Zartilda's Journal (And Assorted Tales)

[Theprettiestorc]

Journal 15: Trials And Tribulations

Slowly, the anger's bleeding off. Productivity to pour the soul into.

I've been crafting, carving out a niche, possibly. But I'm not going to hold my breath on anything coming of it. Would be nice, though. And more importantly, I had my Sith Trial. I was told I did mostly well, and I could be set to ascend, but it depends on if I've changed. And it was one hell of a trial. Killing guys was fine, but the temple decidedly messed with my head. Showed me people who were disappointed in me. Made me fight Naile, a vision of what could happen to me, all metal parts and no goal other than victory.

I even fought against myself, and was admonished, before killing the Sith that was underneath. I have to wonder what they saw, if there was a vision of someone else lecturing them that ultimately killed them. But the most profound thing, I think, was a vision of Sith Tarimra. Just as I remember him before everything happened, slowly growing more and more desiccated until he appeared as one would if they died as he did. If that's what happened, I believe it may have actually been him, talking to me, giving me some last bits of advice. And a small boon, a mere modicum, awakening a fire once again.

He stirred the fire within me, taught me how to hate, channel my malice. How to use my sister's memory as my protection, my emotions as power, and to never throttle what I am capable of. This time, he stoked it in full, I feel, urged me to fly. I find myself remembering how he deserved better than to die to such a stupid plot, that he should have had something far grander and dramatic. I realize why I'm angry with Esme for idolizing him - not because she didn't know how much of a manipulator he was, but because she never knew how cunning he could be, how he could carry lessons. He was a double-edged sword, where all that was bad about him was also good about him. It's undeniable that he marked my career permanently, as both an example of what not to do, and how to absolutely root for yourself.

I think I know, too, what to do with all this energy.

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Now that the heat's stoked on the forge, Zartilda dips her fingers into the blood vat, a fresh bandage on her hand. Blood of a slave, blood of an enemy, blood of her own. Her hands tingle, burn already, in anticipation of the creation she's undertaking, as she paints her sigils.

A memory in such clarity that she could replicate it now. A correction of one final injustice, a punishment that continued the fires of betrayal.