Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private They'll Clap When You're Gone

It unsettled her to be wrong. It wasn't just being corrected in front of her people, although that, too, was horrific in its own separate way. No, she was off-piste and had made the wrong read, and she was usually never wrong about people. First Ceyla, and now this. It was the wine, the nerves, the tyrant at her dinner table who intended to make her life miserable. Any or all of these things could have thrown her off. Cassilde didn't allow the horror to reach her face, instead nodding and looking down at the enormous butcher's hand now laid atop her own.

"As you say. I'll not presume to read you," she ceded quietly with a polite smile.

That hand could have crushed her own like it was nothing; the thought did not escape her, and yet her own hand stilled beneath it, not bracing like the rest of her. She ought to have wanted it gone, to tense, to move away, but she didn't.

Then Mercy laughed. A terrible sound, and one that Cassilde felt was distinctly aimed at herself. There was something about it that was far worse than any shouted threat could have been. She had already decided, and as she reached, as she always did, for a sense of what the tyrant intended, she found nothing again. She was walking blindly into a horrible fate, with nothing she could do about it but arrange her face properly, in soft amusement, as if this were entertainment.

She would find out soon enough.

"Come, then. I'll take you somewhere quieter," she said, reclaiming a sliver of ground by opting to lead the way. As she stood, her head turned, her posture still high and elegant, and she addressed her people with the appropriate grace. "Stay, all of you. Finish your dinner. We have a private matter to settle." Cassilde imagined she would not stand before them in this room the same way again. If there was any of her that still stood after.

Leading Mercy out of the banquet hall, they went through a grand set of double doors beneath a marble archway, the clamour of voices pretending this was normal at their back, and then gone once the doors had closed.

She exhaled. Not performed, but escaped. Then continued down the corridor, illuminated by the soft light of glow lamps, with only the sound of trickling water from outside the windows punctuating their short walk. Cassilde opted for a small antechamber, usually reserved for formal exits from the antechamber, a place where one could go when they needed to step aside from a gathering.

More importantly, she did not want to take Mercy to a place filled with memories or personal effects, as she had little desire to be destroyed in a room made of who she was.

The antechamber was small and beautiful, cast in the same pale marble as everywhere else in the Alcyne. A couple of low chairs in pale wood and a settee in muted silver upholstery were arranged around a small marble table. In the corner was a console, with a decanter and glasses at the ready. The floor was pale stone, complemented by a rug to soften and provide warmth. A widow looked out onto the lake and the dusk beyond, the Tyranny still reflected in the sky.

And of course, a mirror.

"It's quieter in here," she remarked softly, with nothing on her face. It almost felt like relief, even alone with the weight of Mercy. She did not need to pretend now, and she could get straight to the point. "Whatever it is. Is it quick?"


Mercy Mercy
 
Cassilde Vortayn Cassilde Vortayn

Mercy only took a passive accounting of the room and its contents. It was less than even threat detection, it didn't go beyond basic shape recognition.

A predator who was entirely comfortable that whatever lay behind she could deal with.

Instead her focus was on Cassy. Her breath, her heartbeat, the way her blood flew through her veins. The anxiety and the anger and the fury and the fear. All of it balled up tight right under her skin, just waiting to be exposed by a single cut, if Mercy so chose. Was that what pleased her about her power?

The ability to force weak people to bend towards her will?

No, not really. Maybe at the start, when she had been closer to 10 than to 50. But age had a way of stripping you of ancient traumas or at least suppress them enough that you didn't recognize the patterns that came out of them.

"Quick... no, it is long." Mercy said casually as she watched her, leaning against the wall, seeing the reflection of the mirror. "I have decided that you will be my example, dear Cassy. Someone... who will show the other Duch'a and Ladies of this region, that you cannot rise against me and think there will be no consequences."

It was the same spiel anyone gave before a killing.

But Mercy had already said that there would be no killing here.

"So, I will take you with me. You will be my cupbearer. The Duch'a of House Vortayn, yes, but your administrators will run the estate while you... entertain me."

A soft smile there.

"And perhaps you will be useful. You have a way with people... even if you have been rather off-balanced today."
 
Her arms folded across her midsection as Mercy delivered her sentence, her eyes looking at Mercy through the mirror rather than at the other woman directly.

There was relief at first. Relief that she'd live. Relief that there wasn't a great, terrible violence happening in the antechamber. Just, relief. For a second, maybe three, before it immediately curdled in her throat. She was being taken, and in turn everything was being taken from her. Oh, the title stayed. The Duch'a of Callamar lived, but she would live as a vassal who poured and tasted drinks like a common servant.

As entertainment.

As an example.

Taken
to be at the beck and call of the most formidable woman she had ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

She should have fully recoiled at that last notion, but she didn't, and Cassilde caught it. A frown was granted purchase upon her face, her brow furrowing and mouth settling far outside the shape of a smile. She was exhausted, relieved, and upset. It was a lot to digest, and the Hapan had been under tremendous strain just keeping up appearances for her court. It wasn't a wonder that she didn't process her fate properly.

Off-balance, Mercy called it. Mortifying that it had even been noticed in the first place.

"As you wish," she finally replied, coldly. The only recourse left was found in bitter dignity.

Cassilde crossed the room, moving towards the console and the decanter, where she wasted little time opening the fine crystal and pouring herself a measure. Mistgrain, a local herb liquor. Bitter, cold, and austere. It wasn't the most luxurious drink that came from Callamar's delicate ecosystem, but it felt exactly severe enough for the situation. She poured a single measure into one glass, and then a double measure into a second.

It was a steady pour.

Good. She would need that.

"Then I'll be useful," she said, moving to the settee, taking a seat, and setting the glass with the larger pour on the table. Her own glass remained in her hand before reaching her lips. A taste of home, of the place she was about to lose in every sense but the wrapper. Yes, mistgrain was perfectly bitter for the occasion. "You'll find that I usually am."



Mercy Mercy
 
Cassilde Vortayn Cassilde Vortayn

So much went through Cassy in this moment.

Mercy didn't have to be a mind-reader to read it.

The way the temperature shifted and the heat raised through her neck into her head. The cold sweat. The way her irises dilated and shrunk. Mercy took it all in with a warm smile. It was not why she did the things she did. The individual didn't matter to Mercy. They were like... a dream. By the time Mercy left the room, she'd practically forget they existed... most of them, anyway.

But in the moment? It was certainly a pleasing benefit to the whole shindig.

"Oh, I am sure I will get a lot of use out of you." Mercy drawled lazily as she plucked the second glass up... then rather than immediately drinking from it, she took Cassilde's chin in her hand and guided her own glass to her mouth.

"Just a taste, cupbearer." Mercy drawled, leaning in there with an attentive look. "Who knows, the glass could be touched, even if the bottle is not."

These were things that Mercy didn't have to worry about.

But Cassilde didn't know she didn't have to worry about it.

It made it even more funny to Mercy.

Only once the taste was done did the Sith Lord finish her own glass with one swallow. All the while? Her hand was still clutching Cassilde's chin, as if she was a toy to hold or a petulant pet to correct.
 
Start as you mean to go on.

She did not struggle; Cassilde understood that fighting the hold would have been undignified, useless and revealing. She chose dignity in stillness, as she did in most aspects of her life. Her face would not flinch, even if her treacherous heart did, pulse thudding in her throat.

The mammoth hand gripping her chin now felt different. In the Long Gallery, Mercy's hand was the hand that had killed her mother and sister; it was the hand that said I could kill you. It did not say that now; no, now it said You're mine to hold. The other hand tipped the first taste into her mouth, her original gesture, volunteering on behalf of her own terrified cupbearer, now taken and used against her.

She drank.

She performed.

Flawlessly.

"It is clean, My Lord," she confirmed in a reserved tone of voice. If she were reduced to this woman's tasting-pet, she would be impeccable in her service. It was the only power left available to her. Cassilde would let her competency be her armour, and she would deploy it over every small and humiliating task given from here until the end.

And there would be an end.

Yet something in her could not meet Mercy's eyes, and it was the very same exhausted woman whose body relaxed too much into the grip, as if it belonged there. Her eyes chose to stare off to the side of the tyrant's head, at pale marble in place of the woman who now owned her. The Hapan caught it, refused it, and dark eyes recentered on Mercy's.

Owned, not broken.

"Hold my face all you like. It changes nothing about how well I'll serve you," she said, cool and unflinching in the face of Mercy's appetite for cruelty in dominance, "only how much you enjoy it."
 
Cassilde Vortayn Cassilde Vortayn

A smile there as Cassilde responded unflinching.

She was so good at this.

But that was the thing with prey and predators. If you challenged a predator, a true monstrous one, they didn't become cowed. They just pushed further and further.

Because that was what a monster did.

So Mercy's hand reversed, from her chin, to suddenly wrapped around her throat and before Cassy knew it? Mercy would have her suddenly pinned against the wall. As easy as if she was a toy, something made of air and wind and hopes, rather than the flesh and blood she really consisted of. Right now, in that moment, it didn't matter how heavy flesh could be.

It would feel entirely inadequate in the face of the nightmare.

"I will hold your face all I like, yes." Mercy said with a smile as she put down the glass with her other hand. As if they were simply discussing the weather rather than... whatever this was.

"But this is the real punishment."

The face of the nightmare leaned in, nose running against nose.

"You belong to me. Every piece, every fiber, every breath you take, every beat your heart pumps through your veins. All that you are is mine. You can be snarky, you can be a little shit, you can insult me to others, you can pretend like smiling through the suffering gives you control, but-" Her hand squeezed, fingers pushing into veins to cut the flow off of her brain.

"You will know, in your heart of hearts, that I own you and that from now until the day you die... there is a collar around your neck with a leash held by me."
 
The hand changed.

One second, she sat on the settee in her reserved defiance; the next, the room had tipped. It happened so swiftly that it was impossible to make sense of. The wall had slammed up behind her shoulders and skull, feet scrambling for a floor that was no longer beneath her. The tyrant's grip engulfed her throat, fingers and thumb meeting too easily; it was everywhere her neck was, still forcing her head up and stealing her breath.

Cassilde's body betrayed her, her own hand flying up to Mercy's wrist to just hold on. Slender, delicate fingers that wanted to live wrapped around a colossal limb that might have looked comical at any other moment. Legs flailing uselessly as if they were clothes on the washing line fighting against the breeze.

There was no mask. No smile. It was the wild, wet eyes of pure primal shock.

She knew how this ended. It was the Mirror Hall. The same look on her face that she had seen worn by her mother and sister in a single evening. She was on both sides, the woman who stood and watched and the body in the hand. This is what they felt. The animal in Cassilde's face found recognition, and the terror remained. No composure. Raw, honest flesh and the worst woman in the world watching her. There was nothing she could do. There was no control. There were no words.

And Mercy could do this whenever she wanted. For the rest of her life, Mercy's hand could find her throat.

This was her nadir.

A thin, strangled whistle left her throat as Mercy, nose-to-nose, read her aloud. She had spent her entire life making herself impossible to read, and in an evening, this monster had seen her, smiling through the suffering, and she would let her keep it like a toy in a cage. That was worse than the hand; the hand was fear. Mercy's words made her understand that she was owned.

The pressure grew, the edges of her vision growing dim until the room was a tunnel with only Mercy's face at the end of it. It was behind her eyes, thick, swollen. Her heartbeat thumping in her own skull. Heat in her face. The voice that claimed her dipped underwater, muffled through the roar of her own pulse. There were grains, like stars in her vision. Cassilde tried to speak, tried to say anything, even the fragment of a broken word that she would have been ashamed of had it surfaced, but there was only the dry click of her throat working around nothing.
 

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