Zartilda's Journal (And Assorted Tales)

[Theprettiestorc]

Journal 9: Costs

MIA, they say. I don't know. I can't know. I'm typing with one hand and that's irritating as all fuck but there's a voice thing to help.

Our war deployment's not gone well. We had ITEC on our case for not moving fast enough, we've been hitting setback after setback. The citizenry of the first town we landed in fought us all the way because of repeated killing and taxing and... all manner of nonsense, but then, there was a purge. The warfronts didn't go great but they went, because we needed to advance and keep advancing for the mining objectives, despite heavy losses here and there.

And then the Republic struck back, hard. Using a sandstorm again. I'd made a protocol, grids, so that people on-location could give accurate targeting even in a sandstorm with a... map overlay, sort of thing. That was used to bomb the hell out of two fronts as we now face interdiction around the planet, multiple Jedi appearing out of nowhere, and full swarms of Republic. It's not great. I fought a guy using some kind of Jedi Juyo, and lost an arm. We lost an Ensign that held the enemy off.

Had a fight with a pair of the Warriors speaking ill of... Naile. Lost him, too. I'm hurting, bad, and I can recognize the broken Bond when I feel it, but I still have his final moments in his head. My head. In my head. In my dreams, in my chest. Burning. My arm hurting, and I keep thinking it's still there, but there's nothing.

There's rumor that the Dark Council is shifting a bit, and our P&L person is on the outs. Which would make this deployment a failure either way. We've been sent on a fool's errand and we're paying the price, but that's the cost of war. That we suffer, and leave people behind. That people are forgotten, that we grieve, that we have to keep fighting because it's what we're good for, what's demanded of us by the Dark Side. I've blown up twice now, broken a leg, and had an arm taken, and now a wound right in my heart.

How much more must I give? How much more must I lose for trying to do what I can? Why am I here, killing on orders and brushing with death again and again? Nothing to show for it, either, not even a title. I can't even do my fucking job as Harbinger.

Tem was with Naile Telepathically, until the end. Until he was... MIA. She had to yell at me. I earned that. I miss the rains of Kaas. My bed. My forge. I just want to cry in frustration and grief of it all. I wasn't there for him, but someone was. I was needed elsewhere... and other things I have to tell myself, but it's not hurting any less.

I loved him.

[Theprettiestorc]

Journal 10: Providence

Recovering now, and not wounds. It's been strange, having a metal arm. A contrast to the normal one, and feeling as my hand, my extension... but also different, in ways it's hard to put into words. I can still feel that old lingering sensation of burning that plagues me, causes me insomnia, from when I snapped from the presence in Narazri's forge. I can still feel a dull pain, as if throbbing, a ghost of flesh and blood. All the things that hand had done. But if I feel all of that, then the presence of metal does not matter - it is a part of me, a new part, that I must make do with. And, perhaps, do more to, in time.

Training, training, and more training has gone on, and the clashes seem to have fallen out of thought for the moment. At least, in the face of betrayal, crazy things. An Imperial defected, who had been a partner to Syllel, the part-Arkaanian girl who kept working the impossible. But she turned against everyone so many times, burned so many bridges, and whereas she had such grand plans, it didn't matter if she made the dumbest oversights and stupid little mistakes. Lashing out, a violent little thing. Ultimately, dead in a blaze of glory alongside a measure of her assets.

... with a hefty sum of credits sent to me, with a note that she'd died. I wonder how long she'd prepared it? By the end, I wasn't defending her, but condemning the outright ganging up of multiple Sith.

Tem says I shouldn't treat them like kids, and... I'm working at it. Some are better than others, but there's been a level of growth. Vayek's fast to react to an explosion and protect people, Emlar put aside grievances to ask me to help Charsette when her head was going bad. Esme put aside words for the bigger picture. Rhave stole the entire show outright, by creating a ritual that absolutely devastated the forces at Ridgeside. The Dark Lord approves of him, and while it'd irk me a little, I wouldn't be surprised if he made Household Sith before me.

They're learning far more than it was in my capability to teach. Not always for the better, but not entirely for the worse, either. If I have to be critical, I was a good teacher, but a terrible Overseer. I did exactly what I needed to in disseminating abilities deemed vital for the improvement of the House - Bubble, Mental Barrier, Protection, Jump, Speed. Basic things that everyone should have some proficiency in to combat Jedi, or a wide range of threats. In that way, I've done my part, shored up the House.

Either way, things have progressed. We moved back up, reclaimed lost ground, and even gained some. Naile's alive, awaiting trial because the Republic are convicting him or some dumb shit. Things were low, but things are higher now. We cleared some refugees for a new mining site, and it was hard-won. We got through Ridgeside, with all of our preparation, new tech. Shield Crawlers, a massive EMP. I led a charge towards the Command Center... and trench by trench, we progressed. But the third trench, a half-dead guy shot fire at me. Before I could defend, Viren had a Bubble over me - Nivalis was grabbing the guy and slamming him down. I had the opportunity to push the fluid back at him, and he burned, inside and out. It would have been a horrifying sight, once, but...

"May your path be lit and your enemies burned." -Charsette

... a prayer, a blessing. And it's been happening, over and over. I took it as a sign. A sniper that had knocked Krassus on his ass was still active - so I taunted him. Used all of my prowess, and practice... and a move that shouldn't have worked, did. I returned a shot right back to its owner, I felt the life snuff almost instantly, the man tumble down the tall cliffside into a ravine. I don't think I could pull it off again anytime soon, but I've been feeling stronger and stronger lately. It could have been nothing short of providence, plain and simple.

I... believe, I think, for real.

I've also become a handler for a quartet of Sarias' special Sithspawn-Gizka - Eenie, Meenie, Miney, and Moe. They're neutered boys and they're very good at clubbing the shit out of normal Gizkas and eating them. I'm training to bond with them.

[Theprettiestorc]

Journal 11: Stolen

This is what they've done. Stolen, taken futures, yet again. They have Naile, Daxze is now in a coma. Daxze, she... was angry, she drifted away, and maybe I cared more for her than she did for me. But I always hoped for the best for her, I was supposed to teach her again. I never even got to ask her about the baby, a son who might grow up seeing his mother in the same state my siblings saw my father. It's repeating again. I was melancholy about it before, but now...

They took her. The Jedi just... pursued their own agenda so they could ambush us, pursue whatever agenda, their genocidal urge. Hell, I'm one to talk on that, but people expect that of Sith. Of Jedi? Breaking families, again and again, and they claim to want peace. No, they took her away from the House, from the Vipions. They just take, and they take, and th

==========

"... they take and they take and they TAKE!!" Once, twice, thrice, punching the wall of the building she's sitting by. Her fingers sting from the impact, and a few cracks form in the stone. And then, she sees it. Startled out of hiding, from all of the efforts, a singular Gizka hopping out. And she squints, through her helmet. Raising that hand, feeling the ache, pouring the emotion in, she begins to channel it. The Gizka squeals, squirming about... and then wheezes, as her hand clenches, fingers twitching. A Wound, with malice and hatred poured in, another floodgate broken. Bit by bit, becoming exactly what everyone else says she should be.

And then, there's a pop, as fluids leak out of the creature, making it drop dead on the spot.

==========

Bit calmer now. I wonder if Gizka can explode, with the right Telekinetics. Thoughts for later, my hand's aching.

[Theprettiestorc]

Journal 12: Justice, or Vengeance?

We're home.

Finally, after everything, we're home. But not unscarred, some more figuratively than others. It happened after Dubrillion, too, this pall cast over the House of mistakes, or misdeeds. For what I'd done in Mosila, I thought I would feel worse, but... if not me, it would be something else. Or the planet, or they would have crowded refugee camps, or been taken out by Hazlem's plagues. But truthfully, their lives were just inconsequential. Too many people in the Galaxy to worry about one town of ingrates. No, what really got me wasn't the killing, but that it was just half-assed. That the air tasted like iron and ozone, and I was sore of beating in doors, splitting people apart, literally. "To the mines", the propaganda said, and some of the House still believe it. Delusions, when it's so obviously written on the wall.

Instead, though, I slept like the dead, once we were on Th'Asidra. If not for the shoulder wound, I may well have done so for a full day and a half, but it needed more care. My souvenir of fighting with the Jedi, one of a few now. All three were high Knights or even Masters - the first took my arm, the second I held back while his compatriots were slain. This third, though, Alisa Dane, was taken out with mine and Esme's efforts together, and her getting surrounded by Imperials taking their shots whenever they had the chance. She couldn't afford to let up for a second, and it was akin to a dance, almost, the way Roi and I covered for each other. In the end, it was her blade that took the woman out, her energy conserved to continue leading the charge - my energy half-spent, and a wound from a lightsaber she'd impaled into my shoulder needing addressed.

I busied myself getting the bodies, and helping get to others on the field. Alchemy materials galore, but more importantly... between Dane, and the kill on Maila Miho by Sith Narazri and Sith Vipion... two of the figures of Dubrillion are now gone, with only a couple more to go. Major Manel Scyles and General Vise Wilburg, who seem to have it out for us. I hope they've got something to think about now, and I hope their Jedi allies condemn them for the losses to their order. I hope the Republic sees what we left of Anx Minor, a torn planet erupting into tremors, volcanoes, radioactive activity, and pestilence, and knows what lengths we'll go to when we're pushed too far. What we do when they try to piss us off, or throw propaganda at our soldiers. They took down OCFOR in the bloodiest killbox I've ever seen to date, and that fucking Twi'lek especially, apologizing as she went around double-tapping. They have no moral high ground.

Morale rose up at the end, but I have to keep being a friendly face for the soldiers, I think, to make up for the strife they've had. I've got to get situated again, and probably push for Household Sith once more, with more people agreeing it's overdue by the day. I've got to put the nice chunk of credits received from the dead Syllel into a nice investment, finally get my textile trade going. It might take some work to do production of finished goods, but I might just focus on the textiles themselves, and Synthweave production, instead of trying to make eighty different uniforms or outfits. Things to think on.

Overall, though... the shoulder, the arm, the burns... I've been affected by physical scars, but this time, there's few things that bother me about that deployment. I fought. I won in some cases - I helped where I could, and we got our objectives done, even if not at one hundred percent. I look forward to seeing the structural shakeup of the House, the debrief. I had some dark moments, but... only way to go is to keep moving on. It's the best way to honor what's been lost, who's been lost. And I have my goal, now, to honor one of those.

For Daxze, and further back, I will learn to work the flames. I will light my path forward, and all my enemies will burn, this I swear. One day, I will find myself dying in the pyre for this, but until then. It hones my steel, and my resolve.

[Theprettiestorc]

[Forging A Legacy]

(Feat. Zartilda Varrixon)

Staring up at the statue in her training room, Zartilda once again contemplates it. Emperor, Empress, it could be either. The watchful gaze looking down over the altar, and the training floor, in her home. All battles fought in the eyes of the Emperor, all worship done... and yet that's changed, hasn't it? At least, the watcher. It's a symbol that even if you get that far, that high, you're not safe. A legacy of solitude ends with one alone.

Looping her rosary around her wrist, now, she slices open the old scar on her left palm, making her offering to the Gods. Blood running over skulls of the defeated, some now her own additions. There's always more skulls. Clenching her hand, she finishes her prayer, across the pantheon for what she is yet to do. Taking up the plate, letting more of her blood drip onto the wax, she begins to walk, now, down the hall, to her forge. And she begins, with painting.

Painting Runes of Power across the more important structures, her forge, her anvil, her quenching vat. The wick set alight on the plate, as the fat in the wax begins to burn, filling the room with a cloying scent. Careful preparations, her own ritual of sorts, donning her coat to work with the flames, arms left mostly exposed. There had been tales, in her family, of an old smith with a silvered arm, who had crafted tools of war that their clan of old had used to fell many.

That she should follow in such footsteps, that she should begin her descent to madness with slicing apart a Tyrian and come full circle to the blood of her kill for another... perhaps mere coincidence, but Zartilda doesn't believe in coincidences. She believes in the Force, and that the signs are right. She wonders, not for the first time, if this is what happened to Vi'Kas, that there were too many portents he could see that allowed him to predict what would happen. Being savvy to human behaviors probably didn't hurt either, but she feels she might understand him now, as the heat rises in her forge to oppressive levels.

One ingot, and two. Precious little hexagonal things, that made her hands so scarred. The first, a proof, and the second, striking while the blood was fresh. Jedi Alisa Dane... that such a kill, and sacrifice, would go into this craft. The fires burn brighter, and the metal gets softer, as Zartilda's experience with Phrik comes into play, working with such extreme metals. And speaking of Phrik, she already has something in mind for some of the precious bits she has left.

The hammer pounds, the metal folds, flattens. Wide top of the blade, a channel through the center to save on metal. A light tang - a lot of surface area, relatively, for carving enchantments. But right now, what she has is a trio of pieces, shaping. Reheating the metal, she's pouring the heated Phrik Alloy into its moulds, quenching them in blood. One part her own, one part of the hated enemy, the rest stock from a slave. Just as taught to her. The blades are next, the precious Sith Steel sinking into the blood, with a slight note of apprehension from her. But the Dark Side is not judging her now, as it does when she created it. Yet does she feel watched.

The hilt takes both longer and not quite so long as one might expect, even with durasteel - this, too, one more cast, dipped into the blood. It's pulled back out shortly, though, given its finish, its coating of Cortosis Weave, as she begins bringing the elements together. Polishing, snapping off little pieces of metal from the casts, saving every precious bit. Making the mechanism, fitting it to the blade - capping the bottom with the pommel taken from the same saber casing that the rest of the material for this came from. The whole hilt assembly thinner, no proper crossguard, to take off some of the weight as well - and the irony doesn't escape her that the design is called a Zabrak Hilt, with the one who taught her. But there's one final piece.

Carving lightly, with tools and with Telekinesis, she shaves off pieces of green gem from the edges. Somewhere between a trilliant and a pear cut, enough so that she can etch her sigil into the surface: the shield, and the winged fist inside. The first Sith Steel blade forged under the Varrixon name in four millenia - and this gem is fitted into the top of the hilt, over the careful mechanism, sealed around the edges.

Everything cleaned, and polished, once more.

Holding aloft her craft, she gives it a good look. She spins the knife in her hand, stabbing the air experimentally - and then pushes on the gem, the two side-blades flush against the main now snapping out to the sides. Bladed at the top. With this assembly, there was truly no need to have a crossbar for parrying, when she had her mechanism in mind, the pieces of it assuredly not to snap or crack under any pressure save for that which might break the knife itself. It's a relic of war, created anew in the modern era.

The last thing to do is to create the scabbard, a simple affair of leather. She goes with an old choice, some of the precious remaining Zakkeg hide she has. And she burns script into it, deciding on her name after all. "Sas Ri Tniya", reads the script, "By The Sword". As one lives, and dies.

[Theprettiestorc]

Journal 13: Rage Reborn

Well it's been eventful since the last entry here. Where to start... Lord Vipion, Lord Sarias. Sith Dutrosu. Sith Andnoa from Rhave. Nobody lost their jobs - apparently, we actually did really well, and the new Dark Council member we were under got captured by the Republic after trying to grab Bacta from Manaan and redirecting a lot of efforts.

However, we're in a resource boom right now partly because of Horuset's actions, so that's good. Got Varrixon-Sekker Textiles Ltd. up and running, based on Collox with the Sheep-Frogs. Making armor undersuits for the Empire, for militias, and some plush toys. The stuffed Gizkas are cute, and the Sheep-Frogs are popular. The whole thing's sponsored by Atrum Logistics so we've just got to keep growing and expanding.

I got backstabbed by Daxze, she woke up from a coma. Atrophied and bitchier than ever. I'm... under no more delusions that the one I'm remembering is long dead. Also not thrilled with Sith Vi'Kas at all over that, and more. And now the Rage of Rhelg seems to be resurfacing, the nice angry tunneling sibling of the Quiet Speaker. But I'm stronger now. I'll prove it.

Sith Leive and I are planning to go over Juyo. It's been a long time running... but as much as I've suppressed my great anger, she describes it as opening the bottle halfway. Fighting with pure killing intent. A lot of my theory on it is sound, and now it's down to whether I can pull it off.

I suppose I'll see soon how my own rage holds up.

[Theprettiestorc]

Journal 14: Legacy of the Phoenix

I'm still trying to put together pieces. But I went out of control.

Lord Vipion disappeared, and I went off the handle. I declared a challenge, that I was Household Sith and anyone refuting could fight me about it. A couple were - and then the Dark Lord put out a decree, a "blood hunt". To take me down. There were five, six people, all ganged up. I was held down, mind and body assaulted, and then pierced through. They declared me dead on the steps.

When I faced the Quiet Speaker, my life flashed, different memories all in Speed. It's said this happens because you're attempting to find a way out, the right maneuver, and I did - I copied my own maneuver against a mutated Gundark, all the way back in my Acolytehood. It made my legs move, and it snapped me out of that fear, that indecision, that inaction that would have caused me to die. This time, I didn't have that. It was fury, pain - and then, suddenly, blood. Coughing it right into my helmet, my visor. And then it felt like falling - sinking into the water.

Deeper, deeper. Not coming back - the light growing dim.

... and then, a scream. Echoing. Pain, my pain. My hands on fire. Anguish so strong, so feral, so raw. I could not tell if it was mine, or his. But it was like... a tether, a line. I wasn't done. A burning, raging star, ascending from the waters, following that line back.

It was Faelice that sealed the hole, taking the risk of working without a siphon. Hazlem assisted, and I was put in a cell to await judgement. Then, he came to talk, and then to bail me out, get me treated. I wasn't done. To die would be so easy - to live, to keep moving, rising, is hard, and nothing of value I've done was ever easy. It's been... a week, two? Two. And after discussions, advising, I've taken the role of Sith Zevasa's Apprentice. Envoy of Purity - repeating the deeds of Lord Kalkoran picking up Sith Tarimra.

It's one thing to have my failures around me, berating me, but it's another thing to fail and fall so utterly, that everyone let a mouthy brat nearly kill me permanently. I was not suffering as long as Tarimra was, but I understand fully what I unleashed on him. Perhaps it's poetic justice this happened because of a grand act of defiance. People will prey on any weakness, any opportunity that they can look better, so whether it was that or simple loyalty, many turned on me.

I'm putting together the pieces. Only thing to do is try again, here, now with renewed focus. Despite everything that happened, things are changed, now. I broke out of the block of my stalemate, and it's time to walk this path where it leads. So I fly, on burning wings, like my Master before me. The original, the infuriating. But in his own right, the first to shape me and show me how to rise again.

[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.

==========

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.