Session export: The Terror Within
Epilogue
*43 ABY, Months After Velrahn. Asog Temple, Aphotis’s Personal Quarters. Kasiya. * Aphotis had never seen anyone else rise from the dead, yet he had been there, Cyris Oscura in the flesh. She could still feel his arms on her back. It was an image she could not erase. His grimace slipping off, the body crumbling. Now he was pristine and had ascended, so different and yet just like her. Silver bridges of starlight fractured
The depths eternal Mouth of hate Face of disdain Slow decay Ashes
This man, this Cyris, she could now say his name without causing her own heart to skip a beat, without granting the Black Hand more power. As if the collar fell off her neck and was clicked onto his now. He was an instrument of destruction, chaos, transformation and evolution, just as Aphotis herself was. She had but to direct it at a target worthy enough. She had extended an invitation to visit the Asog Temple at his leisure, so that he could stay in range, but also feel welcome. Between the fear and hatred, she harbored respect for the raven-haired man and his Shadow. Not just for his power, but for embracing his monstrous nature, his downfall, his rebirth. Despite the corruption, there was strength of will in that skull of his, not one fabricated and walled off with thoughts—even Aphotis herself was guilty of doing such, using numbers and words like shields, her Ivory Tower, instead she could also lean into the cleansing terrors of her Garden.
‘Ironic.’ The ancient ship Asvraal so admired, piloted by the ghost he was so keen to find more about.
The Kessurian still served a purpose as a guide and motivator, a source of strength even in the oblivion that devoured him.
Her long, slick tail caressed her waist, clicking and snapping as it slid over the black skin, until it reached the spot on her abdomen which had plasma burnt through it. The phantom pain was still there, but the hole was closed, porcelain underneath the symbiotic layer had healed entirely. She moaned, the sheer sensitivity overwhelming her.
Droplets of water poured over her, bouncing off the essential oil-covered shine. The shower had no practical use, but it let the thoughts flow, and with it, her emotions. The Sith had cried over the millennia of sacrifice, feelings from Osasdii itself, catching up to her still, months later. The Children and the worlds that were obliterated. The suffering culminated within her heart, the harvester of sorrow that she was. They were all part of her, every fiber of their being, etched into her memory. Sometimes her own eyes flickered a brighter blue, much like a brimming flame, but cold, filtering the environment, showing no other tone when she reminisced.
Then there was Ashvroth on Velrahn and the Glade on Vanir III, both containing vergences of immense power. Perhaps she could link her newly acquired moon, Orth, with Velrahn, Vanir III and Tratlaum. She would need to seek out the Osasdii Clan. Perhaps give them a new purpose. This was dangerous and brazen. Their destroyer and lifegiver returning to demand more.
She understood all those nightmares now, past and present. Every night another life’s story told, with an inevitable ending marinated in agony and despair. There was beauty in that kind of loss. The dark side placed its hand on one shoulder when she would wake and the Shadow a claw on the other, her tail in the air, her new mask hissing sharply. But there were whispers of warnings, from the Nightsisters, both Osasdii and Dathomiri, their magick-soaked daggers thrust into her chest—images of Bane Back Spider venom spewing from her mouth. Illusions that were dreams within dreams.
‘They should revere me, I am all of the Osasdii.’
Glass shattered. The intensity of her thoughts destroyed the shower enclosure and every mirror in the room. Boots crunched on the shards. A black transparisteel dome, hanging on the wall, greeted her and the black tendrils devoured it as her reconstructed mask sealed onto the Sith’s face.
Hiss.
44 ABY, 1.5 Years After the Terror in the Darkness Ovegnii, Osasdii’s Scythe (Aphotis’ Raider II) Ovegnii System
There had been no reverence, merely conflict and fear. It had taken Mistress Aphotis almost an entire year to clear out the Ovegnii Clan’s enemies, even coming close to having the planet Tratlaum recognized as it’s original name ‘Osasdii’.
All to no avail. The tribe had split, worse yet, the side who refused her had vanquished her allies. The Sith was neither the planet’s spirit to them, nor a Nightsister, just a monstrosity that was corrupted beyond recognition.
Not that it mattered. They would not touch her either, the tall woman was still the font of their power, a malignant Goddess who could transform their fortunes into a curse on a whim.
She could feel the snivelling laughter of the Black Hand from deep within her Garden of Trepidations. Despite his sorry state and many chains he was getting exactly what he wanted.
Chaos
And it would only get worse.
For the Black Hand existed across space and time, bound and unbound, a contradiction in the Force. One had ceased to be, and yet endured. The other cheated promised death, and now faltered.
Cyris Oscura. The Black Hand. Illsbrandt, a name given in eons past by the Nightsisters of Dathomir.
And now, Aurian Kaleron.
He sat, enveloped by cloak and shadow, his sunken features lit only by distant stars beyond the transparisteel viewport of his cabin. Beads of sweat pearled upon his pallid skin even as his teeth clattered. He pulled his cloak taut around his shoulders, then tugged the hood down over his face.
As of to hide from the universe itself.
He had joined Aphotis on the Scythe as he often did over the past months. They had worked together to further her cause, his cunning and deceptive diplomatic tactics at her disposal where fear and dominance were found to be counterproductive. They had both paid the price in their own way, and yet, as often was the case with these two fiends, he was confident they would devise ways to turn the current situation to their advantage. Tratlaum, or Osasdii, as Lady Fear called it, was within her grasp.
He was certain of it.
A soft screech drew his attention back to his current predicament. He leaned forward to peer inside the cage set before him on the small table. He could barely make out the silhouette of the critter inside. A plump little thing, the length of his hand. Its eyes shone in the dark, the eyes of a nocturnal beast. It cooed as it twisted its head this way and that, staring up at him.
He reached for the latch and opened the cage in the same way he opened himself to the Force. He sensed its curiosity. Then, momentary confusion, replaced by panic and fear as he clamped his hand around its torso.
He fed on its very lifeforce. Draining. Devouring. And in doing so, the fever lifted.
It was time to check up on the menace. The black-clad woman sat down into a cross-legged position and let body, mind and spirit into her mindscape.
Upon entrance to the Garden Aphotis was met by a decrepit landscape infused in crimson, it sent chills over her spine, yet it was warm, with rain pouring, thunder rumbling, lightning flashing and petrichor permeating everything. The sky-high architecture in the distance appeared warped and imposing. Winding paths between the buildings were paved in skulls, flanked by ancient, short and wide trees with blackened bark. Glimpses inside the skewed buildings offered a glance at the vines and roots covering them, the floors strangely soft and shiny black, organic and slightly warm as she stepped upon the mass, feeling it through the sole of her platformed boot. The Sith explored the organised cabinets, searching through inscribed sheets of stretched skin from the faces and fears she had memorised—their last facial expressions still frozen in time at the peak of their fright.
She ascended hundreds of floors, each level up feeling more oppressive and more enticing, more beautiful, with more important thoughts laid bare. Forms became more designed with smooth rounded lines, or varied by sharper edges chiselled with purpose. Each floor represented a single theme of death. The black feminine figure reached the floor with own life on display, all the way at the top, the final one of Osasdii—the Bleeding Willow—in a twinned tower. Each file filled with the many Children of Osasdii, the Witches, that carried the tree’s lifeblood with them in attempts to colonise other places. And finally her victims, the collateral and the ones that could have been killed by different choices and calculations.
Between the two warped buildings, chains upon chains, binding a black mass.
The Black Hand.
The rattling of chains was like a brain freeze, a sudden onset of a headache. Black mist began to shape within the shackles. A head formed and on it a wicked gaping mouth appeared that was darker than the smoke. Horrific, yet elegant ornaments cracked and fell down from the structure.
Metal ringing echoed against the winding warped buildings, until the sounds dissipated into the crimson valley. But before words could form, the Sith gagged its mouth with curdling blood. She was in no mood to hear its mocking tone.
“Thankless creature, you should be pleased that you are on display!”
A wave of her clawed hand tightened the chains as concrete cracked and pitch-dark roots swarmed around and in-between the durasteel links.
“You have been conquered, humiliated and are far past your expiration date. Enjoy the suffering of my world within worlds, my Garden.”
Time passed faster here, randomised cycles, never the same. There was no sun, just crimson and darkness with teal crackles of lightning. Yet there were other parts of her mindscape that the tall woman had to tend to.
Snap
A gesture with her fingers turned the world upside down, folding into itself. An ocean of shimmering ink swallowed everything, including herself.
The ocean turned into a lake, surrounded by elegant sculptures. The Sith, black & dripping with ink stepped out of it. She placed her hand on the central statue, evermore weeping as it stared at a blood red willow tree opposite of it. A nail cut open the palm of her hand, obsidian fluid with an electric-blue glow dripped onto the weeping child’s memorial. Teal flowers blossomed from the hands of each effigy around the pond.
The Present
The Garden of Trepidations shifted. The rows of female shaped statues around the lake rose up and began to switch spots, until seven of them summoned a large dining table and began to take their rightful places. Teal-colored grass erupted from the soil, creating lush fields.
“Aphotis,” one deep, sultry voice beckoned. The tall black-clad woman grunted and complied, sitting with them at the table as tea cups appeared in front of the now eight figures.
Each voice had a distinct personality akin to emotions amplified. Wrath, lust, misery, pride, envy, disdain, apathy and she was Lady Fear herself. A deliberation of personified thoughts took place. Tea was poured by floating tea pots. The longer it took and the more words were traded, the more chaotic the scene became. Madness coalesced into a single decision, something that only lasted three seconds in the corporeal world, but felt like eternity in hers. The table of caricatures had not processed the last few millennia of added memories yet.
A decision was made. The Black Hand was the sustenance they could not afford to miss right now. And in order to keep the chains strong more hands were needed in the Garden. Only a true flood of terror would suffice.
“So be it. I will sow the seeds of dread and harvest them too. Many will perish by my hand.”
The Sith slammed her fists on the table and waved it all away. The stream of tears from the lamenting statue began to run upwards. The mindscape rotated as the tip of her platformed boot touched it. She was following its path. Clouds dissipated and a star-lit sky appeared overhead. Her body morphed into that of a child wearing an Imperial Officer’s uniform. Rows upon rows of databanks, bookshelves and runed tablets appeared as she sped ahead forward.
The Past
Aphotis was now Alaisy Tir’eivra, there was no single willow, there was no symbiote, but there was the uncharted history of thousands of years of Osasdii and the chosen witches. Her small hands touched the media, everything tinged with the smells, flavors and textures of fear. Every thought a projection. There were roots, sturdy and lively, not black, but amber and lush with emerald leaves. Everything was connected, but it would take tremendous effort to catalogue it all. Ghosts of her own past, the chosen ones and Osasdii’s flora caressed her as she walked by, filling the girl with bliss that she never had before.
Remember, twelve rows and then we are done. We are at five now.
The nostalgic environment was kind to her, yet that was what made it dangerous. It could swallow her whole, make her part of the past itself. A fate more cruel than being forgotten or dementia.
Tir’eivra counted. Each row of media more satisfying. By twelve she felt satiated. Knowledge of the witches. The sights of Osasdii. Mysteries revealing more mysteries.
Time to leave.
She did her tending. Each row was now tended by wraiths that said her farewell. A tear welled up in the corner of the girl’s eye. The good, and the bad memories flooded her mind. She had just lived twelve lives. More tears streamed down her cheeks, until a puddle under her little boots formed and roots dragged her down into it.
The Future
Visor fogged, breaths heavy, wheezing as each inhale and exhale caused a whistle from the strong pull at her pressurised air tanks. The Sith lurched forward, jolted back into the real world. A cold, electric-blue glow appeared on the condensed moisture attached to transparisteel as Aphotis opened her eyes. She lay exhausted in a puddle of blood and tears of her own. She could hear the drum of her heart go wild in her ears and felt it pound in her chest. Icicles tickled her fingers, adorned with nails that had left rake-marks over the floor-tiles. Her tail was the thing that helped her back up as it shifted the weight to her back.
She stood up, the blood, thick as molasses, taking a while to run through the rest of her body. Only then she noticed the true height of her stature. The Garden visit had been so vivid that her mind was still accustomed to the size of a child. The crystal below her neck corsage was pulsating with crimson light.
Time to reap the terrors from every living being.
Aurian felt everything.
And when it ended, he was left gasping, alone with the mystery.
Her quarters were some ways from his, and yet, he might as well have been standing by her side. He had few words for the violence, for the raw, shifting emotions exuding from her. A maelstrom seemed far too weak, a tsunami far too predictable. It was different every time, and quite strangely the same. The galactic nucleus drawing onto itself the light of the universe, bleeding out an ocean of darkness.
It happened every few days now, roughly once a week. He had come to recognize the signs and predict when she fell into this trance, for Lady Fear’s demeanor changed in the moments that preceded. The first time she retreated to her quarters, he had reached out in the Force out of curiosity, if only to understand this creature. He found himself drowning in her hatred. In her cruelty. In her pain and suffering.
Now, he was addicted.
He had put together some pieces of the puzzle, but fewer than he had hoped by now. This phenomenon, this Garden of Trepidations, he long meditated on the subject, pondering its meaning, its nature. He wondered first if perhaps this was some prolonged psychosis? A manifestation of mental barriers born out of trauma? Her past was her own and she shared only what she desired. Indeed, precious little. No. It could not be so simple.
The Force itself reacted when she opened the gateway and stepped into this so-called Garden. For her part, Aphotis became something more, a goddess in her realm. The raw power that emanated from her then would have been nothing short of horrifying even to Aurian, if only it wasn’t so fascinating.
What did trouble him, is that he felt something intrinsically familiar entrapped within this realm.
A presence, a darkness he knew all too well.
A part of him.
And then, the gates were shut and there was only weakness.
Nothing terrified him more.
Click
Hiss
A button press released ichor right into the nosecup of the Sith’s mask. The scent was like petrichor mixed with a hint of citrus, as refreshing as the effect itself.
She clenched her fist, magick coursing through her veins. It had become habit to prepare potions before her dive down into the abyss, that she herself had created. Never did she expect the Garden of Trepidations to become so alive and important to the survival of both her and the spirit of Osasdii.
’Perhaps the witches can still be coerced to join me, or at least be convinced by their reliance on me.’
There were such large chunks of knowledge missing from her path and that of her many predecessors.
’How did any of the chosen Witches of Osasdii ever hope to get anywhere with such limitations?’
“Time to do this properly, and thoroughly,” Aphotis grit her teeth as she mumbled to herself.
She snapped her fingers and a crimson light began to glow inside the room, a sign for the crew to clear up the room.
A chill ran over her spine as she felt watched. With the loud click, clacking of her heels she stormed out and sought out Aurian. They were close to Port Deonor, a great place to resupply the Scythe and then land on Tratlaum’s surface.
He was fully dressed and ready by the time Aphotis arrived. He had not expected her so soon after her dive but her position on the ship was unmistakable in the Force. He knew when she drew near.
And she was not unwelcome.
He smiled and bowed as the door to his quarters swished open to her towering figure. The light of the hall highlighted the outer curves of her body, a construct of perfection.
He was most surprised to see how quickly she had recovered. He had felt it in the Force, the toll these ventures took on her and yet here she was on the hour, statuesque as always. Not only that, where he had expected a cloud of weariness, he found her presence seemed to empower him in a way he did not quite comprehend. Nor could he conjure the words to fully describe this phenomenon.
It was as if a part of him that was lost or missing was returned to him. He had felt it before, and it always seemed to dissipate when she departed. It made no sense, considering the very nature of the creature before him.
This was one of the reasons why he so readily followed her. It seemed perhaps sycophantic to others, but this mattered not. She could think she was in control all she wanted. She could think him a worm for all he cared.
He had his own reasons for doing what he did, and this was but one of them.
For now, he set all that aside. This was no social visit after all. Purpose gleamed in her electric-blue eyes.
“Ah, Lady Aphotis,” he mused, “On what grand adventures are you taking me this day?”
The Black Hand was always louder around Aurian, but the tightening of chains had worked, there was no wiggling, no cold laughter, no dissent. Aphotis was curious how strong the pull still was, if it could ever be severed, or what this dark beacon could lead her to.
Aurian’s usually calm, cold gaze held a tinge of excitement within and the tall Sith was rather amused by the sight. It was difficult at times to discern his actual mood when he had a penchant to display his teeth with a grin, but there was no mistake, it was sincere.
“Someone has been waiting and listening, it could not possibly be you, Kaleron, right?” the tone of her mechanically modulated voice was sarcastic, but also elated.
A subtle smile crept into the corners of her transparisteel-shielded eyes.
“We will be docking at Port Deonor in just a minute now, the crew will be resupplying the Scythe and we will be taking Sickle Squadron down to Tratlaum’s surface shortly thereafter.”
“I have been looking forward to this for many years, we will be combing the underground necropolises for the very roots of Osasdii’s history. Make sure you purchase what you need aboard the space station, I have already transferred some extra funds over to your account to cover the costs.”
The black-haired man could no doubt afford it himself, but the female Sith had a habit of over-preparing, and that meant keeping every aspect into mind.
The cloaking systems howled as they powered down. The Raider II slowed down to a crawl. It was gliding close to the venerable Imperial Orbital space station.
“This is Captain Kesdan Tir’eivra speaking, identify yourself.”
Hiss
A long sigh escaped from Aphotis’ helmet. That was a voice she had not expected to hear. Someone was promoted. Her brother no less.
“Guess we are needed at the bridge, some things require a personal touch, join me Aurian,” there was a playfulness to the tall woman’s smoky voice.
Aurian followed readily, a half stride behind Aphotis.
The way to the bridge required but a brisk walk to the clack of her heels. They encountered few crewmen and those they did were quick to step out of the way, head bowed in reverence to their mistress. One cloaked figure lurking in the shadows that lead to the laboratories, motioned a bony white hand for Aurian’s attention.
He slowed a step, then broke away from Aphotis.
“I will join you shortly, my lady.”
She paused midstride, glancing from Aurian to the figure and back. “Be quick.”
“It’ll be but a moment, I assure you,” he said with a half bow and a flourish, already turning her attention to the cloaked figure. His eyes darkened as reached Kereban Zolar. Red eyes peered at him from within the cloak, and the Twi’lek alchemist’s fanged mouth twisted into a smirk.
“I trust the critter was sufficient?” Zolar asked. He had a sneering sort of voice, rough on the ears, with a sinister quality. Aurian grabbed the man’s bony shoulder with a hiss, then pushed him into a nearby doorway away from prying ears.
“Barely,” he answered. They would have to meet again to dive deeper on the subject, but he knew Zolar’s questions were little more than a formality. The Twi’lek wanted something from him. “What do you want?”
“To remind you of our deal, master Kaleron. I’ve come through for you regardless of the results. From what I hear, you and the dark mistress will be returning to Tratlaum. Bring me my samples.”
There was a tinge of a threat in the Twi’lek’s tone.
Aurian chuckled.
“I will get you what you desire,” he said. Then he lunged, a flash of lightning, clamping one hand around Zolar’s jaw, fingers digging into his jowls. The sad creature groaned, recoiling, but he did not let go. Then he leaned in, drawing his face right up to that grotesque visage beneath the hood. He growled, “If you dare speak to me like this again, I will rip the lekku from your head and feed them to you.”
He all but threw the alchemist away.
Then he turned and joined Aphotis on the bridge.
“Patch me through, Vashkaj,” Aphotis commanded the Iktotchi pilot with a stern voice.
“Affirmative, my Lady,” Vashkaj Nuvi answered with a hushed voice, lowering her head back down toward the console.
“Mistress Aphotis, Commander of the vessel Osasdii’s Scythe, truly, a pleasure ‘Captain’ Tir'eivra,” the Sith pronounced the formal title with such disdain that it could make a corpse dig deeper in the soil.
“So it is true, my sister! My, oh, my, does the holocam on your side flatter your height or are you really towering over the rest of your crew? Or are all your subjects just miniatures? I can’t tell! Still afraid to show your face too, hiding behind another vile mask, Alaisy?” Kesdan’s voice was the kind of posh that would make an Imperial Officer wince, and he specifically excluded the Sith’s shared last name.
“The Scythe can turn this pathetic excuse of a space station to stardust before you can blink twice, Tir'eivra, I can see why Father has placed you in such a precarious position,” Aphotis emphasized his and her own last name.
Everyone, especially Aurian could sense the tension and awkwardness between the siblings. But in truth he was rather intrigued by the insight he was gaining from this.
‘Why would a Sith such as herself leave such loose ends?’
It was so unlike her.
“Oh, Alaisy, your bigger sisters, Cemi and Annaxa have missed you so much, I’ll ready the welcoming committee, don’t you worry little sister, you may have once worn the Tir'eivra name with pride, but there are no longer such obligations and social pressures. The Osasdii’s Scythe is now registered and free to dock at Port Deonor. Oh, we might have some goodies for you that you might be interested in from those filthy witches, I’m sure you bring spoils that we can trade for them, right? Captain Kesdan Tir'eivra out, welcome, welcome!”
The black-clad Sith let out another sigh, followed by the hiss of her mask. She already began to make space for mourning within the Garden for the witches that would have likely met their end as a result of her family’s trickery.
“Vashkaj, do a triple check on internal systems every 30 minutes, do not let anything in without my explicit permission. Also, would you be so kind as to unlock the weapons and munitions cabinets? I have no doubt these paupers will have need for them.”
“Y-yes my Lady,” Vashkaj Nuvi answered with an insecure squeak. If anything she was confused by the family politics and had wished she never heard any of it.
“Everyone else, start preparing a full resupply, Tratlaum may be a death trap, but it has natural resources unlike anything else in Hutt Space. Except for you Aurian, you will be accompanying me to meet with my sisters. I do wonder if Kesdan himself has the guts to face me. Probably not.”