Zartilda's Journal (And Assorted Tales)

[Theprettiestorc]

[The Precipice of Madness]

(Feat. Zartilda Varrixon)

Quiet halls. That's the first thing she notices as she steps in, rubbing her mask. To her left, where an Akk Dog would be awaiting to greet her as always, is just an empty bed. No signs of the two girls who lived here. She sent them away, because of fear. Not of enemies, but of herself. A change. Something... something. Hard to think of in words, mind going six rotations for everybody's one. Everything abstract. Her mask is taken off as she walks, showing deep red eyes that haven't rested, dark bags around them. Either she sleeps too much, or not enough, and she hasn't felt good at all.

Zartilda knows what it is, psychoanalyzing herself even as she goes through it. She's stated as much to a curious Acolyte, to reaffirm it. She's becoming like the others, the Dark Side catching up with her. She's suffering, living in two worlds. Wandering up the stairs, passing plants from different worlds, once cared for by a dead woman. Banners of the Empire and Sith, from a proud man. They left. Everyone's left. Everyone keeps leaving. She's alone. She did this. Sent the last two away with a pair of Twi'lek, because of pity.

Why, then, did she keep the last? Stepping through a ballroom where people once danced, she trails through a dining room that once held lively conversation. Now cold, quiet. A door is unlocked, and before the woman inside can think to react, she crosses the distance and swiftly punches her in the temple. Calculated, to knock her out cold.

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It's always strange to her, how the Statue of the Emperor could just be any figure in a cloak. Really, it could be Vitiate, Acina, or Vowran. It could be Darth Horuset, for all anyone would really know. Just that imposing stone figure in a cloak. And now, it has a decoration, a pink-skinned woman chained by the wrists, like a living Twi'lek medallion. Zartilda's cloak has gone somewhere, armor plates scattered, just in a suit of Synthweave and other layered fabrics from the waist up, and partly undone. The chinguard is loose, and the musculature is easy to see on the imposing woman, for the waking Twi. As is the amount of sweat beading on her.

She feels ill, but her mind is burning faster, going across tracks and ready to spill at any time. She takes a bottle of water though, ready - a tray set up just in front of the altar, where the statue looks down from. Different medical tools left over from all the equipment set up to preserve her father's life, now just scraps and sharp things remaining to remind her. That, and some of the medicines now running through the Twi'lek's bloodstream.

Words are exchanged. Huttese has to be used. Why is this happening, they already killed a murderer. A Jedi who killed both of their kind alike, all on purpose. No, he was good, he brought food, he offered shelter to ease a guilty conscience, at his own failings. Back and forth, until the pale face is streaked in tears. What is going to happen?

I don't know. An honest answer. The Pureblood stares, at the precipice of a change. This creature, this woman, at her mercy. No. Just parts. Skin, blood, bones, organs. Atoms to make that up. The room is comprised of metal, durasteel to withstand attacks in case of emergency, transparisteel to see through to the raining sky. The view which is clear to the woman chained up. My hands hurt, my hands are numb. I am a monster. I am a Sith.

Faster and faster, in her mind, aura roiling, bubbling in a crescendo, the Dark Side strong and growing. It always finds you eventually. That need for something, every good intention lost and twisted. Body corrupted, the Force wielded like a cudgel, or a knife. A knife. Knife. Her hands close around a pair of scissors, and a scalpel, and she lifts them up, everything halting.

Skin. Blood. Bones. Organs. She knows of it all theoretically. She's never really seen them though. Curiosity begins to buzz. A drone in her ears, a roaring in her chest all but unheard. She steps forward, straight onto the altar, crushing a skull underfoot. We need someone with a certain attitude. Marvelous talent for starting trouble.

Her hands hurt. All magic comes with a price. What is taken, must be given in kind.

She steps onto the small fence, that once separated spectator seating for the training area, the seats all kicked aside. I want to create. Give them all hell. I never noticed you have my eyes. A distinction worn with honor.

Her hands are numb. Assimilate the shadow. Power is power. Do not trust anyone.

She stares up, through bloodshot eyes, the background noise like hearing through water. Faint, mind continuing to churn, but in the background. A different side has taken over, now. Bastion. Titan. I will do these things, so others do not have to. But I must know. I have to know.

The first cut is the longest.

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Sitting in the bathtub, between the former bedrooms of her siblings, Zartilda looks over her work. Carved from wood, whittled with a knife that's been beside her for an age, is a bead. She recognizes it from an old toy - the Twi had been attempting to pass the time, took a sliver of metal to carve at it. Some kind of... Kalikori tribute? Her mind is foggy, but the information is just that. Some word, about some Twi religion. "Wisûtis an Ardasa" is now carved along the surface, High Sith: "Street to Hell".

The water is soaked a pale, transparent red, wood shavings floating on top of it along with a Gizka bath toy, something else she found in the room. Curiosity if it still floated. She wonders if she actually cleaned or if she'll still be bloody, but will it make a difference? She's already red, so very red. A red... Sith. It causes a giggle to erupt unbidden, and she rests her head back. She's tired. Her hands hurt. Her hands are numb.

She'll clean up her paintings from the room in the morning. Maybe. Where does one dispose of roughly eighty kilograms of skin, blood, bones, and organs? There's a few ideas, as her mind continues on.