Dominion The Vault of Iron Will | TF Dominion of a Empty Hex

[Bido Roz’lyn]

ROLL: 4

BIDO ROZ'LYN/"DOG LADY"

A Foundation Storyteller

GEAR:
Flight suit
Personal Energy Shield
Sidearm
Back-sheathed short sword

Bido's sobs hitched in her throat as the blinding agony abruptly ceased. One moment she was wracked with pain, sprawled helplessly on cold stone; the next, a total silence fell over the chamber. Her ragged breathing echoed against the vault's walls. For a heartbeat she wondered if she had finally died. She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling—then slowly pried them open again.

She was not in the vault anymore. Warm light danced across her purple skin. A gentle sea breeze tousled the quills on her face. Bido knew this place intimately: the floating docks of Dornea's great ocean, her home. No fires. No screams. Instead, laughter rang out over sun-sparkled waves where sleek boats bobbed in the harbor. The air smelled of salt and blooming kelp-flowers, a scent that brought a lump to her throat. This couldn't be real… could it? Bido pushed herself to her feet with ease and realized in astonishment that her legs obeyed. There was no pain, no injury at all. She stood hale and whole, clad not in her battle-scarred flight suit but in a Dornean naval uniform, pressed and pristine.

A cluster of Dornean civilians waved to her from the pier, their faces clear and full of life. Life. People she knew – neighbors, old schoolmates – people who shouldn't be here. Bido's breath caught. These were faces she had seen only in memorial holo-images after the Bryn'adul invasion… yet here they were, alive and smiling. Her heart thumped in confusion and aching joy. How…? "No," she whispered, voice hoarse. "This isn't right…" But stars, it felt so real. She blinked back hot tears as one figure broke from the crowd – a tall Dornean man with familiar dark eyes and a gentle smile. Her father. He reached out and clasped Bido's shoulder proudly.

"You did it," he said, his deep voice warm with gratitude. "Because of you, none of it ever happened. We're safe, Bido."

She stared at him, uncomprehending. He pulled her into a tight hug. Over his shoulder, Bido saw more figures gathering – dozens of civilians approaching her with outstretched hands and grateful expressions. An elderly woman pressed a wreath of kelp-flowers into Bido's hands. A child smiled up at her through gap-toothed admiration. They began to chant her name. "Roz'lyn… Roz'lyn…" Adulation. Honor. Hero. Bido felt a swell of pride and relief flood her chest. She had never seen her people so safe, so happy. And if they were crediting her…

Memory flickered. A battle. Yes – hazy at first, then sharpening into brilliant color. Skies filled with enemy dropships descending on Dornea, and Bido screaming defiance as she met them in her starfighter. The scene played out in her mind's eye: she was a whirlwind of vengeance, mutilating one enemy craft after another with precise, whittling volleys. She felt again that old fierce thrill as enemy vessels helplessly tore apart piece by piece under her guns. No hesitation, no restraint – just pure wrath delivered from the laser cannons of her X-wing. She saw herself land amid cheering crowds after the victory, helmet tucked under her arm, face splattered with ash and a wild grin on her lips. This was the Bido Roz'lyn of legend – the avenger, the "Dog Lady" unchained, protecting her pack with bloodlust and malice.

A hot shudder of satisfaction ran through Bido at the memory. The voice of her father – or was it another voice, low and coaxing – murmured in her ear: "See what you are capable of? See what you have wrought by embracing your strength?" Bido's hands clenched around the wreath of flowers, crushing the delicate blooms. The scent was cloying now. For an instant, doubt and desire warred within her. She wanted this to be real – gods, who wouldn't? Her people alive and avenged, her old prowess returned in full. No guilt. No fear. Just glory and strength. It would be so easy…

A soft whisper drifted on the breeze, sweet as a lover's promise: "You do not have to struggle. You do not have to fight. You could have this, if only you let go." The words wound gently around Bido's mind. Let go… let go of what? Her pain? Her conscience? Her newfound discipline? Her heart pounded. The gentle chorus of voices urging her to stay was seductive. She felt herself start to nod, to accept—

—But as Bido turned her gaze over the idyllic scene once more, something in the corner of her vision caught her eye. Among the smiling Dornean crowd, a single figure stood unmoving. It was a young girl in a simple blue smock, half-hidden behind her mother's legs. The girl's face was in shadow. Bido squinted, and the child stepped forward into the light. Black eyes, glassy and lifeless, ringed by quills. The same eyes that had stared into Bido's own just minutes ago in the darkness of the vault, set in the ashen face of a corpse. One of the victims. Bido's stomach lurched as recognition and horror stabbed through the haze of contentment. In a blink, the dead-eyed girl vanished into the crowd – now all the faces were those of the slain. That elder with the wreath suddenly sported a fatal blaster wound across his chest; the cheering men and women were now bloodied, mutilated phantoms mouthing silent screams. Even her father's comforting grip had turned ice-cold and wrong – Bido pulled back to see his kind features sunken and corpse-pale, neck scorched by Bryn'adul plasma. He smiled still, but his eyes were milky and vacant.

Bido's breath caught in a ragged gasp. This was a lie. A beautiful, twisted lie. She staggered back, shrugging off the ghost of her father. Her wreath of flowers hit the dock at her feet, petals scattering. For a moment the illusion wavered – the happy shouts became distant echoes of screams. Bido's heart ached with longing and anguish. I could stay, a part of her pleaded. I could pretend none of it ever happened… Her eyes brimmed with tears as the little girl's dead stare burned in her memory. The truth was painful, unbearably painful – but it was truth. And this? This was the Vault playing tricks, tempting her with old comforts and old cruelties. It wanted her to let go of the principles she'd fought so hard to gain, to sink back into the avenging torchurer she used to be.

She would not.

A low growl built in Bido's throat as she planted her feet firmly on the dock. "No," she hissed, shaking her head hard. Quills bristled at her brow as she glared at the ghastly mirage. "No! That's not me anymore!" Her voice echoed across the water, cracking with grief and resolve. "I see you, Vault! This isn't real!" Bido's hands curled into fists at her sides. She felt anger, yes – but not the wild, intoxicating wrath of old. This anger was cold and clear, bolstering her failing courage. It was the righteous fury of a woman defending her soul. "I will never bring dishonour and catastrophe to my people again," she snarled through clenched teeth. "Never again."

With that final declaration, Bido rejected the vision with every fiber of her being. The world around her seemed to shudder. The bright Dornea sun dimmed and the fragrant breeze died. One by one the figures before her faded into cinder and dust, blowing away on an unfelt wind. Her father's silhouette lingered the longest, sad and forlorn – then he too dissolved into nothing. The golden light guttered out, replaced by darkness. Bido squeezed her eyes shut against a sudden whipping gust – and when she opened them, the stone chamber had returned. The illusion was gone.

She was back in reality, collapsed on the cold floor exactly where her broken body lay. The transition was so jarring she nearly lost consciousness. At once, white-hot pain knifed through her from pelvis to chest. Her earlier numbness was gone; now every breath was like fire in her broken spine. It hurt so damn bad… but she was herself again.

Summoning what strength she had left, Bido raised a trembling hand and balled it into a fist. She banged it against the floor – once, twice – creating a dull thump to attract attention. "Hey!" she rasped, her voice echoing softly off the vault's stone. "Anyone… anybody out there? I'm down… here." Each word was a spear of pain through her back, but she forced them out anyway, fueled by sheer stubbornness...

 

[Tarra Vos]

Feet spread apart, the black-armored Storm Trooper's shoulders rose and fell as it remain upright where the pain wracking it had left them. The source of the agony had gone, but Tarra still felt its lingering effects. After all, half of it had been through her own effort; this cursed place could only take back what it had brought, not her contribution. Slowly the fingers curled and uncurled. It ached to move, but it at it wasn't liquid agony any longer.

As the pain dulled, the empty chamber took on a more familiar form. The hanger deck of an Imperial destroyer. Various Officers and Troopers alike strode purposefully across its clean deck plating. Mechanics dutifully maintained and replaced ship parts off to one side. Cargo was slowly slid over head or carted -- loadout for a mission, perhaps, or merely supplies intended for a nearby base. A brief announcement for someone else was broadcast through the hanger for those without a built-in receiver. It was... entirely normal. As things had been. Orderly.

Tarra felt something strike her right shoulder before two other, dark-clad Troopers stepped into view on either side. They didn't have their helmets on, of course. This was friendly territory. Their smiles caused some of the tension in her body to ease. Their voices calling out to her to stop spacing out and join them cause the knot in her belly to unravel. They continued on toward the transport ahead, no doubt expecting her to follow. Why shouldn't she follow? They were part of her platoon. Her squad. The closest thing she had to family.

Another presence saddled up along side. The Officer didn't wear armor like them, but even his countenance seemed buoyant. Tarra turned her head to look over at him from inside the helmet. He made an uplifting comment about the unit. They worked well together. Accomplished everything they set out to, and the Empire had great expectations for them this next mission as well. They even chuckled and gave her a wry smile followed by an explanation -- apparently he was wondering why she'd already put on her helmet.

"The mission's not over," she replied dutifully. A Shadow Trooper didn't remove their helmet during a mission. Anonymity. The Shadows. It was their task to become the darkness and go where none other could. It was the reason they existed. And despite everything telling her everything was fine now, Tarra couldn't bring herself to believe that.

That, perhaps, hurt worst of all.

A Foundation Storyteller​