, felt the sting of their grating incessant scrapes upon the mind. A molestation that resisted removal. Come, it stated, free of identity and free of tone. Like color not yet described, a dimension beyond the visual capabilities of those trapped in the lower levels.

The stone beneath his feet felt sacred and old, something recycled and recommissioned into greater and more significant purpose. Columns of old roman antiquity gave hints to a more regal and upstanding significance, an odd juxtaposition from the rock outcroppings to which they were mounted. And as he cleared the final stairs, he laid eye upon the structure itself and the nearly naturalized Manarai Mountain landscape in the background. Water surged, rain fed, down the mountainscape as currents pulled stone from surface like teeth from gums.

His pace was slow and methodical. He had survived countless war efforts for the One Sith, leading the charge upon Manaan in he destruction of Ahto City and the proclamation of the planet. His Legion Yun'do, behind the veil of his puppeteer strings, led the charge against Kashyyyk, utterly destroying the stronghold with ease and assisting with the reclamation of Kachirho. A victory for the One Sith in both respects, he even helped to repel the invasion of Prakith through the implementation of more technological means. And yet, for all the laurels and accolades, he felt the chronic pull of dread against his shoulders. Despite the successes, he felt that more would required.

Soon enough, he would know why he was called to this place. The certainty of that nearly overwhelmed him, as he entered the hallowed temple.

[member="Darth Isolda"]

 

[Darth Isolda]

[member="Reverance"]

The Chosen of Vahl would stand beside a scrying pedestal. There, upon her hands, lay a perfectly spherical pontite crystal. It was as large as two fists, lightly pulsating in a powerful aura. Isolda had plans for this crystal, one that would join the designs of a tower that would be used to enhance her farsight and darksight capabilities.

The Hand of the Dark Lord would find Darth Isolda in this act, his powerful figure cutting a large image as he would come towards her. They were deep within the atrium of the Temple of Vahl, surrounded by Nihil smokestone pillars, memory stones, and softly glowing lumestones.

He would feel a powerful dark presence in the Force Nexus that had been created with the sacrificial death of hundreds of thousands souls. Those who would be drugged, converted, and then willingly present their lives to the Goddess in order to keep the Faith. This was only enhanced by the presence of the souls of those of the cult of the Terrible Glare. Having been funneled into the large pyre that lay outside the temple, their presence would only saturate the area with a darker haze that one would wonder if the misama was an illusion or a tangible reality.

The closer the Hand would close the distance, the sooner Isolda would gently place the sphere of ponite upon its pedestal.

"We are honored by your presence," her voice would pour out in a thick throaty sound, those silver eyes kohl lined eyes panning out to study the powerfully built Sith.

 

[Reverance]

The darkside twisted upon him, a former and slithering lover beaten back for it's advances. He could feel the cold coils swarm his bare skin. Despite his typical practices and war preparedness, he had decided to don neither armoweave cloak nor war-torn armor. Instead, he wore a black flack vest. Tattoos, black with a green sheen, and scars topped his skin from the top of his hands to the shoulders and along the throat. Beneath the vest, upon bare chest, it would be more of the same. His black hair was tied back in a knot, slick as if recently washed, and a healthy goatee was forming upon his chin. He wasn't one for the sort of discipline so often seen in military camps, regarding the maintenance of grooming standards.

While Gabriel hardly stood the taller against the foil of the Eye, he outweighed her by nearly 100 lbs. An imposing figure of muscle cut from stone, his strength and speed far surpassed what seemed possible by his form alone. He was battle hardened, wad if dough turned into chiseled rock from battle, and he longed for its touch and embrace one more. The slickness of blood, the slip of gore, those agonal breaths and wails and woes: distractions that turned mind from purpose towards more desired times. He refocused himself as he looked quietly upon the Eye of the Dark Lord. Her power emanated from her like heat upon burning coal, nearly visual.

He was, in truth, honored to be at the site of such awe inspiring misfortune. The floors felt swollen with presence, as if built upon the early graves of those who came before the Chosen of Vahl. He had very little experience with the group and could hardly relate to their zeal. But he could appreciate goals and the drive that could be produced from such zephyr and faith and obsession. After all, he treated power and change in much the same way.

The universe was a complicated place. He had moved through the limelight from planet to planet, the force spewing life from the faucet only to swirl the drain. And as much as the Jedi tried, they couldn't seem to stop it. Not against the One Sith and most assuredly, not against the Hand. Yet, he didn't have the foresight that [member="Darth Isolda"] was so often characterized, as if merely rumors and hushed words spoken in dark circles were given life through her figure. He envied that sort of power. As crimson eye drifted upon the orb before glancing back towards the woman of such renown.

"What do you see...in such things?" His words were laden with genuine curiosity.

 

[Darth Isolda]

That sunken blank gaze of the Chosen of Vahl would slowly swivel in an eerie drift of her neck, the dark locks of ebony hair flanking the bruised and tattooed visage. Long bony fingers would reach out from under the drape of the black glistaweb cowl she wore, and off in the distance, at the edge of hearing, polyphonic whispers would start to rise in volume. Chants in the Sith tongue, kissing and drifting like ethereal secrets from the beyond.

There would come a subtle lift of her lips, an upward perk that would express subtle note of amusement.

" A plan. A purpose. " came her throaty reply, her torso turning towards him as she would slowly drift her way down towards [member="Reverance"] . Bare feet would kiss polished obsidian floors, drawing her closer to the powerful figure of the Hand of the Dark Lord. Silver eyes would drift across his chiseled features, dancing over the scars that told a tale of sacrifice and devotion. Admiration would dance upon the angular face of the Eye.

Yessssss…. The Goddess after all, had a plan. A purpose.

It was all meant to be.

"Destiny, my Lord." came Isolda's coo, the priestess of Bogan coming to a stop mere feet from the powerful figure of the Hand.

"The cogs are moving. Her will remains. " she spoke of the Goddess of Vahl, that Bogan entity that the Ember of Vahl would liken to be a living representation of the destructive nature of the Darkside of the Force.

"A glimpse of His vision, His truth blessed. Just like yours, Reverance."

The Force would surge within the farseer, those silver eyes seemingly turning into reflective mirrors. Words came to mind for the woman, resonating as polyphonic telepathic thoughts as her probing mercurial gaze went to bore upon him, searching for tidbits of information as shadows went dancing across her mind, that deep dark abyss opening up it’s mauls to bring forth that which desired to consume the seemingly presence of the man before her.

"Yes...One of two."

 

[Reverance]

A plan...a purpose. That was good, he thought, as he stared into the eyes of the Eye, the swirling flesh over sealed socket suddenly furiously itching. She continued to move closer to him, arguably one of the more destructive tools within the Dark Lords arsenal, and Gabriel could feel the sweltering mixture of attraction and confusion. Not attraction to her physical coil, but at the prospect of her far reaching capacity and corporeal connection to the Dark Lord, he couldn't help but feel a swathe of envy, residing deep in the chasm where his heart used to be. Or perhaps that was merely the tale he uttered at night, to convince himself of the righteousness of his deeds and actions. The path to hell is paved with good intentions, he remembered, but was the path to redemption paved with evil acts? The opposite had to be true: After all, he was merely a man, hell-bent on creating a world that he had no desire to live in.

"What if I don't believe in destiny?" In truth, it didn't factor in for him. An agnostic upon it's manifestation, it would neither hurt nor heal. Destiny was reserved for those who felt the need to appreciate the destination. He existed outside of it. A human would just as well conjure importance in the daily lives of bacteria and micro invertebrates. Nevertheless, he entertained the prospect that perhaps, this path he trudged and cut free from flesh and bone, was one he was meant to stride upon. If for just the sake of the conversation. But then she spoke of vision and of the Dark Lord and Bogan. He knew enough of the Vahl philosophy to know there metaphysical attachment to the concept of "her" and it's relation to Bogan. And then, she spoke of the "One of Two," a phrase that stopped in mid mental step.

There were very few in the universe that knew of his affliction. A disease whose treatment was blood and sinew and sacrifice. Something well guarded and kept hidden away, only truly mentioned once, upon escape from Manaan with Matsu Xiangu. It amused him, for the briefest of moments, but then recalled her attachment to the Dark Lord and the title she was given. While he couldn't begin to understand her powers, he could find jealousy and envy at the presentation of them. [member="Darth Isolda"] was dangerously close now to the Hand of the Dark Lord and spoke words that teetered upon a fine line, as the knowledge was something he considered a weakness. But where the urge to lash occurred, he bit down and swallowed such fleeting notions, with no true mental of physical manifestation of such struggle. Instead, he closed the distance between the two, as he tilted his head. The crimson eye deflected to the orb before turning back to the Eye.

"What is the Vision then...where do my steps lead me?"

 

[Darth Isolda]

[member="Reverance"]


[SIZE=10.5pt]"It is the Goddess's will that matters, Reverance. And She has a plan for you." [/SIZE] there was such certainty in her voice; conviction. The corners of her mouth would perk.

[SIZE=10.5pt]"Yours is a path that will bring forth a new facet to His vision." [/SIZE]She would breathe conviction as she breathed power. But why not be? She was, after all, the vessel of the Dark Lord, the one that He used as his conduit -- the only one to directly be connected to him in such an intimate manner.

She was his voice among the equals of Voices and Hands.

Studying him, she would cock her head to the side as if listening to something in the distance. Her silver eyes would eerily swirl, and it was apparent she was sinking into some sort of trance.

"̵A͏ s̨to҉r̛m̕ kep͠t͢ at͢ ͏bay.̕ ͡ A ͠c͜o̵ld͞ fire͟.̢"̧ incomprehensible words would flow from her mouth. Suddenly her face would swivel up to meet his.


It was then that her eyes would start to take on a black sheen. Dark like solid black mirrors that would reflect back, not something to fall into, but something to show one the truth.

In those eyes, Reverance would see a miniature reflection perfect in every detail like a black cameo. Then the image would split, doubling into two distinct forms. One cast in blood. The other a vessel as much as she. They would superimpose over his face until settling into a new form.


"A̷ ̛b́l͏oo̧d p͠rice҉ ̕paid.͜.." ́There is always a blood price for Her console. But it appears that Reverance had already paid that long ago.

How curious...

"͝Y̧ou͟r ͢pa҉th҉ ҉i͘s ̶c͠as͟t in ̸bloo͢d. ͢F͝org̕ed by ̴sac̕r̨ífice. ̴ T̷e̵m̛pe҉red by͜ ̴a̷ǹ iro͘ǹ w͠ill.͞ ͝Hi͏s̡ ̡Wi̕ll.̷ "

 

[Reverance]

A plan for Him? He smiled at the idea of it, thinking it was good that someone knew what was happening, standing within the circle and watching the world swirl about it, an eye cemented within the hurricane. Power drew from the ether, finding [member="Darth Isolda"] the rod to which lightning bounced. As the ocean washes upon the shore, so did the will of the Dark Lord upon the Eye. Algae and foam left upon the high mark, shells and crustaceans skittering about in the recession of the tide, eyes changed in their transfixed position on the Hand of the Dark Lord. Staring into those eyes, he watched the scene unfold, gathering the rhythm of the seance into something that made sense.

Her words were uttered in drowned out tones and words he didn't understand, though truthfully he didn't need to. One can hear the music of Bogan without understanding the language, and can divine the intent. In the same vein, the words encircled the utterance of his favored topics: sacrifice and pain and blood. Not favored for any dictated preference, but more for the notion that such things encompassed him. Without it, he was merely the husk of what was once a man, thrown to the tide for appeasement. Appeasement for the continued cycle, that blood should feed the monster so that the man can still exist. But in the feeding, the man finds transformed figure in the mirror, resembling a monster more than what he once preferred. And in the darkness, he decides that he likes it.

"I have...dipped my hands deep into the maw and ripped apart such empyrean sacrifice..." He held his fists out, relaxed and palms upward, within inches of the Eye. His crimson view followed the tattoos upon his arm, as if seeing it for the first time. "They are entrenched in blood, the likes of which can never be clean..." At the sudden realization, the acquiesce of the soul to the captor and brother, he blinked steadily in acceptance as lifted gaze bore down once more upon the prophet of Vahl. "His will...his vision...my hands."

 

[Darth Isolda]

[member="Reverance"]

Isolda would tip her head back to stare upon Reverance's carved visage. She gave a pause, her neck and head rotating lightly to the right to study the man further with an almost eerie manner, as if inspecting her scrying bowl for what she sought for.

Those tattoos slithering over her skin would pulse, throb, and slowly cut flesh like thorns as beads of blood fed the sacrifice of flesh to the Bogan Goddess of Vahl. At the corner of her mouth, another upward would perk. Images would crash into her mind, fragments of prophecy.

"Y̕o̢ur ̕p̀ąth is to b̨e t́ha͜t̶ ͜I̵ron F͢is͟t -̵- ̧" ͜ came her throaty reply, so assured and convinced of those words that it would roll off her in an almost tangible cloud of the Darkside.

Truth.

"̡͍̫͓͔͙H҉̥i̭͇s̥̗͎̯̦̪̮ ̱̯͢W̤͙̹̰͕̣̺r̗̞̥a̯̦̞͎͞ṯ̣̻͇͜h.̮̠͕"ͅ ̝̪̙̯̱͍̰̕


The Eye of the Dark Lord told the man, her voice a poly-phonetic thrum of whispers. As she stood still, the void of her gaze following the swirling crimson and shadow thorned aura that was Reverance.

 

[Reverance]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQxjgT2g8xk​

A crimson eye chased the swirls and throbbing and pulsations with lackadaisical interest, an eye too slow to follow and content to soak in the unfocused changes in rhythm. Her reply, sultry and full bodied, spoke words he had longed to hear, as if being giving title for work already completed. He couldn't help but smile as he straightened his posture and breathed in the air of the world and temple around them, renewed vigor and revitalization in the redefined purpose. There had been, historically, only a couple individuals given the title of Wrath. While he was the epitome of calm and collected, he couldn't help but feel the swell of pride at such announcing of title. Taken in the swift mannerism of the Eye, he felt a longing that he couldn't fight, as his hand lifted and he pressed his luck. Power flows downhill, as they say.


His hand moved to casually deflect banged hair from the face of [member="Darth Isolda"] as he stared intently not at the individual, but through her. Her power was the only thing that truly interested him. "And where does that land me, in her grande scheme?" His gaze shifted towards the blackness of her eyes and bruised visage, looking deep into her vision of himself. "To whom...do I bow?" He wanted to now the extent of his jurisdiction. Did it span the limits of the One Sith's domain, as the rank had often done in the past, or were their strings attached to such reward? Perhaps he didn't care about the answer so much as the action of posing the question. Perhaps...he just wanted to touch that power, only if for the tactile sensation.

 

[Darth Isolda]

[member="Reverance"]

​

​

Her hand would move with an eerie deftness. Her slender fingers would reach up to snap and curl around the wrist that would slide her bangs away from her face.

Her grip was fierce, the inky dipped skin lashing upon his. Power would roll and then bleed against the man. Reaching much like an incorporeal body that would seek to pierce his skin. Miasma would gather, and in that moment her tattoos would writhe like liquid darkness around her alabaster flesh. It would ripple in complicated patters across her skin, her eyes now a kaleidoscopic storm cloud across a gilded sky. Lightning would flash in her glittering eyes.

And deep within Reverance, he would feel an answering thunder.

For Isolda was a void of what she is not, and crave the most: passion, desire, the fire of life, the capacity to feel. The scent of drugging spices was thick in the air, her mind slipping; moments of a life flashing before her eyes. His life.

Power would summon. The Vessel was she. And in she, the conduit for the Dark Lord to make His will known. The pleasure pain of the intensity of the Dark Lord's influence would transfer from Isolda to Reverance.

She gave a cry out, nails digging into his skin in tiny bloody crescents. But her mouth would shape only words of instruction and demand.

"Y̸ou ar̀e͢ ͘bo͡ưnd ͏to the O͠ne. His̸ ̸W͢rat̢h. " ̨ a choir of voices would echo from her lips, "͢Answ̧e̸r̡ ҉to̷ ҉H̨im.͡"̸
͏
Said the Vessel of the Dark Lord.

̵"̕And Him̷ a͏loņe͢.̨" ͠

 

[Reverance]

Bared teeth was a sign of many things in the animal kingdom. Fear, desperation, anger, anxiety. But for the newly minted Wrath, it was a pure expression...of Eephoria. Long ago, rewired synapses turned intended pain into something visceral and something carnal, something developing into the emotion far beyond pain: pleasure. And that would have been enough if not for the experience of the Dark Lords presence, that overwhelming bliss crossing the touching of skin, that over powering mix. He couldn't seem to place it, the power, as if a windmill running at hypervelocity, his eye glazed over at the notion of it, the pure elation of being overwhelmed by something far greater than him. It was...awe inspiring. He longed to be doused in it, and lit aflame.

The body of the Sith Lord moved, stripped frogs legs spiced with salt, as his right hand jumped up to meet the throat of the Eye. He broke free from the hold of the Dark Lord as he came to, crimson gaze taking in the bloody grip of the Darth upon his own wrist, sanguine and viscous fluid dripping down her fingernails. And what grip would have confined the Eye's throat would turn into something more resembling a caress, a ginger touch of flesh once more, as he searched her for something beyond the presence of the Dark Lord. But in the end, it was his power that piqued such interest and arousal in the Wrath.

"Is that it, then? What of you?!" His thumb would tap her throat, fingers wrapped around the back of the neck, as he presented no fatal threat. Just merely the reaction of a man cut and longing for it.

 

[Darth Isolda]

A visceral answer would come hissing out from the Eye of the Dark Lord, a carnality that would flare like twin corenas of suns, a light that would illuminate the dark orbs that were the Oracle’s eyes.

Her teeth would bare, the grip at her neck coaxing the embers of something far more primal. It was an answer to the power and strength the Wrath would radiate from [member="Reverance"] at that very moment.

That image of him would go twisting and burrowing within her mind like tangled vines, their thorns digging deep into her psyche to draw blood. An omnipotent strength much like that of The One.

Both were pillars of the Darkside, each grasping it like a lover in the throes of a dark passion. Being a Sith or a zealot of the Bogan Goddess meant that each would be attracted to that radiating presence.

Here, the half Vahla hybrid would see the man before her radiate with a pulsing crimson aura. Her Force sense picking up on the writhing mass of shadows and crimson that would almost kiss her own with its intangible presence. Yesss…

Thorns bit into her hands, her arms; they were all that she could grasp. The thorns bled her, searing her skin almost akin to that of a brand, splattering her gown in blood, the floor covered in minute crimson drops. The blood was hot. A crimson fountain of heat and life. The mists swirled. Her gown was black now, not black with blood, but simply black.

Seek the Divine. The One. Taste power.

It was a cup Isolda was all willing to imbibe. For power was the most intoxicating drink of all.

“You will join me... “ her chin would lift in anticipation, baited breath and with a feral quality.

“... For His Wrath is mine.” with an eerie strength she would jerk him forward, almost as if challenging him for that very purpose.

A testing. A melding of power and depravity as his shadow would loom over her expectant and near maniacal expression.

Alabaster skin trembling in a dark desire that went beyond the physical.

No it saturated her very core.

The eve would baptise Reverance to His glory. A blood price paid.

Flesh to flesh to the sound of madness.

 

[Reverance]

There was no love here, this had move far beyond that. This was something visceral and darkly wanton in the mingling of flesh upon sepulcher. The body of the Eye bucked against the newly proclaimed Wrath, the invitation to tighten his grip as the arch of wrist and thumb cocked her chin back. An inspection for the crimson eye, a feast for his senses.

He was entrapped now, reason removed from the equation as his passion and base needs took control of a body already moved to position, to lunge and thrust and encapsulate. To bring about a merging of skin that drew the simplest of questions: where did the Wrath end and the Eye begin - And as he tightened his grip and bared teeth against the clutch of her body, he suddenly felt the line blur, if not dissipate altogether.

Yanking her forward with the power of his physical brutality, the force nexus of the temple priming his aura to the point of cosmic contention, he pressed his cheek against hers. He felt hesitance veer its head, knowing full well where the ledge had once existed, but failing to care. He long ago had jumped off, crashing into the darkness and abyss that was Isolda. It wasn't just the Dark Lord in there, it was her too. It was the combination, it was the separation, it was the bloody mess that dripped from free hand, it was the thought of recent achievements, it was the thought of having her. The culmination birthed quaking tremors as his left arm flung backwards. In his outstretched hand, shreds of the ceremonial Vahl garment that once enshrouded the Eye fully. It might as well have been paper against his fury, to reveal sections of alabaster skin ornamented in ink. No unlike his own.

Letting out a growl, he smiled a dash of darkness and pressed his teeth out, the draw of breath against her flesh was mired in the pursuant consequence of his loss of control. He was a victim, willing and hands bound, as the cryptic miasma of the force nexus took him for the flesh he was. And flesh was but mindless thing now, seeking out flesh pressed so tightly against it.

"I will...have all of it!" Her power, her presence, her form. With that, she would find the press of her body against the flat of the table that once resided behind her, his free hand swiping to the ground what scrolls and tombs lay in unrest across the top. Cast aside in their wake, Gabriel paid them no mind. More animal than man now, he was beyond his own control. She had what he wanted in this moment, and soon enough, he would have it - and in this holiest of place, no less.

[member="Darth Isolda"]

 

[Darth Isolda]

There was a wildness in her black eyes that would match the wolfish grin that cut her face in two. Bare teeth would hiss out at him, the curve of her alabaster throat held in place by his large hand. She didn't stand down. No, she relished it.

A wild, raw, cry of pain mixed with anticipation, torn from her mouth as the lines of her body would twin with hard. Sparring not even a millisecond, a tattooed hand would also lash out, her left hand a blur of movement that would jerk him forward instead of away. Harnessing dark energies, she gave a cruel smile as the motion set them crashing at each other like unyielding battering rams.

Her dark laughter would echo, resonating along the smokestone walls; she took pleasure in the guttural sound of his voice, the way his aura flared in a brilliant light within her Force Sight.

How morbidly beautiful.

Time slowed to a crawl, thick and syrupy like good sunfruit liquor.

Thus Isolda, completely in tune with the dark side now, smiled. She caressed his his twisted scarred visage with her gaze. Pale skin pulled tight over his skull, the puckered line of scar tissue at the right along the fiery crimson orb to the left.

A sudden flurry of Force energy would go surging within her, feeding of the Wrath, rising like a sudden heated current of air; and she laid claim to it as the Dark Lord had taught her. Her focus was strong. Her will stronger.

She saw it in Reverance eye. It was clear. In turn, her own gleamed with the promise of violence and the threat of death, but there was more, too; in Isolda's obsidian eyes, there was a knowing.

There terrible beauty of the Chosen of Vahl's face, then. Her smile a predatory one, a huntress loving, relishing the hunt, the struggle.

No. She would have all of it.

And he would remember it well, in the flesh. In the mind. By body and by blood.

Time flowed once again and fingers would charge the Darkside straight into his skin, sorcery weaving thick to etch the flesh she held tight in her grip with black contrails of ink.

Blood would slice as they would sliver like serpents upon flesh. All the while, she continued to smile. Body bare. Open. Demanding with a sudden uplift and jerk to command him into position. There was a touch of madness in that grin, but here also seemed to be... something else.

It was almost a glow; not a literal one, but the sort of glow one might attain after reaching a goal, winning a bet or eating a good meal