![[-]](https://www.horuset.com/images/igame/collapse.png "[-]")
The thrum of engines echoed around the cabins, stars streaked outside the windows, and the air… The air doesn’t weigh heavy with the stench of death anymore.
Faelice still felt it hanging around her though.
She paced around her quarters, the same kind that she was sure dozens and dozens of people occupied, in the little space that was afforded to her within. She spun a knife between the fingers on her right hand, though it didn’t seem to match her steps in any way. The sand-worn armour that had protected her for so long on Anx Minor had been put in a corner, next to the comparably pristine set that was much more suited to her needs. A pair of lightsabers rested on the bed, looking like they’d just been tossed hurriedly onto it. Three more had been carefully placed on the small table beside it, a green crystal placed at the head of each, occupying the space where a blade would normally spring from.
Faelice ignored it all. Cramped though the room was, the pacing gave her time to think, for her mind to look back at what had happened on that desert planet with the lashing winds. The same loose ideas play through her head on a loop, though they lack any kind of cohesion, erring more on the side of vague concepts and thoughts.
Death… So much death.
Desolation.
Blood.
The desert had sparked a change in Faelice, and she knew it well. A few months ago she would have felt like the intruding thoughts needed to be pushed away. Now, though, she let them fester within, allowing space for those loose ideas to expand into something more tangible.
From the very start, the only outcome was death. From the first steps taken on the planet. That first night solidified it. This was always a war, I just didn't want to believe it.
We are Sith. I am Sith. We have the right to control the balance of life and death. Our blood screams for us to ensure death is dealt by our hand and life is preserved for the strong.
There was never an option afforded to us to leave the planet in the state we found it. Nor would we have taken it if it was presented to us. We bring ruin in our wake, and we owe the Republic nothing. We had goals to accomplish, and we refused to let ourselves be stopped by anyone
We painted the planet red. Blood was spilled, flesh was hewn, death was sown. So much of it by my hand. We left our mark, and made sure that we won’t soon be forgotten. I showed what I am capable of. I proved myself a -
A small, nagging voice pierced Faelice’s mind; You know they didn’t deserve it. You were acting on your master’s orders, not even a free tho-
It, in turn, was interrupted by a cry of pain from the apprentice. The tip of the knife she held in her hand was a deep, glistening crimson. Blood flowed steadily down her arm, staining her fingers as it passed over. A steady drip… drip… drip… as it falls from her fingers. Several silver scars mark her arm in similar ways, fading red handprints over the top of many. The floor was splotched with the same puddle of blood multiple times over, and the knife in her hand had flecks of dry and peeling red on the blade.
It was not an isolated incident.
She started muttering quickly to herself in hushed tones, seemingly ignoring the blood on her arm, her knife, the floor. “They were the enemy, they always deserved it. Killing my enemies is a part of who I am, what I am. They don’t control me. They can’t. I know what I’m doing. I am in control of myself.” This continued on for some time, though the voice crept back into her mind once more.
So convinced… So sure of yourself… Always questioning. You have no such certainty. You are weak. You are…
It didn’t get to finish, an uncharacteristic scream echoed around the small living quarters. The knife slammed into the table next to the bed with much more strength than Faelice looked like she should have been able to give, embedded no less than six inches deep. One of the lightsabers rolled off the side, two of the crystals fell down the back. She either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.
“I AM NOT WEAK!” Each word was punctuated with a fist to the wall, spots of blood coming off her arm, coating the room around it - herself included. The last of them struck the wall and stayed put, the arm tensing as Faelice drew ragged breaths, rage easily inferred in each of them. She repeated the words to herself a few times over, no longer shouting, though anger dripped from every word.
She flexed her hand as she pulled it away after what seemed like several minutes, and winced. The knuckles were already bruising, which seemed to ground her again, at least a little. She was still seething, and the pacing resumed, but she was much more in control of herself again.
Several minutes went by, and she slumped herself onto the bed, landing with the small of her back on one of the lightsabers she'd thrown on it with little care. Her face contorts, but she doesn't move. The whispers to herself resume.
"We're done with the campaign. We're done with the warfront. Why do I have to carry it with me still?" She paused, shaking her head. "No, I cant stop it. I shouldn't stop it…
"The right question is what can I do with it? It's all a part of me now, it's a strength… somehow."
She looked out around her; the knife in the table, weapons on the floor, blood covering the room. Her head shook, slow and resigned.
"I'll learn… one day… may-" She cuts herself off, letting the thought stay unspoken. Her doubt offered her nothing, so she let it alone. This time.
Faelice still felt it hanging around her though.
She paced around her quarters, the same kind that she was sure dozens and dozens of people occupied, in the little space that was afforded to her within. She spun a knife between the fingers on her right hand, though it didn’t seem to match her steps in any way. The sand-worn armour that had protected her for so long on Anx Minor had been put in a corner, next to the comparably pristine set that was much more suited to her needs. A pair of lightsabers rested on the bed, looking like they’d just been tossed hurriedly onto it. Three more had been carefully placed on the small table beside it, a green crystal placed at the head of each, occupying the space where a blade would normally spring from.
Faelice ignored it all. Cramped though the room was, the pacing gave her time to think, for her mind to look back at what had happened on that desert planet with the lashing winds. The same loose ideas play through her head on a loop, though they lack any kind of cohesion, erring more on the side of vague concepts and thoughts.
Death… So much death.
Desolation.
Blood.
The desert had sparked a change in Faelice, and she knew it well. A few months ago she would have felt like the intruding thoughts needed to be pushed away. Now, though, she let them fester within, allowing space for those loose ideas to expand into something more tangible.
From the very start, the only outcome was death. From the first steps taken on the planet. That first night solidified it. This was always a war, I just didn't want to believe it.
We are Sith. I am Sith. We have the right to control the balance of life and death. Our blood screams for us to ensure death is dealt by our hand and life is preserved for the strong.
There was never an option afforded to us to leave the planet in the state we found it. Nor would we have taken it if it was presented to us. We bring ruin in our wake, and we owe the Republic nothing. We had goals to accomplish, and we refused to let ourselves be stopped by anyone
We painted the planet red. Blood was spilled, flesh was hewn, death was sown. So much of it by my hand. We left our mark, and made sure that we won’t soon be forgotten. I showed what I am capable of. I proved myself a -
A small, nagging voice pierced Faelice’s mind; You know they didn’t deserve it. You were acting on your master’s orders, not even a free tho-
It, in turn, was interrupted by a cry of pain from the apprentice. The tip of the knife she held in her hand was a deep, glistening crimson. Blood flowed steadily down her arm, staining her fingers as it passed over. A steady drip… drip… drip… as it falls from her fingers. Several silver scars mark her arm in similar ways, fading red handprints over the top of many. The floor was splotched with the same puddle of blood multiple times over, and the knife in her hand had flecks of dry and peeling red on the blade.
It was not an isolated incident.
She started muttering quickly to herself in hushed tones, seemingly ignoring the blood on her arm, her knife, the floor. “They were the enemy, they always deserved it. Killing my enemies is a part of who I am, what I am. They don’t control me. They can’t. I know what I’m doing. I am in control of myself.” This continued on for some time, though the voice crept back into her mind once more.
So convinced… So sure of yourself… Always questioning. You have no such certainty. You are weak. You are…
It didn’t get to finish, an uncharacteristic scream echoed around the small living quarters. The knife slammed into the table next to the bed with much more strength than Faelice looked like she should have been able to give, embedded no less than six inches deep. One of the lightsabers rolled off the side, two of the crystals fell down the back. She either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.
“I AM NOT WEAK!” Each word was punctuated with a fist to the wall, spots of blood coming off her arm, coating the room around it - herself included. The last of them struck the wall and stayed put, the arm tensing as Faelice drew ragged breaths, rage easily inferred in each of them. She repeated the words to herself a few times over, no longer shouting, though anger dripped from every word.
She flexed her hand as she pulled it away after what seemed like several minutes, and winced. The knuckles were already bruising, which seemed to ground her again, at least a little. She was still seething, and the pacing resumed, but she was much more in control of herself again.
Several minutes went by, and she slumped herself onto the bed, landing with the small of her back on one of the lightsabers she'd thrown on it with little care. Her face contorts, but she doesn't move. The whispers to herself resume.
"We're done with the campaign. We're done with the warfront. Why do I have to carry it with me still?" She paused, shaking her head. "No, I cant stop it. I shouldn't stop it…
"The right question is what can I do with it? It's all a part of me now, it's a strength… somehow."
She looked out around her; the knife in the table, weapons on the floor, blood covering the room. Her head shook, slow and resigned.
"I'll learn… one day… may-" She cuts herself off, letting the thought stay unspoken. Her doubt offered her nothing, so she let it alone. This time.
