Elation disappeared in a heartbeat, the deliciousness of Asvraal’s suffering replaced by a swell of fear as she found herself falling, the hands of fate clawing at her as she plunged into the void.
More pathways rose up at her from the darkness, silver threads rising at impossible speeds and sweeping past her, out of reach. She spread her limbs and lanced her tail in an attempt to slow her descent and direct her course, but this strange realm behaved differently from the known galaxy, the laws of physics and gravity different, if these were the effects of gravity at all. The notion of the universe rushing past her blossomed in her thoughts, causing a cry, a whimper to escape from her voice modulator, distant, ethereal. A wave of nausea washed over her and for what would be the first time of many, she fainted.
She fell for a long time. Hours. Days. She could not be sure. She found herself prisoner of time, on a loop, falling, screaming, crying, and fainting, then awakening to do it all over once more, even as memories threatened to abandon her.
Then there was the splash of bone-deep cold as she was submerged in water, the blacks and silvers of the ethereal realm replaced by a green, slimy murk. She clawed at the world around her, tail flailing, slashing, until she broke the surface of the swamp. Twisted tendrils loomed in her blurred vision like the tentacles of a Rathtar and she grabbed hold of one, sinking her claws into it. She climbed, hand over hand, kicking her feet as she pulled herself onto land.
She rolled to her back in the mud, the sound of her ragged, modulated breath hissing in her ears. She lay there for some time, struggling to quell the heartbeat hammering in her rib cage even as a storm of emotion and confusion raged in her mind. Slowly, it subsided, her heart rate stabilizing, as did her breathing. She sat up to find herself alone, swallowed by a thick fog. All around her rose the warped skeletons of long dead trees, their long limbs reaching out of the fog like skeletal hands. At her feet she saw the edge of a pond, or rather a bog, its sickly water thick with slime and moss. Sounds filtered through her helmet, the bubbling of water, the moan of the wind, the chirping and buzzing of insects, the shrill baying of some unseen critter. It all sounded hollow, as if she were disconnected from reality, witnessing it from across a distance, but movement overhead caught her attention, forcing her to focus. Great winged beasts circled overhead, their grey hide stretched over too much bone, their great talons slicing, razor-sharp fangs dripping saliva in thick, slashing drops.
She was alone. She did not recognize this place though it seemed all too familiar.
Then she felt it.
A presence in the Force. A sickness. Festering. Powerful unlike anything she had ever felt.
Aphotis was struck by an indescribable numbness, as if her feet and hands were asleep—but no matter what she tried, whether it was rubbing her wrist, shaking her feet, rubbing her thighs, there was nothing that brought back the sensitivity. She even missed the tingling pins and needles when blood was supposed to flow back.
Her second skin was sore, as if it had suffered from chafing for weeks on end. There were no oils flowing over it to keep it looking shiny, clean and healthy—some parts around the joints were so dry they formed cracks, making every movement feel like it was about to tear open. The mud and swamp slime had dulled the latex material beyond recognition, even turning spots of once pristine black into a sickly gray with wart-like bumps.
A dull throbbing pain coalesced on her upper back, prompting the tall woman to place her hands on her hips and stretch out. Bones and cartilage popped and crackled. A shiver ran over her spine at the thought of the symptoms of her gigantism coming back to haunt her. She ran a finger between the neck brace and her upper chest, and found that her neck could hardly move from stiffness.
The giant flying monsters leered at her, mockingly, waiting for her to fall down and to pick at her corpse. The witch tried hissing back at them, but her vocal cords felt like they were filled with straw. She dragged her heavy boots through the tar-like rot, seeking shadow within shadow under the skeletal digits of dead vegetation. Pinching her fingers together, she plucked once-wet, now dried-up, raven hair from her visor and flung it back to let it join the suffering bunch of strands that survived. .
Tir’eivra wondered if she had died all along, captive in some realm of the Black Hand’s making—much like her own Garden of Trepidations. Then it dawned on her. She could not consciously access her thoughts and memories that she had worked so hard for to preserve. All she could muster was a slow trickle like an hourglass and jolts of unwanted thoughts spurred on by instinct.
If she were dead, then why did the inside of her mask stink like bile? The putrid odor brought back echoes from her past. The Clan Mother looking over her after having peered at her own corpse for what seemed like an eternity. The first breath she had taken back then was in her reformed body held together by magick and Osasdii’s inky roots. The atmosphere on Tratlaum was pure fetid poison that almost killed her right after rebirth, it set her lungs on fire. She remembered the Mother placing the mask on her face and the immediate relief it brought, only for her to throw up inside of it. It had tainted the device forever, yet now that suffering served a purpose—it brought back some of her senses.
There was finally that prickling in her limbs that she yearned for.
Crawling on her hands and knees like an akk hound, she avoided the shapes of wings painted in the clouds of fog. An elongated skull, slender and feminine features. Her fingers grasped at the remains of a Twi’lek. There was a pang of fear in her heart, soon replaced by the comfort of touching a texture different from the sludge that was this swamp. .
’Asvraal.’
The name came back to her as she tossed the skull into oblivion. She could feel her blood boiling from vexation as she heard a dull splash in the distance. A smile formed in her eyes as the sound reverberated. She was angry, and then elated. Pressure pushed on her heart and sorrow soon followed. It had all happened so fast. What became of that man?
She balled her fist as she heated up every nerve and muscle in her body. Her head throbbed as she tried to call upon the dark side. It was so close, it was heavy and dampening and cold. But it did not obey her. It did not beckon her. There was a brooding darkness up ahead, but it warned her, a place reeking with corruption. Every breath felt like dragging herself through duracrete, a fever ignited in waves, clusters of agony drummed in her head, the tangibility of this dreamworld was slipping through her fingers.
Her mouth opened as nausea built up in her stomach, but she was so empty and dry that nothing came out. Only sour biting air pressed through her nostrils. She slithered further, her tail curling and pressing against the disgusting sludge. Something pressed against her body, she counted the pieces. A ribcage. She squinted and saw more bones. A graveyard, so many. Some had hair and decaying flesh still attached. Scales, mold-covered muscle, leathery skin. One skeleton was as large as a Hutt, another had eye-sockets like a Rodian and there were many that looked like Human remains.
Alarm bells rang. Veins pulsated. Her mask hissed in tandem with the spasm of muscles in her chest as she breathed rapidly. The squishy ground began to envelop her. Something crawled between her two layers of skins. Her eyes widened behind the dirty lens and she rolled over. She raked herself open with her own claws as she panicked, desperate to get rid of the deep, invasive itch. Aphotis tried to scream, only to produce an eerie silence, cut away by a static screeching through her helmet’s audio receivers. .
She gripped the corrugated hose of her facemask, ready to rip it out. Made out of the same living rubber, the symbiotic receptors made a desperate call for arms. Her tail coiled around her wrist and caressed her hand away. A lifeline, too vital.
Like a loth cat she jumped back on her feet. Blood trickled down from her limbs. The searing agony brought her back to the same nightmare as before. Her eyes welled up, but nothing spilled out.
The Sith slumped over, dragging her weighted boots further, a black hole of hunger, thirst and defeat carrying her steps into the infinite suffering as blood coagulated.
The horizon warped and twisted before the tall woman, who looked so small in these boggy wastes.
’My punishment, at last. At last. At last. Mine. Mine. Mine.’
Aphotis climbed up to her ivory tower within her shrunken domain and filed the misery in a cabinet. She reminded herself that whatever she endured, she could inflict upon another.
Hunched over, she fanned open her claws and raised them.
The crusted, rotten remnants of lips pulled back from blackened teeth in a rictus of exaltation as the Shadow observed the Sith Witch from afar as she staggered through the swamplands. Its one remaining eye blind, it witnessed her advance through the Force, her essence ablaze with trauma and anguish, every step towards its throne of roots a labor of resolve. Oh, it savored the sourness of her tormented aura, a violent euphoria sharpening the Shadow’s senses as it was filled with urges and desires it had not felt in eons, mortal desires long stricken from its black heart. Its breath, a deep ragged rasp like scrapping stone, quivering with ecstasy, it marvelled at this once proud creature, nigh on indomitable in her own right, beaten, broken down to her most basic instincts by its machinations. When she rallied, the urge to inflict pain and suffering granting her a second wind, a moan escaped the Shadow’s ancient throat.
She was reticent at first when she reached the boneyard, doubt lingering, dancing on the edges of her consciousness, but the sight and touch of the familiar grounded her, even if this familiarity was with the bones of the dead.
At long last, the child of Osasdii was within its grasp. Soon, the Shadow would be free to usher a new age of darkness upon the galaxy. With a wave of its decayed hand, its few remaining fingers rotten and bone-sharp, it commanded the Force, and the Force obeyed, hostage to the will of the dark side. Hostage to the will of the Shadow. There was a rumbling of earth, then a rattling and the bones around the area shuddered and clattered, levitating and rearranging before its new guest, forming a pathway of jagged bones.
“Welcome, child of anguish,” said the Shadow, its deep, guttural voice rumbling through the swamps.
The voice of death booming from all around Aphotis rattled her bones and drained the warmth from her blood. Eyes scanning the fog, muscles so tense that pain shot up her arms and down her back into her legs, she stood still, waiting, skeletal, rotting remains flitting through the air around her, surrounding her only to be dissected and rearranged by unseen hands, laid down at her feet. She followed the bones with her eyes as they paved a walkway above the muck leading deeper into the fog. She did not need to reach out with the Force to know it led towards the sinister presence. She could sense the creature lurking ahead, its immensity permeating the very air that filtered through her helmet, an aura of dread and pestilience, a shadow looming over the world itself.
As she took a step forward onto the path of bones, one of the winged creatures dove, its shriek painfully pitched through her helmet’s audio receptors. It cut down from the sky, fog swirling in tendrils around it, then it lunged at her, talons slashing, fangs snapping. She was quick to react. She spun on her heels, sidestepping the creature, dark side energy lancing from her fingers at the same time. The beast was a blur, far quicker then its size suggested, darting away and rolling free of the discharge. A bark from her right and a second creature flew at her. She ducked, one knee clacking against bones beneath. She never saw the third one, never felt it.
Long talons raked across her back, drawing blood.
The lacerating pain sent her mouth agape, spitting out the little fluid left in her body. There was a loud clang as the creature’s clutches reverberated against the durasteel air-tanks. She panted and breathed heavily, her shaking hands wanting to soothe her wound, but she could not reach it—having to support herself by leaning on her knees.
A grin crept over her face as she respired. Aphotis’s vocal cords produced a staccato of chimes that developed into a choking, shrieking, bitter laughter as she embraced the pain like it was a gift. She reminded herself of death, having experienced the slow ebbing of her own vigor and that of her symbiote multiple times, and yet it was never the same. The universe had been cruel to her, using her like a tool, turning her life on and off like a light switch—sometimes with a dimmer. But she had never understood the joke that it was, until now. Everything was a trial, a test, and they would forever get harsher. So she had better confront the fear of the inevitable ending.
Her tail, a most loyal appendage she had ‘created’ for herself, handed her the grime covered lightwhip, pushing the enchanted metal guard between her claw and knee. It was not asking.
The tall Sith raised herself up like the half-dead thing she was and clicked the activation switch. Her vision stretched out into a tunnel as the beast swooped down at her again.
Sizzle, crackle, pop
The weapon refused, merely a spark greeted her from under the mess that covered it. She raised a claw at the monster, but decidedly ducked before it reached her. Her wounds bit her, her spine snapped.
“Frack!!!” She cursed and screamed. She cursed. It dawned on her that she had not swore for years. But her voice worked.
The shrieking bird cawed, circling above her, thirsting for more of her blood as it nipped from its talons. .
The witch could not trust her brilliance to carry her through this. None of her thoughts could develop into a coherent strategy. Instinct was all that remained as she was stripped of all pride and planning. She realised her tail was the purest and most primal of her being. It made so much sense.
The Ryn it came from had been imprisoned for most of her life. Known as Barnasha, a seer both respected and feared by their nomadic tribe, once the apprentice apothecary of their Chieftain. Aphotis had offered the tribe her services to prove that Barnasha was evil and strong with the Force, that she was the reason for their suffering—not that she would have taken no for an answer. The Sith knew it to be a half-truth, she sensed it, and she knew this Ryn had unequivocally peeked inside Tir’eivra’s visions and dreams, almost beckoning her.
Wings clapped like thunder before the creature swooped down again. Tir’eivra’s tailtip swiped the emitter, flicking out dirt and mud from between the metal coils. She shook the hilt before trying again.
Crack-hum
A crimson lash burst out. The lash cracked and boomed like thunder, the Krayt Dragon pearl growling as if it were possessed. Her spindly fingers nuzzled the long hilt. Unpredictable waves began to form in the super heated plasma as she raised it. An impenetrable wall of sinister light formed. She let her tail dictate her moves.
. Barnasha Ratege had been expecting Alaisy Tir’eivra arrival, a woman from far across the Galaxy, responsible for countless Ryn deaths caused by her sickening experiments. Ratege was chosen by this Sith, she was willing to be slain by her. There was only one wish, that Barnasha herself could experience the Galaxy as part of the Sith’s path. It had always confused Aphotis, but the reasons dawned on her now. Despite the journey in carbonite, the tail remained intact and was compatible with her body, unlike every other Ryn she had spliced from. Thanks to this Ryn, Tir’eivra had ceased her experiments, she had saved her kind from the monster she was.
The Seer had been set free and lived on in her tail, having a will of its own and connecting with Aphotis’s instinct, fusing with the twin souls. Pain and suffering were lessons, binding spirits together in the Force. This nightmare Aphotis was in now taught her to trust her instinct more.
A wave of disappointment hit her, sinking her heart. Perhaps her alchemical trials were not as effective as she had once thought, one required so many more abstract ingredients than mere scholarly knowledge.
. Her tail twitched. Her hand pulled back and she stepped forward.
Clack
The tail leaned to the side and her body followed.
Krssst
The smell of burnt tar permeated through her mask as she rolled away. Aphotis felt the heat of the monster’s blood spray over her. The beast split in twain as its carcass landed on the skeletal vegetation.
Hiss
’So they do bleed.’
Electric-blue peered upward. She could see the birds scatter. But as soon as she raised her chest and straightened her back, she could feel the soggy soil shake under her soles. Something brushed against her boot, slippery and cold.
’Welcome, welcome, welcome.’ The thought kept repeating in her mind. Child of anguish indeed.
To the Shadow, the creature’s dying throes were like a lover’s kiss. It exhaled, satisfied as the creature’s life energies seeped out and faded from the Force, the dark side leaking from its every pore as it pushed its final breath. Shrieks cut through fog and sky, its siblings enraged, their loss and dismay feeding the Shadow and, much to its pleasure, it also fed the child of Osasdii. The beasts dove at her, driven not by hunting instincts but by sheer berserker rage. They crashed into her with utter disregard for their own safety. A maelstrom of teeth and talons, they hacked and clawed and gnawed, the savagery emanating from them like a forest ablaze in the Force, swallowing the witch whole which caused the Shadow to gasp in cold despair, for it could no longer sense her.
“No!” it cried, its ravaged lips curling back in a snarl, human emotions it had long forgotten swelling in its hollowed rib cage.
Then it sensed something intrinsically familiar. Within the blaze in the Force, a seed of darkness bloomed. Tendrils of dark energy lashed out from it at imperceptible speed, cracking like whips. Delectable rage died suddenly as the creatures came apart, torn to shreds, flesh and bones ripped and obliterated, blood spraying. From the gored carcasses the witch emerged, panting, blood-drenched, hair so tarred with gore it stuck to every surface of her body it touched.
The Shadow was taken aback as a wave of relief washed over it.
It lifted it’s rotten hand.
Like a veil pulled back, the fog retreated before Aphotis, swept away like smoke on the wind, revealing what could only be called a glade in the swamp. Only a knee-high blanket of mist remained now, swirling like reaching tendrils above the path of bones. It led into the glade and she found her feet, following it even as the sound of her ragged breathing echoed in her ears. The dead trees surrounding the glade were denser, larger, yet shorter, as if their growth had been interrupted. Indeed, their thick limb-like branches were cast downwards as if a greater source of life-granting energy lay beneath them then in the skies above, running across the swamp floor, looking more like roots. She realized that they followed the path of bones together moving in the same direction. Her eyes followed them to a mound of sorts, details indiscernible in the growing penumbra.
She tried to reach out in the Force but she found it permeated by corruption and pestilence. The dark side cloaked all around her.
The witch advanced on shaky legs, squinting for details as she drew closer. The roots coalesced around a sinister form. Another skeletal tree, stunted? Something caught her eye. A hand? She followed it up a bone-thin limb to a sharp shoulder. She bit back a gasp, realizing she was looking at a man. Another carcass like the others, dead, flesh and black robes tattered, decayed.
No, not quite like the others.
Roots and vines coiled around the man, over him, into him, borrowing through his flesh, holding him prisoner. Moss was growing on his bone-bleached, cracked skin. She leaned closer, fascinated.
She jumped back as he moaned, craning his jagged neck, head hanging loosely as if he were at the end of his strength, on the verge of death. His grotesque face turned to look at her. Half of it was grey scar tissue, an empty, drooping eye socket. Rot had reached the side of his face that had once been intact, lips ravaged by time, skin mottled with oozing pustules and boils, thin and stretched back over his skull, sparse strands of black hair and beard hanging in loose wisps. His one eye, locked on her, was clouded over by cataracts. Its gruesome lips pulled back in a vicious smile, revealing rotten and missing teeth. A familiar smile.
She pulled away, staggering back as she recognized him from the throne room on Velrahn. The Black Hand. Cyris Oscura.
“Welcome, child of anguish. Child of Osasdii,” he said, pleasure thick in his deep, rumbling voice.
The voice of death.