Recent Posts1
Star Wars: The Crimson Covenant / Re: CC: The Crimson Covenant
« Last post by Syren on March 22, 2025, 02:58:32 PM »“And no, she can’t slow down if she wanted to
Yeah, the speakers so loud, spinning around the room
And I don’t where I’m going but I gotta move
She said, “Boy, boy, are you coming too?”
-almost monday
Contruum
Moon Base
Darth D’Cera is too late.
As Inquisitor Involis vanishes below the platform, out of sight and into the void, Inquisitor Faraas turns to face her. She stops short but keeps a firm grip on her saber. He apprises her with amusement, attention shifting ever so slightly to acknowledge Allom’s head resting on the scuffed durasteel behind her. A victory, but a fleeting one. Stiffening, he manages a gruff laugh.
“Take comfort in your anger. After all, it was you who sent him to the grave.”
“Is this the part where you lecture me about female rage?”
“Deflection does not diminish your failure, D’Cera.”
“Allom may disagree. I saw you two talking. What did you tell him?”
“Only the truth,” he says with a simple shrug. “Now you must face your own.”
He lowers his voice to issue the directive slowly. Crisp and clear.
“Winton is not the way.”
She scoffs bitterly, “And you believe Adubell is? Her? I thought the Inquisitors were smarter than that.”
He is unphased, smug, spitting his words at her with sheer malice.
“All you represent is generations of misplaced faith. A physical manifestation of the lies those decrepit sorcerers told to maintain the power and influence they have had for far too long. We have made our choice. You are not it.”
He holds up the piece of the Etheralis.
“We got what we came for. The only thing left is to deal with you.”
She flicks her wrist and slowly opens her hand to reveal the fragment in her palm.
“You mean this?”
The shock is priceless and reverberates through his body. He glances at his glove where it had been only seconds before then back at her. No! The spoiled socialite would not distract him with her cheap parlor tricks. She would pay for Allom as she would pay for her delusion in the prophecy! Igniting his saber, he lunges with a roar. Then he freezes, held in place, every muscle constricted and taut. He arches his back, arms forced down to his sides, as he is lifted from the platform surface. The saber drops and clatters to the floor. In her hand, the fragment glows a vibrant green, reflecting a brilliant and blinding glow off her smooth, dark mask. It is her turn to apprise him, but this time with judgment and contempt.
Faraas watches helplessly as her fingers close around the Etheralis. Four delicate tendrils of energy pulse from her fist and encircle her, disappearing against the black suit. She does not know how or why it happens, only that she suddenly feels more connected to everything than she ever has. The hatred is intense but more accessible and tangible. Focused.
She can see quite clearly now and knows exactly what must be done.
“H-h-how?” he chokes out.
“Wrong question.”
“Y-you are an a-a-abomination, a f-fraud-”
“I am many things, Inquisitor Faraas, but that is rather beside the point now. That choice you spoke of. Let me be the last to tell you that it was incorrect. In fact, allow me to show you.”
He feels her power flare. D’Cera clenches her fist tighter but his screams of agony go unheeded as his body is forcibly wrenched back, spine snapping loudly as he encircles himself between his own legs, head coming to rest at the front of his stomach. She waits for the gasps and sputters of realization, garbled as his mouth fills with blood, come to an excruciating end. A mangled mess of limbs and broken skin, she lets him drop to the floor.
Exhaling, she deactivates her saber and clips it to her belt then tucks the Etheralis fragment into her suit. Stepping around what is left of Faraas, she peers over the edge. The wave of sorrow is held at bay by the simmering effects of the Etheralis and so she lowers her head to honor the loss quietly. As she means to turn and survey the damage and plot her next move, something catches her eye. A flicker in the layers of darkness below. Movement.
She drops to her knees, clutching the edge to steady herself while using the mask enhancements provided by the Voss-Ra to focus on the blur in the waning light of the abyss. It darts in and out of view, below the platform before reappearing again. Back and forth. With each reappearance, something catches the light, briefly, a flash of…orange.
“Son of a bitch,” she breathes.
Tracing a thin, faintly visible cord back up to the platform beneath them, she realizes he must have activated something from his armor as he fell. Her cousin is just full of surprises, it seems, but she obviously cannot reach the cord from here. Scanning the area, she does not immediately see a skiff or transport that would bring her down safely, only loaders for cargo. There are cables nearby, strewn across the destroyed crates from her and Allom’s battle, but lowering them would require his consciousness and participation, neither of which she could guarantee. There is no telling what kind of shape he’s in or if he is even alive.
She needs to do this herself.
D'Cera lays flat on her stomach, drawing from the power of the Etheralis against her body, and extends a hand over the edge. She focuses on his form, the air around it, light, swinging like a pendulum, and calls it to her. Guiding him upward. His armor finally crests the edge, and, with a final burst of strength, she hauls him up and back onto the platform. His armor crashes against the durasteel floor. The grappling hook detaches from his plated glove and slithers back with a snap into the darkness below.
She lays beside him for a while, spent from the exertion, the fighting, her shoulder injury screaming for attention, and stares into his mask. A small laugh escapes her lips, realizing now the thought of losing him wounded her more deeply than it should have. He warned her of this. Dangerous as familial attachments can be it is not a connection she can simply set aside. She does not want to do this alone, even if that defies something sacred about the Sith.
More immediate issues await, so she again draws strength from the Etheralis and rises.
Procuring a loader, she dumps both parts of Allom and what remains of Faraas next to the hulking mass of Involis and slowly traverses her way back through the base to the landing pad and their ship. It is a trek made in silent reflection at their battle and lessons learned. She fought well and prevailed – a test the Voss-Ra would no doubt celebrate – yet the revelation of Adubell’s claim and the acolytes she turned bring new and ominous questions to the forefront. There is no telling how many she has drawn to her cause now. The added assistance against Dane, Gemma, and Riley also means she is in more imminent danger from unexpected and unnecessary sources than strictly should be allowed for this stage of the plan.
Once inside the shuttle, a feat unto itself, she closes the ramp and pulls off his helmet to find him breathing beneath it. His eyes roll and open without really focusing.
“You did it,” he mumbles with an unconcealed trace of sarcasm.
She pulls off her own and smiles, “I did. What’s your damage?”
“Bruised but alive, mostly,” he whispers, easing himself up against the wall. “Faraas…he took…”
“Except he didn’t.”
She withdraws the Etheralis fragment from her suit. It glows in her gloved hand.
He winces as he attempts a smirk, “Go team.”
She flips her hair and pushes the piece back into the center of his chest plate, snapping it into place. His armor, battered as it is, hums to life. He straightens visibly and takes a few long, deep breaths, already looking remarkably better. The connection to it clearly heightens the ability to channel the Force, but there is still much she does not know about it.
“What do you say we dump these Inquisitors and get out of here?”
“No,” he says, more strength in his tone. “Misled or not, they deserve better. Take us to Contruum and we will send them off on the surface.”
She nods, leaving him temporarily to tend to her wounds before guiding them out of the base. He'll need a minute anyway. The urge to ask him what happened is overwhelming, but she knows him well enough now to give him some space. Whatever was said caused him to shut down completely. That much she saw which means it must have pierced the cool veneer of detachment and that is a frightening thing indeed. She retraces the route Seif used to get them in and makes haste for the swirling planet beyond. She is stiff and sore, but her shoulder would heal. Nothing a bacta pad and some focus couldn’t handle. She was good but she was also lucky.
They both were.
Surface
The coast.
Dahlia and Seif are unsteady on the sand. The Imperial Academy looms in the distance, a symbol encased in shadow as the sun slips behind the horizon, deepening the sky with dark purples and glimmers of pink. A full circle moment. The daughters of Alexander Winton make lasting impressions on Contruum. Threats to each of their roles are handled dramatically and often gruesomely. Vicious cycles. A proud papa pleased even in hell. She never knew him and is not misguided enough to want to follow in his footsteps. He never really wanted Karen to win, she ponders dimly. He only ever wanted what was in it for him – just as Adubell does.
They build two pyres and place the remains of the Inquisitors upon them. Seif silently hands her a driftwood torch and she sets both ablaze. They step back and watch as the flames dance higher, embers caught in the breeze. Seif raises the flask he’s holding before taking a slug. He does not offer it to her. She does not protest, aloud at least, since they are both thinking the same thing. This makes him the last Inquisitor. A wayward one, at that.
Fallen.
Lost the mission.
Allowed a Winton to influence him just as the Voss-Ra expected them to.
All part of the plan.
For her.
For the Covenant.
The Winton must survive.
The Winton must win.
It’s all he heard. All he’s ever known.
And now they are here, Winton and Greyson-Guldon, faced with more lies.
Her voice breaks the spiral.
“What now? Continue to Chandaar as planned?”
It is a sensible thing to do. It is what they set out to do. But it is not what he wants to do. Barrett Trevaithan has a handle on things for the moment and plenty to work with. The Republic could unravel a bit longer. He had warned her against it, questioning their roles, but this had changed everything for him. He does not know who he really is. Where Seif ends and Involis begins. The Voss-Ra would answer for this. One way or the other. His features cloud over with anger, the fire alight in his eyes.
“Now we go to Dathomir.”
-TBC
Yeah, the speakers so loud, spinning around the room
And I don’t where I’m going but I gotta move
She said, “Boy, boy, are you coming too?”
-almost monday
Contruum
Moon Base
Darth D’Cera is too late.
As Inquisitor Involis vanishes below the platform, out of sight and into the void, Inquisitor Faraas turns to face her. She stops short but keeps a firm grip on her saber. He apprises her with amusement, attention shifting ever so slightly to acknowledge Allom’s head resting on the scuffed durasteel behind her. A victory, but a fleeting one. Stiffening, he manages a gruff laugh.
“Take comfort in your anger. After all, it was you who sent him to the grave.”
“Is this the part where you lecture me about female rage?”
“Deflection does not diminish your failure, D’Cera.”
“Allom may disagree. I saw you two talking. What did you tell him?”
“Only the truth,” he says with a simple shrug. “Now you must face your own.”
He lowers his voice to issue the directive slowly. Crisp and clear.
“Winton is not the way.”
She scoffs bitterly, “And you believe Adubell is? Her? I thought the Inquisitors were smarter than that.”
He is unphased, smug, spitting his words at her with sheer malice.
“All you represent is generations of misplaced faith. A physical manifestation of the lies those decrepit sorcerers told to maintain the power and influence they have had for far too long. We have made our choice. You are not it.”
He holds up the piece of the Etheralis.
“We got what we came for. The only thing left is to deal with you.”
She flicks her wrist and slowly opens her hand to reveal the fragment in her palm.
“You mean this?”
The shock is priceless and reverberates through his body. He glances at his glove where it had been only seconds before then back at her. No! The spoiled socialite would not distract him with her cheap parlor tricks. She would pay for Allom as she would pay for her delusion in the prophecy! Igniting his saber, he lunges with a roar. Then he freezes, held in place, every muscle constricted and taut. He arches his back, arms forced down to his sides, as he is lifted from the platform surface. The saber drops and clatters to the floor. In her hand, the fragment glows a vibrant green, reflecting a brilliant and blinding glow off her smooth, dark mask. It is her turn to apprise him, but this time with judgment and contempt.
Faraas watches helplessly as her fingers close around the Etheralis. Four delicate tendrils of energy pulse from her fist and encircle her, disappearing against the black suit. She does not know how or why it happens, only that she suddenly feels more connected to everything than she ever has. The hatred is intense but more accessible and tangible. Focused.
She can see quite clearly now and knows exactly what must be done.
“H-h-how?” he chokes out.
“Wrong question.”
“Y-you are an a-a-abomination, a f-fraud-”
“I am many things, Inquisitor Faraas, but that is rather beside the point now. That choice you spoke of. Let me be the last to tell you that it was incorrect. In fact, allow me to show you.”
He feels her power flare. D’Cera clenches her fist tighter but his screams of agony go unheeded as his body is forcibly wrenched back, spine snapping loudly as he encircles himself between his own legs, head coming to rest at the front of his stomach. She waits for the gasps and sputters of realization, garbled as his mouth fills with blood, come to an excruciating end. A mangled mess of limbs and broken skin, she lets him drop to the floor.
Exhaling, she deactivates her saber and clips it to her belt then tucks the Etheralis fragment into her suit. Stepping around what is left of Faraas, she peers over the edge. The wave of sorrow is held at bay by the simmering effects of the Etheralis and so she lowers her head to honor the loss quietly. As she means to turn and survey the damage and plot her next move, something catches her eye. A flicker in the layers of darkness below. Movement.
She drops to her knees, clutching the edge to steady herself while using the mask enhancements provided by the Voss-Ra to focus on the blur in the waning light of the abyss. It darts in and out of view, below the platform before reappearing again. Back and forth. With each reappearance, something catches the light, briefly, a flash of…orange.
“Son of a bitch,” she breathes.
Tracing a thin, faintly visible cord back up to the platform beneath them, she realizes he must have activated something from his armor as he fell. Her cousin is just full of surprises, it seems, but she obviously cannot reach the cord from here. Scanning the area, she does not immediately see a skiff or transport that would bring her down safely, only loaders for cargo. There are cables nearby, strewn across the destroyed crates from her and Allom’s battle, but lowering them would require his consciousness and participation, neither of which she could guarantee. There is no telling what kind of shape he’s in or if he is even alive.
She needs to do this herself.
D'Cera lays flat on her stomach, drawing from the power of the Etheralis against her body, and extends a hand over the edge. She focuses on his form, the air around it, light, swinging like a pendulum, and calls it to her. Guiding him upward. His armor finally crests the edge, and, with a final burst of strength, she hauls him up and back onto the platform. His armor crashes against the durasteel floor. The grappling hook detaches from his plated glove and slithers back with a snap into the darkness below.
She lays beside him for a while, spent from the exertion, the fighting, her shoulder injury screaming for attention, and stares into his mask. A small laugh escapes her lips, realizing now the thought of losing him wounded her more deeply than it should have. He warned her of this. Dangerous as familial attachments can be it is not a connection she can simply set aside. She does not want to do this alone, even if that defies something sacred about the Sith.
More immediate issues await, so she again draws strength from the Etheralis and rises.
Procuring a loader, she dumps both parts of Allom and what remains of Faraas next to the hulking mass of Involis and slowly traverses her way back through the base to the landing pad and their ship. It is a trek made in silent reflection at their battle and lessons learned. She fought well and prevailed – a test the Voss-Ra would no doubt celebrate – yet the revelation of Adubell’s claim and the acolytes she turned bring new and ominous questions to the forefront. There is no telling how many she has drawn to her cause now. The added assistance against Dane, Gemma, and Riley also means she is in more imminent danger from unexpected and unnecessary sources than strictly should be allowed for this stage of the plan.
Once inside the shuttle, a feat unto itself, she closes the ramp and pulls off his helmet to find him breathing beneath it. His eyes roll and open without really focusing.
“You did it,” he mumbles with an unconcealed trace of sarcasm.
She pulls off her own and smiles, “I did. What’s your damage?”
“Bruised but alive, mostly,” he whispers, easing himself up against the wall. “Faraas…he took…”
“Except he didn’t.”
She withdraws the Etheralis fragment from her suit. It glows in her gloved hand.
He winces as he attempts a smirk, “Go team.”
She flips her hair and pushes the piece back into the center of his chest plate, snapping it into place. His armor, battered as it is, hums to life. He straightens visibly and takes a few long, deep breaths, already looking remarkably better. The connection to it clearly heightens the ability to channel the Force, but there is still much she does not know about it.
“What do you say we dump these Inquisitors and get out of here?”
“No,” he says, more strength in his tone. “Misled or not, they deserve better. Take us to Contruum and we will send them off on the surface.”
She nods, leaving him temporarily to tend to her wounds before guiding them out of the base. He'll need a minute anyway. The urge to ask him what happened is overwhelming, but she knows him well enough now to give him some space. Whatever was said caused him to shut down completely. That much she saw which means it must have pierced the cool veneer of detachment and that is a frightening thing indeed. She retraces the route Seif used to get them in and makes haste for the swirling planet beyond. She is stiff and sore, but her shoulder would heal. Nothing a bacta pad and some focus couldn’t handle. She was good but she was also lucky.
They both were.
Surface
The coast.
Dahlia and Seif are unsteady on the sand. The Imperial Academy looms in the distance, a symbol encased in shadow as the sun slips behind the horizon, deepening the sky with dark purples and glimmers of pink. A full circle moment. The daughters of Alexander Winton make lasting impressions on Contruum. Threats to each of their roles are handled dramatically and often gruesomely. Vicious cycles. A proud papa pleased even in hell. She never knew him and is not misguided enough to want to follow in his footsteps. He never really wanted Karen to win, she ponders dimly. He only ever wanted what was in it for him – just as Adubell does.
They build two pyres and place the remains of the Inquisitors upon them. Seif silently hands her a driftwood torch and she sets both ablaze. They step back and watch as the flames dance higher, embers caught in the breeze. Seif raises the flask he’s holding before taking a slug. He does not offer it to her. She does not protest, aloud at least, since they are both thinking the same thing. This makes him the last Inquisitor. A wayward one, at that.
Fallen.
Lost the mission.
Allowed a Winton to influence him just as the Voss-Ra expected them to.
All part of the plan.
For her.
For the Covenant.
The Winton must survive.
The Winton must win.
It’s all he heard. All he’s ever known.
And now they are here, Winton and Greyson-Guldon, faced with more lies.
Her voice breaks the spiral.
“What now? Continue to Chandaar as planned?”
It is a sensible thing to do. It is what they set out to do. But it is not what he wants to do. Barrett Trevaithan has a handle on things for the moment and plenty to work with. The Republic could unravel a bit longer. He had warned her against it, questioning their roles, but this had changed everything for him. He does not know who he really is. Where Seif ends and Involis begins. The Voss-Ra would answer for this. One way or the other. His features cloud over with anger, the fire alight in his eyes.
“Now we go to Dathomir.”
-TBC
