SithLore

---STYGIAN CALDERA - ORBIT OF ZIOST
---ABOARD THE NIGHTFALL DESTROYER HARBINGER

Finally she was operational.

It had been some time now since Jacobi Wylcott had discovered the Harbinger and she had been painstakingly recovered by the Sith Armada at great cost and an even more painfully arduous trip back from the Mandalorian Sector over to the Gordian Reach and finally the Stygian Caldera where they could set her in a drydock for a complete and absolute overhaul. The day had since come and gone and now the days since the vessel’s rebirth were counting positive. Now as the days and weeks passed by the ancient warship was put through her paces - engine burns, hyperdrive tests, payload deliveries, turbolaser and ion cannon battery deployment - and a plethora of additional testing and examinations. Darth Tormentous cared not for these things - though the Fleet Master, Lord Admiral Lidmor had other ideas and such was Lidmor’s weight in Tormentous’ council that his word was given and heeded.

That didn’t mean though that on occasion the Dark One would not tour the vessel. Sometimes it was necessary to get away from the duties and responsibilities of state in which he’d declare audience with the Dark Council to oversee his holdings and wherein he would disappear. Usually that meant he was off finding some monstrous entity to hunt down and make sport of or a population to convert either through temptation or brutal conquest.

Today though the Dark One had gone to the Harbinger and his purpose here today was to tour the vessel’s warhead decks which were key to his next advance into the Tion Cluster. While he was there onboard the vessel - which would at this time have a skeleton crew during its testing phases - he would undertake some rest and relaxation. Some much needed time off.

To Tormentous though this meant personal training. Physical, mental and through the Dark Side of the Force as well. No time was ever wasted in sitting around. Where the enemies of the Sith rested and relaxed and took moments to recall their humanity in an age of darkness and where doom shadowed them at every turn - Darth Tormentous sought further prowess. Where the Jedi rested. The Sith only found ways to become stronger and ever more oppressive to an ever weakening galaxy.

It was a drafty night in Mercy's chambers, and her hard work had caught up to her. She had only just began to accept that maybe, just off of a really good multi-cycle rewardless hunch, that maybe Dastan had finally forsaken his Apprentice for good. The thin connection they had was null now, and she felt no pull to him within the Force, anymore. This dulled her drive to search for him, but it only fueled the wrathful wraith into wanting to incinerate him should she ever see him, evermore. Caution and concern were becoming blatantly replaced by careless callousness, and up to this point? Be damned what he had taught her. What difference did it make, now? What impact would it have, NOW? She had nothing left to save face for, considering Makaro had been probably kidnapped since last she had seen him, ransomed off and probably murdered, and Naria was probably humping Dastan's leg somewhere wherever he and the blondie sailed off to. Who knew? "And who cares?" she narrowed her eyes as she yanked out a teeshirt from her drawers middle metal compartment bin, snagging a piece of the collar on the sharp edge and tearing a jagged hole from the rim of the top to where her breastbone would lie, if not a pinch over to the left of it. "Frakking FRAK!" she swore, and in punctuation to her irritation, the shirt was soon cinder dust, whittling in a little waft through her fingers, and onto the floor. In exasperation, she tried to take a deep breath, curling her head back as she lay kneeling on the floor, the cool steel trying it's damndest to sooth the simmering soul. The Phoenix attempted the breathing exercises, counting fruitlessly to a number she randomly chose and exhaling, only to inhale and repeat. But oxygen only fed the flames it seemed, and soon the cold steel floor warmed that much more.

Miss Vyler didn't know how much time had gone on before her knees began to burn. Opening her eyes and righting her head, she found a bright red ring around her, a circle of her meditation gone wrong. It hadn't spread close enough to anything flammable, but it shouldn't have existed in the first place. She was supposed to be barring herself from even touching upon it, but it was almost to no avail. It was hard being ....well...normal. Dastan could incognito and just shut his off, somehow, and Mercy had never had enough ability to even remotely do so. Not even stifle it, a bit. She considered getting one of those Force lizards that shut it off in a bubble, just as a precaution, but she knew she was way too busy to have a pet. It would probably die of starvation in her care.

Standing from her sizzling mess, she hop-skip-jumped to the bathroom, and began a shambled and hurried shower. She would just have to sleep commando tonight, "since apparently even getting night clothes is just asking for too much from you, right now," she rolled her gold-flecked hazels while beginning the hot water function.

The Shower was brief, and concise. Something that seemed to be a constant in her life was how things were brief, and concise. Her memory of her Fa, brief and concise. His murder, brief and concise. And how she found out it was actually Dastan who had done it?

Brief and concise.

The water suddenly chilled her burning skin, even at it's hottest setting.
She forced her mind to something else, snipping the water off to ease the issue altogether. Shaking herself and dragging a towel off the rung, she stepped free of the shower and began the nightly routine, skating through it silently and eventually ended up in bed. Clean sheets, quiet mind, she pleaded to whatever gods might even possibly be capable of listening, that she would have an eventless night in this infamous ship's worker cabin. She had to get up early, and be debriefed by Emic on the next mission in a few days-

---HARBINGER - LOWER DECKS

A skeleton crew aboard this mighty warship meant that there were precious few men and more droids trolling the corridors. This mattered little to Tormentous. His means were to his own doing and he would not see the simple times as moments of offering to the rest and calm. To the Dark One there was always something going on. He carried no weapon. His armor was in his chambers. He wore Black cargo pants and a slate gray tank top as he ran through the lower reaches of his vast warship. With the Dark Side of the Force he had no real need for conditioning for it granted him everything he needed to quite literally be the strongest and most powerful of warriors - though he still kept to his training and it afforded himself natural endurance and strength and speed like no other - and that was before the Force touched him.

Even now he had ran for the better part of the morning and stomped his way over ten miles across this ancient warship. His trek had brought him further into the depths than his normal training regimens had before and this moment had brought him to the tram that ran from the armory to the gunnery and warhead decks. The trams were running today - massive bulwarks ferrying live warheads back and forth from their housings to their cradles in the warhead tubes.

Tormentous was breathing heavily, laden with sweat from bald scarred head to his toes and even his fingertips ran with the salty fluid. One of the tram cars had been stopped for maintenance by a network of repair droids that had taken the warhead and secured it temporarily to the deck. Tormentous approached the warhead and placed his hand on the frame - admiring its quiet potential.

A TX-5 “Torch” Anti-Matter Bomb. Its nuclear capabilities were very well known to the galaxy though its like had not been issued in the span of over a hundred years or more. Their use passing into legend or even myth as incredibly volatile scorched-earth tools of destruction. In truth today’s turbolaser batteries aboard a starship technically had explosive yields similar to such weapons but it was in these weapons which people feared far more. It was the drama behind them. They were symbolic to absolute excessive annihilation. Truth be told an orbital strike from a warship could accomplish a far more accurate assault and even bring down more measured or exact payloads - but it was in these deadly warheads that the Sith would utilize because they had a certain flair to them that looked better on the holonet than an orbital strike.

His hand slid away and he smiled beneath his mask. Yes, it was in these warheads that the Jedi and the Alliance and every foe that had suffered him and lived - would find their torment. It was not mindless destruction and death. To build an Empire and to sustain it, often times one had to break the mold and cause pain in others. To get the Jedi to see that their arrogance had blinded them it would take events like these. To cull the weak and bring his strong Empire to stand above the ashes of those deserving of nothing more than death - it was in these warheads that his will be done.

Turning his back from the TX-5 he shuffled away and began to walk. He would wander the ship in search of nothing but everything. It was his way - until.

His boots stopped in their tracks and he looked up at the distant ceiling. (Sense Force Disturbance). A tremor in the Force. He could feel heat roiling off of this being as if it was the raw essence of power itself. So much furious potential. He instantly lusted after this power. Surely his own dwarfed that of this firebrand but Darth Tormentous had ever been one to seek out new volumes of power - never to leave a stone unturned.

Before he knew it he was already stomping off at a brisk pace towards the turbolifts.

The beacon had been lit and like a moth to the flame - he was coming for it.

In that little mull of minutes, she was out. Unconcious and dead tired by earlier's workouts, the long runs Emic had them routinely doing to keep them fit enough for longevity, and nothing flashy. Emic was a worthy leader, practical, and easy enough to get along with. She and Emic had connected over a bit of midnight chow, and she warmed up to the alien enough to be cool with serving under her. The work was hard, but it kept her mind off of anything other that what it was, and hating Tver. That annoying bastard. Emic knew well enough how much she hated Tver, that slimy thing. His codename was Coyote or something, and she couldn't even remember what it was, but she had dubbed him Rat, because that's what she saw him as. She couldn't trust him to kill a target unless it didn't derail his own plans. He was a sneaky bastard, and opportunistic. A scavenger. And she didn't want anything to do with untrustworthy people-
But what faction was she within?

If she was awake, she would have snorted. But no, instead she peacefully slumbered, trying to catch up on her rest for once. They rarely got an off day.

Dreams often blurred into nightmares within Vyler's head, but it was seemingly a nice night, this time. It was a far back time, the dream said, when she was first being taught staff by her Fa. A kind and grizzled elder, unknowing to Mercy, an aged member of the Jedi Council. He had left the order to raise young Mercy, an orphaned and abandoned girl from Corellia, or Concordia, or Coruscant, or something. She couldn't even remember where she was from, but it was a busy city, a place she was not too fond of. She couldn't remember her parents, despite them losing her in that busy city when she was an easy 6 years old. Even then, she was a spitting tease of beauty with a heart of ember. Atleast she was playful, then.

It was that lovely day he had shown her to utilize the weight of her shoulders in a downward stroke, to whip her body flat and taunt her leg in a laid barrier to the one behind, crouched, and prepared to spring, should need be to counter. It was braced, and the whirl was almost perfect, but- "You are too quick to leap back up from the stance, Cee. You need to adjust yourself, and remain primed. It bastes you in three methods, not just one." He showed her, his well taken-care-of staff of some ancient tree fluidly moving with his body as he lowered in a sublime curve. She watched the demonstration, her eyeroll already threatening to crescent her gaze. He must have felt it, and lowly flicked the end of his staff up for her to catch. Within that same block, his tawny sunbleached sobes swam up in a marvel of motion as his front laid leg implanted in her exposed abdomen as it was launched forward from the braced back leg springing him forth. She flew back, snow parenthesising her laughable misdemeanor as she harmlessly flopped back in the snow of Hoth. She was laying in the snow, trying to hold back using tears. She just didn't like-

"You can not be skyborn all the time, Cee. One day, you will be plucked from the skies, and brought back to earth, whether it be by gravity, or predator. And you will not know what to do, when you are." His voice softened as he offered his hand to her sprawled self, and her desire to just run, and cry, and hide, to just-

"I just want you to be prepared, Cee-" That was all it took. As a frightened cat, she was up in a second and gone in the next, the snow grating behind her a trail of lacked patience and childish abandon of todays lesson. She didn't even know what being prepared was meant for. Prepared for what?!

For what?

The turbolift was entirely too slow and the lift music was entirely too annoying. It finally concluded though with the advent of of the doors parting away and permitting Darth Tormentous entry unto the very level that his senses called him to. Each step brought him further down the corridor - towards his temptations. The promise of power, the darkened vow of corruption on tomorrow’s eve. This deck was not one that Tormentous would have ever traversed by himself or by choice for it was a deck where the non-Force Sensitive personnel would eventually be housed.

Servants all. Unworthy slaves and minions. Yet above the value of the rank and file for they at least could manage for themselves.

He stopped. Turned. A single doorway lay in front of him now and his head tilted slightly to the side. No identification was on this door. Nondescript and plain. It was hardly the position of the glorious feeling he had been drawn by. Without a doubt he felt that whomever lay beyond this doorway was the one he sought despite the evidence that said otherwise. Should this indeed prove to be what he suspected - he would be going after the Sith Interrogators who were in charge of seeking these Sensitive persons out and bringing them to the Academy for training.

Yet, there was something distinctly different from this being and so many others. He felt the heat behind her promise and the destiny that lurked so near by.

He raised a hand and touched to door. It was cold to the touch though he could sense someone on the other side. Being a skeleton crew of personnel for the Harbinger’s test runs, this one was not on the files. An unknown. A stowaway. Or it was someone that just wanted to be hidden away. He sensed the fear behind the door and it enticed him. He could not hold himself back any longer and the door slid to the side - he was the Emperor of the Sith Empire - no doors were locked which he did not hold the key.

Light poured into the room and he stepped inside. It slid shut behind him and sealed his silhouette away in darkness.

Heavy boots stomped in a low tempo towards the interior of the room. It was a basic room of very little to speak of. But as he entered he approached the bed and there he spied the source behind his sense’s call. His left eye glowed yellow with hidden and barely unchecked power as his mind fell upon the body tucked away in the blankets. His mind flowed over the being in the bed and he could feel so much untapped potential and power - so much wasted time - yes this was the one he sought.

His right eye reflected the fire in her heart and it was ablaze with furious abandon.

She had run too far. The girl had a remarkable set of legs, and when she put them to use, she shined. Or rather, she flew over the snow, a creature without any sense of direction, just running. The world was cold, but none of it could touch her, and not even her Fa's voice clouded her mind now. No, the Phoenix flew and flew until she just ... they just wouldn't move anymore. She collapsed into the fresh snow, untouched glaze of trickling crystals swimming around her almost fairytail-like. Her temper...she had such a temper. A fiery thing, and only the cool permafrost planet had the haunting grasp to sooth her rampant and misunderstood thoughts about her lifestyle, so far. She was still in her childlike body...but as the dream went on, her consciousness came with it. Or rather, her subconsious. She could feel herself mentally coming to, even in her dream, sleeping and being aware of it...

"Am I... I'm still dreaming-" her voice chimed to the dunes of white, her soft kid voice whispering as though she were telling a secret to only a single snowflake. Mercy smiled, a rare thing for the girl, and leapt up, completely able to control her dream now by just her whims. She could play and dance, and no one would have to see her, or judge her, or tell her she wasn't good enough-

'I just want you to be prepared, Cee-' his gentle baritones only poured lead in her veins. What could he have possibly meant about that? He did what he could, while he could. "Get over it, Fa," she waved a hand to the winds. He couldn't influence anymore over her than the shirt she wore, now. Fa was dead.

"But I'm not." She knew that voice. It had once been hidden by a vocalizer, something that kept the secrecy absolute, kept it stupid and -

Before she had even realized it, her mind was gone. Hatred for the man, mister Dastan, that prophetic bastard who claimed he tried to get her to be better than what she was, and then dropped her like a broken toy. "No- not a toy. A spoiled little girl who wants attention." Her goaded her, materializing before her as the next wind blew in, and in his hand-

he tossed it at her feet, and shock welled the girl silent. It was the detonator.
The same detonator that-

An explosion was heard from the direction where she had run off from, and the Vyler could feel her legs begging her to carry them to the scene, to check for Fa, to make sure he was alright. However, experience Mercy, the very same Mercy who had thought she had for once, found a dream, and not another nightmare, knew Fa was not alright. Mercy Vyler knew her Fa was dead.
And Dastan had been the one to blame.

"I knew that saber you held that day was his. I recognized it. And I had plans for you, and it." Her heart raced through her chest, and up into her throat. The stomach was doing the boulder thing, and she could have sworn she was sinking through the permafrost because of it's weight, should her shaking feet atop the tundra not be telling her otherwise.
"I planned for you to corrupt your own Fa's lightsaber."

He could have told her she was going to die right now, that her face looked funny, that her ass was too fat- but for him to admit that he planned for her to corrupt her own Fa's blade?

She had leapt up and out before she knew it, slender kiddy legs stretching as they could to crest the curl of his stomach with a roundhouse. But as it neared, his much larger hand snagged her ankle, and just held her there. She was helpless, but her hatred knew no bounds. Snarling like some sick demented animal scorned beyond sanity, she clawed at the slightly tanned snake bastard as he held her up like a fish out of water. She could have ripped his throat out with her teeth, she was so mad.
And the well of her fury never dried up. So desperate was she to carve Dastan apart, her limbs began to flail in the bed itself, and she started steaming, again. Her pent up rage, anger she couldn't express and vengeance she would never have-
she seethed.

There she tossed and turned in the bed and the temperature of the very room began to rise with her our heated fury. To Tormentous it was amusing to view the uncharted depths of one’s unharvested soul and this young woman churned in this bed as if she wanted to rend and kill whatever was on the other side of her mind. The heat grew to unbearable levels even and without even thinking the Dark One responded (Cryokinesis) and the temperature began to balance though the conflict was clear as Darth Tormentous approached.

Unconscious and vulnerable. He licked his lips beneath his face mask and fought such obvious base desires. Instead he sought knowledge over lust - for now. Stomping his way forward he approached the bed and the conflict of heat versus cold made the humidity rise in the immediate area. His hands began to cloud over with hoarfrost and the cold wafted from them in drifts of cold haze. From his mask came a cold sheet of vapor. Stretching out a hand he caught the hem of her shirt and snaked his hand onto her stomach. The heat from her skin’s touch was intense, though he failed to recoil as his own contradictory energy fought to keep his bare hand from scalding. Yet the pain she brought him - it was intoxicating for not only was it the energy of her will but it was the Dark Side of the Force at the edges of her mind. Such hatred, such fury. It pained him. It also brought him incredible feelings of tangible power. He was curious as to why at his touch that he felt as if his energy was amplified. It was almost as if they held an innate connection though it was hard to say.

She flailed and he leaned away from her strike being sure not to be the cause of her wake up. This scenario was intriguing as to insight to her mind - undefended and clear. (Drain Knowledge). Reaching within her mind he touched her surface thoughts and frowned to see Dastan’s face. What she was doing dreaming about garbage he did not know - though she was indeed. Then over time he could see that she despised him and her hatred surrounded him. He was the source of her ire.

If he hadn’t been amused yet he was now. He also disliked Imatari - the worthless scab of a fool. He enjoyed her loathsome thoughts and continued to let her flail. Though her inner heat was starting to cause the sheets and even the bedding to crisp, the very edges began to burn and curl. If he stayed much longer then she’d likely burn him alive.

Unless.

He poured more of his consciousness into his abilities and the permafrost of his cold heart leaked forth and from his hand it was delivered unto the subject of his connection. Cold to the touch his hand slid further into her shirt and through the center of her stomach up further between her breasts to her sternum where he came to rest and from here he felt her heart thundering against her chest and with it the boiling blood within her body heated his hand something fierce. Twice he wanted to bring his hand away but thrice he sent a cold rush to counter the Phoenix.

Finally he could sense her own desires and they were without remorse for her enemies. He smiled beneath his mask. He also wanted revenge and soon he would have it.

But first, his eyes traveled across her, he wanted something else.

Among them were answers. Mercy had eluded him after Vorpa’ya and had hidden herself from him. It had angered him greatly as he’d had plans for her. A vast assortment of plans. Her absence made him want to beat her badly within an inch of her life, show her what she’d missed, then finish her off. But Tormentous could see the value in her heart and he too wanted to expose this.

In time, it would be revealed to his chosen path.

She was so close. In fact, she had swung her dangling leg, narrowly missing that mask he wore by mere centimeters. Should she have stretched a bit more, the tip of her shoe would have atleast touched the surface of the stupid face she wanted to bury in lava. Dearest gods, she wanted to end him. She was sure he was smirking at her, watching her wring herself to and fro like some relentless scruffed kitten that didn't want to be taken back to the den. She didn't want to be held, but her last shred of intellect fought to grab her attention before she launched into another fit of unbridled tantrum. She was in control of this dream. This was her doing. Only she could end this. Even if only here, she could end him. She didn't want to be held? "Then I don't have to be." her voice bled out cruel and hungered. Her young body morphed then to her current age, a young woman with a violent vice. Combat boots, a pair of form fitting cargo pants and a black tank top that snugly fit her. A typical outfit for a grunt, nothing sexualized or provocative. That brunette braid lurched forth, springing from her plait into it's typical untamed wash of deep brown, already curtained over half of that gorgeous hateful face. Clearly being fully weighted at her 125 lbs was too much for him to steadily one-hand, and immediately she capitalized on this. Reaching up in a swift crunch, she held her momentum as she gripped his wrist in both hands, and felt how cold he was. As though he was Hoth. She didn't want to let go. However, just touching him revisted those memories, those recollections of abandonment. That rush of cold, that feeling of ultimate relief, she longed to NEVER stop touching him. Mercy extended herself, resting in the shaking arm of the bastard. She lowered her arms, based her hands in the snowed ground, and pushed up. With it, she lessened the grip he held a bit, and catapulted her other leg in the direction of his dumb face. Boot heel connected with his chin, and he was sent back, releasing the hellish lady into a tumbled sommersault. Back in control of herself, she stood, glaring entire flaming swords into the Spectre who had alright righted himself as well. "You should have killed me, then. I know you saw me. You should have killed me. Because now, I live to destroy you. To ruin every teaching you thought you could engrain in me, and spit on your sorry ass name." He was silent as cemetery's abode, crossing his arms and completely apathetic to the mental and emotional plight he had put her through. Tears wanted to come forth again, to freeze on tender cheeks in this cold hellscape, but she swallowed them in her pride. "You even had another opportunity with Darth Preshi, you moron. Gods, you should have killed me. Because now, I won't stop until I find you out there." Mercy didn't lament on what she would do once she had come across him. He already knew. She had forgiven him too many times, blindly following him like some lovesick loyal dog. All because she couldn't figure out how to be herself. How to be somewhat of her own thing. She wasn't going to be his little leg monkey, anymore. "Every time you come back to my dreams, I'm going to varigate ways that I kill you. I'm going to enjoy every single dream, from now on. Because one of these days, you bipolar snot, I'm going to bathe in your blood, and play kickball with your head"! The Phoenix exploded, heat so expressive to the outside world, that there were no flames. It miraged around her in a guaranteed threat that she was a walking tindercatch, and if Hoth was anything more than snow, it would have been halfway engulfed by now. Of course it would have been laughable how she assumed so readily she would be able to beat her former mentor without much difficulty, but this was her dream and reality was her own to bend in her unconscious strandings. And until he showed his ugly mug, she'd ruin him as she pleased. Kicks galore, volleys of punches, gutted swings and sidesweeps as the pair went at it. Every hit she landed shot another wave of winter into her veins, only motivating her to get more in. It had gotten to the point where she was getting simply aroused at the frigid wash of arctic attack she felt harass her overheating body. Pantings punctuated every slap, cut, scratch, kick and punch, and a smile kept with the rotation. Miss Vyler wanted to keep going until icewater stole her soul.


This could have gone on for hours, and in the heat of the moment, it felt as though it did. It felt as though she were finally taking back her freedom, finally releasing herself from the demons that haunted her. Finally, she could be free, right? After she killed him, was she done? Could she rest, set up a little shop and live her best life being a part time merchant somewhere? Or even a farmer or-

No. There was no way she could give this up. It just felt too good. It was addictive, to just get that awfully cold high from beating someone's ass. Mercy had gotten into fights before, but this thickly within the Force? She felt as though she had been held back for so long, and she finally got to unveil herself in this dream. To release herself entirely, to allow the Dark Side to take the wheel, and have no worries in the world. That malicious beast could carry her to the ends of Ziost and back, and she would let it.

A steeled fist connected with her jaw, and the meltwater forced a moan free from her lips. A tooth could have flown out, but there was nothing in her mind but the ecstasy of the battle, and the icy consequences afterwards. Dipping low, she avoided another roundhouse sent her way, pulled back to give herself leverage, and threw up a dicey kick vertically tossing Dastan. Too impatient to wait the mere milliseconds it took for him to come back down, an elegant leap courted by a earth-bound kick down. It was an executioner's axe, and enough to make an audible 'snap' as it connected with his collarbone, even under his armor. They both landed, on on their feet, and the other on their face.

However, as she had now the chance to look around, she saw she was no longer on Hoth...

She was in some swampy nasty messy place. The smell was enough to make her retch. It was...

This was Nal Hutta. And if there wasn't anything more horrifying than watching the guy you just enjoyed pummeling rise from the muck, but watching him a dripping mess, and much larger than what you know he was previously- unless..

The muck deteriorated away, a man in lighter combat armor with a bald head, a respirator, and a hunk of wood in his gauntleted hand. Pistols were strapped to his sides, and he wasn't in his menacing armor, at the moment. He was wearing what he wore that day they had to come meet some doctor guy out here, and if she weren't so paranoid to turn around, she would swear that same Firespray would be behind her, only freshly docked from where they had walked off of it, just moments ago. 'They'...where was Kita? The mission...had they accomplished the mission? Had Blood been- how did that fare out? Her mind was muddled but the past and the present, and she knew very well that she didn't want to be here. Being alone with Tormentous, even under the name of Jacobi, even WITHOUT the Force, she couldn't. Mercy felt her breath hitch as he began to stop forward, tossing that hunk of wood away from his barbaric tantrum with it mere seconds ago. It plopped in the mud somewhere, safe from his wrath, as he made his direct line for her. "Where is she-" she began, now only caring so much for the little blonde's safety than hers. She was just a distant memory now, as the Phoenix struggled to back up as fast as he advanced. Yet the woman's legs were tangled in the thick mud, humid air and gnats trying to get her panicking attention.


There was no running, today.

Her emotions were explosive and worn on her sleeve as she flailed. The fire in her veins was an addictive drug so potent to him that he could not look away try as he may. Tormentous fed from her emotions, drinking them in. The Force pained him in agonizing ways, his mind constantly felt as if he was being stabbed by a dagger right in the back of his brain and the headaches and migraines were never to recede. While in some ways this constant suffering he endured made him stronger through the Dark Side of the Force - to him though he despised it with every ounce of his being for the grief he was under every day and every moment of his waking life. The only moment of respite was when he was feeding off the emotions of others and even then it was only a thin veil, he was always accompanied by his fate to dwell in pain.

Yet here, this simple Mercy he’d found. Her raw and unbridled rage, as he soaked her emotions in and drank - no - feasted upon her mind’s residue he felt no pain. There was nothing. His mind was clear. He honestly hadn’t felt such clarity in years. Not since long before the time of Tormentous, before the Darkness took him and had destroyed everything he’d ever known and loved. He’d found Mercy to his agony and he knew not what to do with it in this moment.

That changed though when she sent a kick out towards him.

Typically always on guard the moment of calm he’d found himself in was belied and he did not sense the danger in the strike. The Force did not call out. Her hands reached out and gripped his forearm, her hands barely fitting around his muscled arm and in reaction he wanted to slide his hand up and grip her throat - to choke the life right out of her for simply touching him. He did not. He swallowed hard, was he - nervous? He watched the hoarfrost melt to her touch though the recession was minute as his mind was beyond that of normal men, the hellscape collided with the ingrained heat and like a cancer it overcame, covering back that which had gone away and growing to encompass fingertips, then fingers, then her knuckles and hand up to her wrist. He breathed deeply and a cloud of cold washed from his mask.

Clearly she sat completely within her dreams though so vivid were they that Tormentous could almost see them in her facial expressions. She moved, releasing him and planting both hands on the bed to push herself up. He allowed it and she sat up. Then came the attack. When he did not see her launch onto an assault she did, had she lured him into this?

Her kick came swiftly and it caught him in the mask. Though her bare foot lacked much in the way of impact potential though despite this her incredibly tension inscribed legs brought with it promise and her kick set the mask he wore to the ground and away from his face. Sitting down, he was not girded with a stance that would have prepared him for such a strike and his reflexive backhand caught her leg and sent her away - how she tumbled into a somersault while in a dreamwalk he knew not but it was impressive and to be honest it had aroused him. He stood now and so did she - ready to fight though her glassed eyes were still dreaming. He wanted to laugh but he did not as she snapped vicious words towards him but not at him.

He remained silent in it all. He wanted to see where this played out to. So many emotions roiled from the young Phoenix and he could not stop drinking upon them, it was literally an ecstasy to his chaotic mind. He wanted more. He needed more.

Betrayal was paramount to the forefront of her mind and the hurt behind it was delicious though part of Jacobi that wasn’t a sadistic bastard who lived to feel the universe suffer - reached to her and wanted to grip her in a hug and hold her tight while vowing to help her find revenge no matter the cost. Though Tormentous was not about to let Jacobi Wylcott interfere with such a tender moment. He wanted nothing more than to push her and see how far she could go, giving him more of which he desired every step of the way.

Her heat blasted him and he felt as if he was sunburnt while still under the sun’s rays. That feeling of oppressive heat was discomforting to an extreme degree - yet the ice in his own cold heart flushed himself clear of her assaults. Chilling him where he may have otherwise been damaged by her flaring personality. Though it left his exposed skin reddened and hot to the touch while freezing within. She launched herself to the attack. Kicks, punches, even open handed slaps and clawing scratches assailed him. He defended well. Blocking away punches that burned off the ice in clouds of vapor, some got through whether he allowed them or not - both were the case. Her touch even though out of anger was enough to bring life to someone who held hatred for every aspect of it. Warm and enduring - the opposite of his cold devoid life. Tormentous thought of the many ways in which he could use her potential to his own twisted means. The weapon he could create through her. It could be such a tool. Then again there was more to be had perhaps though this was yet to be seen.

With a combative smile across her face, golden brown hair in her face - she was every notion of a Warrior’s Shield Maiden that he’d ever seen.

He wanted to give her more. To help her break her chains. It was an urge he felt and could not shake the thought of.

Though in a fight there was no chivalry. He saw an opening and he jabbed her for her trouble. It left in icy pawl across her skin and flushed and he could see it sting her only to smolder away and drip melting ice water down her chin, rolling down her neck and vanishing beneath her shirt.

She kicked high at him and he leaned back after taking it on the chin, the impact was great and he was loving it. She leapt into the air and sent a potential fight ending strike his way but he leaned into her kick and robbed it of its true impact. Instead her achilles smacked down on the top of his shoulder with a loud crack of skin on skin contact. The heat from her ankle washed into him, the cold of his shoulder washed upon her. His hand came up and trapped her ankle. Such a vulnerable position she was in now and he smiled with sinister glee. Though he did not strike her down in that moment. Instead he ran his hand along her shin - admiring the perfection. Then he bit her ankle and tossed her off of him. He stumbled and fell from the wreckage of the bed, stifling a chuckle of amusement.

He looked at her and she was starting to come too. So when he next rose to his feet he drank in her new elemental surprise. (Feed on Dark Side) It was blind raw and potent. A taste of which he’d never experienced before. He wanted to break her open and dump it all out that he could feel the rush.

Now he could feel fear. If hatred and anger were symptomatic of delivering a tasteful moment to him it was her fear of which he could not handle. His mouth watered as he felt panic and a chain reaction of guilt and the fear of failure and inability. His hands opened and closed, clenching to white knuckles and release. His eye twitched with the sensations. He bit his lip and his mind wanted to lose its motor function. To lose control.

He marched forward, she retreated. She stuttered and he ignored her. It was time to finish what he’d started back on the Jai-Galaar. Jacobi had been a menacing prospect. Dangerous even. But Tormentous did not have a filter. Nor did he have the restraint of a Mandalorian Warrior. The bed sheets tangled her feet, she slowed, he clenched a fist and shot his arm outwards and in response the bed dematerialized in physical form going from broken remains to unnaturally crushing in on itself in a brief second or two and being tossed callously aside. He stalked ever closer like a predator on his prey. He could smell her fear and he could not stop.

Finally now only a breath away from Mercy he called to her. “I know you now. The emotion in your heart. The toils and weight you bear on your shoulders. You fear the Force, yet you yearn for its release.” He shook his head, “You can no longer hide from this.”

Then instead of forcing a step closer to her he gave his hand. The chill of his cold heart boiling from it in wafts of frozen air.

"Time to wake up."

Her vision flickered in and out, reality fading as a new reality began to evaporate what she had thought was a dream, trickle by trickle. First, Jacobi, his image blurring between being in casual clothes, basic gear, to being fully engulfed in his most dangerous form. From basic to remarkably intimidating, he flickered with every step he drew near. She couldn't move in soft muck, and it held her captive in her attempts to back up from him. Eventually the firebird was tangled in the net, and fell to the -
floor? Unable to keep up between her dream delusions and what was truly going on, her head smacked across the cold steel floor, and girl's vision swam even more. At this point, who was to say she didn't have a concussion by now? Stuff was blurry, but she lay there, tired, sweating, and only barely able to pick her head up to feel the ominous Force that seemed to want to engulf her, completely. Something terrible, gargantuan came closer as the swampland faded from existence, and blinking free the last of her sleep, eyes adjusted to what they could, and her heart nearly stopped. She felt as though any movement would set the man off, even though everything in her screamed to defend herself till the death. Even breathing made her wobble as she feebly attempted to rise. Nothing helped as the air around her was sucked free of the familiar warmth that surrounded her, and was replaced with the frigid cut of cold air. She exhaled, almost grateful for the goosebumps and bliss of relief from her constant infernos. His voice however, coming from the shadow silhouette before her, destroyed her relief apart faster than ice to fire. She began to feel the aches and pains, bruises surely already forming in tempo with the throb of her head, and with the rattled thumps of her heart. His voice, ... it was different. And she could feel the air leaving him, as though he was a walking freezer. Every breath, as though he was face to face with her. Mercy was hurting, both inside and out. He had seen her, not only naked, but naked out outside and in. She had unveiled her reason for hiding from him, her desertion, and while she had accomplished the mission as far as she could, even being there in battle, once it was time to wrap up and head back to base, she had left them to it. She was...She was too engrossed in wanting to be rid of Dastan, wanting to resume her attempts to find him and find some sort of closure-
Dastan had deserted her three times, now. And every time, she ran back to him, with no other direction in mind. However, Tormentous? She had left him. Did he not deserve her loyalty more than anyone else in the Sith? Blood had eaten her closest thing to a friend, Dastan had abandoned her, Fa was dead, and Makaro had been taken somewhere, or something while she was out. Either that, or he had left her behind too. There was no one left BUT Tormentous. He was stable, and considering he had clearly regained the throne, was strong enough to keep it. He had assessed her so long ago, been interested in her even then, and had plenty of opportunities to be rid of her, then. He hadn't left her. She was so full of regret, emotionally unstable, lost, completely and utterly ruined by such a hard life of trying to remain something to people who she was not deigned worthy to- when the man who continued to offer her the path to her freedom remained. The rumors, whispers, legend, all of it was true, a tear slipping down the left cheek of the exhausted and mournful woman. Tormentous was in fact, inevitable. He remained where others had withered and wilted and vanished and died. He remained. And again, he offered her a place within his hold, to bring her from her desperate repeat of failure, and bring her to a kingdom where only she held right to be what she was meant to be. If she was born into a life of destruction, and able to be much greater than the peons around her, than the worthless degenerates that claimed they could lead her-
Then she would take not only her crown, but the crowns of the damned who attempted to rise against the only soul who had faith in her cataclysmic capabilities, all along.

Her golden hazels, resolve buried in the flood of fear that began to brittle to determination. Something sickly lie in there, something starved, almost primal. Regardless, her mind was made up. Her words confirmed it.

"Whatever you want from me - All of it, is yours.I am yours." She finally, in all of the years she had avoided Tormentous, accepted his hand.
Compared to the damning hell she had put herself through... ice was rather revitalizing. Should it get too cold, she had plenty of coats available, and enough attitude to keep herself warm.