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29-04-2023, 11:25 PM
Entry 8: Shattering the Illusion
The recorder turned on in the electronic blue as per usual, revealing Khatatas Ronith. Dressed in simplistic, black robes that covered his slim build. Sat atop the high-backed chair, he had his elbows leaning on his knees, his head resting in both hands. His gaze was locked on the floor, a cloak of eternal melancholy that held a tight embrace over his form.
''Fear is like a fire. If you can control it, it can cook for you. It can heat your home. But... if you can't control it, it will burn everything around you and destroy you. Fear is your friend and your worst enemy...''
The man lowered his left hand, letting the shine from the low lighting hit the black talons. Swirling each finger around, his hand opening, and clenching. Eventually a spark would erupt and burst life into a small flickering flame, dancing casually in the palm of his hand, through his fingers and around the claws. His gaze was drawn to it, locked on to it as the hypnotic fire continued to dance, it was truly breathtaking.
''This will be my last entry... I am certain that once anyone discovers my thoughts I will be branded a heretic..'' A chuckle of cruel amusement left his mouth as the golden yellow of his eyes remained locked on the flames. ''It seems I am falling after all, it seems I am getting closer to what my grandfather was... does this mean he was wrong? That I am wrong? Or could it mean that traditions will no longer serve me, will no longer serve the Sith?''
''After careful considerations of past events and present beliefs I have come to understand things I sometimes wish I hadn't. The disappearance of Vitiate, his return and the destruction of so many of our people on Ziost. Did Tradition serve us well? No. Did the gods hear our call? Did they respond? No. Not long after that, Zakuul came. And again, it was a sign, it showed us tradition in any shape or form is not what will make us strong. It us what makes us weak.
Clenching his hand again, the flickering sphere of flames would vanish, a small puff of white smoke rising from his hands as it was revealed his flesh was burned by his own flames. He could not control the fire properly. He could not control his fear properly.
''Tradition is an illusion. The gods are an illusion. Unity is an illusion. Each barrier must be shattered by the force of one's will. One must stand on the top, yet power is always shared. Much like the dynamic between a master, and an apprentice. There are those who seek to deceive, manipulate and intimidate. Others use shows of strength. Everyone has their focus, their ambitions elsewhere. Yet none seem to be able to allign thier goals for the good of the empire... and I to, are incapable of doing this.''
''From the moment I was an Acolyte i sought to support, to protect. This has not changed, I merely found a more suitable way. I made many mistakes. The death of Lythare... the destruction of the Ashana... the escape of the Serpent Sworn.. the death of Ayinon and even the death of Myra.. At first I blamed the gods for not helping our people, for not helping me. Then I blamed tradition as a whole, I still do. But... that isn't quite right... All losses in this galaxy are due a lack of individual ability. If I have to curse something, I have to curse my own weaknesses.''
Khatatas moved up and was simply silent, his infernal gaze locked on the lens of the recorder, speaking quietly he repeated himself once more. ''All losses in this galaxy are due a lack of individual ability. If I have to curse something, I have to curse my own weaknesses.....'' The man of pure blood would exhale softly and lean forwards once more. ''I can no longer blame anything but myself, I can no longer belief anything but my own strength. I am tormented by an unwordly hunger, yet I do not know how to satisfy it. The longing for something, no, someone. My life will forerver be in shackles, I will find the satisfaction I so desperately desire and obtain the strength to protect them. Henceforth... I will rise even when i fall, I will become the flame that guards, the fire that burns and the phoenix that survives until the end...
He would look down, the whirlpool of emotions washing over him, freezing him as he is thrown into a cell by a mental construct created to protect himself. The spider's web has been torn apart. The arachnid has been burned, and from it's ashes something new arises.
The recorder turned on in the electronic blue as per usual, revealing Khatatas Ronith. Dressed in simplistic, black robes that covered his slim build. Sat atop the high-backed chair, he had his elbows leaning on his knees, his head resting in both hands. His gaze was locked on the floor, a cloak of eternal melancholy that held a tight embrace over his form.
''Fear is like a fire. If you can control it, it can cook for you. It can heat your home. But... if you can't control it, it will burn everything around you and destroy you. Fear is your friend and your worst enemy...''
The man lowered his left hand, letting the shine from the low lighting hit the black talons. Swirling each finger around, his hand opening, and clenching. Eventually a spark would erupt and burst life into a small flickering flame, dancing casually in the palm of his hand, through his fingers and around the claws. His gaze was drawn to it, locked on to it as the hypnotic fire continued to dance, it was truly breathtaking.
''This will be my last entry... I am certain that once anyone discovers my thoughts I will be branded a heretic..'' A chuckle of cruel amusement left his mouth as the golden yellow of his eyes remained locked on the flames. ''It seems I am falling after all, it seems I am getting closer to what my grandfather was... does this mean he was wrong? That I am wrong? Or could it mean that traditions will no longer serve me, will no longer serve the Sith?''
''After careful considerations of past events and present beliefs I have come to understand things I sometimes wish I hadn't. The disappearance of Vitiate, his return and the destruction of so many of our people on Ziost. Did Tradition serve us well? No. Did the gods hear our call? Did they respond? No. Not long after that, Zakuul came. And again, it was a sign, it showed us tradition in any shape or form is not what will make us strong. It us what makes us weak.
Clenching his hand again, the flickering sphere of flames would vanish, a small puff of white smoke rising from his hands as it was revealed his flesh was burned by his own flames. He could not control the fire properly. He could not control his fear properly.
''Tradition is an illusion. The gods are an illusion. Unity is an illusion. Each barrier must be shattered by the force of one's will. One must stand on the top, yet power is always shared. Much like the dynamic between a master, and an apprentice. There are those who seek to deceive, manipulate and intimidate. Others use shows of strength. Everyone has their focus, their ambitions elsewhere. Yet none seem to be able to allign thier goals for the good of the empire... and I to, are incapable of doing this.''
''From the moment I was an Acolyte i sought to support, to protect. This has not changed, I merely found a more suitable way. I made many mistakes. The death of Lythare... the destruction of the Ashana... the escape of the Serpent Sworn.. the death of Ayinon and even the death of Myra.. At first I blamed the gods for not helping our people, for not helping me. Then I blamed tradition as a whole, I still do. But... that isn't quite right... All losses in this galaxy are due a lack of individual ability. If I have to curse something, I have to curse my own weaknesses.''
Khatatas moved up and was simply silent, his infernal gaze locked on the lens of the recorder, speaking quietly he repeated himself once more. ''All losses in this galaxy are due a lack of individual ability. If I have to curse something, I have to curse my own weaknesses.....'' The man of pure blood would exhale softly and lean forwards once more. ''I can no longer blame anything but myself, I can no longer belief anything but my own strength. I am tormented by an unwordly hunger, yet I do not know how to satisfy it. The longing for something, no, someone. My life will forerver be in shackles, I will find the satisfaction I so desperately desire and obtain the strength to protect them. Henceforth... I will rise even when i fall, I will become the flame that guards, the fire that burns and the phoenix that survives until the end...
He would look down, the whirlpool of emotions washing over him, freezing him as he is thrown into a cell by a mental construct created to protect himself. The spider's web has been torn apart. The arachnid has been burned, and from it's ashes something new arises.
