Ask Umbara Revulsion

[Zorya]

Zorya moved to the heavy throb of the music, her dark eyes half-closed as she lost herself in the rhythm. In the midst of the cacophony, she sensed a certain presence threading its way towards her, a silent ripple in the vibrating soundscape. Cracking an eye open, she beheld Azar, awkward yet determined, emulating the sway of the crowd with a persistence that was commendable.

The purity of his effort pulled at her, a tug of appreciation. It was a rare sight, a creature of his solitary demeanor finding his footing in an alien world of rhythm and motion. His name, when it came, was as unexpected as his dance, yet it slid into her consciousness with an ease that surprised her.

Azar.

Names were curiously powerful things. The essence of an individual woven into a string of sounds. Symbols of identity, badges of honor, emblems of the past, and harbingers of the future. Names were given, shared, and borrowed. They were lost and found, chosen and discarded. They carried the weight of the worlds one traversed, the histories one bore, the destinies one forged.

Zorya found herself wishing to return the favor. To share with Azar the name she bore. Not the one she'd been born with, no. But the one she had chosen, a declaration of her defiance, an assertion of her strength, a testament to her journey.

O'bog, her voice, was not within immediate reach, but she knew he wasn't far off, lost in the excesses of the party. So, she offered a different kind of voice. She took Azar's hand, the heat of his skin against hers a novel sensation amidst the thrum of the music. With a calm certainty, she traced the letters of her name on his palm.

Z - O - R - Y - A.

The strokes were delicate yet firm, each letter a whisper against his skin. A silent offering extended in the midst of the deafening pandemonium, a revelation as soft as a secret and as powerful as a storm. A name not merely given, but chosen. She met his eyes, her silence echoing the unspoken question.

Did he understand?

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

He was surprised when she took his hand. No, he was more surprised when he didn’t immediately pull away. His entire time in this warehouse had consisted of shoving aside anyone that drew too close. He could just barely feel the heat of someone close, barely smell the foreign scents of perfumes and colognes, and he immediately recoiled or lashed out. And yet he hardly thought to do it when she abruptly grasped his hand - in fact, she was likely on her way to writing the third character before his mind caught up to him. Azar felt what she did, watching her with her determined resolve.

And he didn’t understand any of it. He wanted to, but he knew it was hopeless. He felt that touch, felt the confidence, the desire she had for him to learn her name. As if she was proud of it. And yet, he couldn’t make it out. It irked him more than he wanted to admit to himself, and definitely far beyond anything he would admit to her.

There was, of course, another clue that he didn’t fully comprehend what she etched along his palm - the fact that he never took his eyes off her. Even as she eagerly did her ‘writing’ with determination or looked down at her handiwork.

He chuckled softly behind the scarf, “Rasiz tu'iea tora kash vi svelnus su its dhasi vi tu aras, Akcija“, He mused aloud, knowing she would never understand him. Or that he had fashioned her a name right then - writing her in as a character into his story regardless of how fleeting her part may have been. He may have spoken ur’Kittat, but the words flowed easily, confidently, not broken and with hesitation like when he attempted Basic. It was exactly why he preferred silence.

Azar flipped his hand over, grasping the one of hers that had just served as a makeshift pen. He intended to try and emulate some of the silly movements he saw some of the other dancers doing. Before he could, however, he felt that pulse in the Force once more. This time, it gave him pause. They were being watched. Or as Azar knew all too familiarly - they were being hunted. And he knew he was to blame. He had caused that little break from focus, and now they were likely in a similar mess to what they just escaped.

“Get away from her!” A voice called out. It was the voice of someone righteous, someone that believed they were the harbinger of justice, “Sith scum,” Azar looked right in time to see a saber igniting - a blue saber. A Jedi. Though Azar didn’t understand that quite yet, Zorya would. A Jedi that only saw what race he was and knew enough to conclude that there was no ‘saving’ someone like him. A Pureblood would always be Sith.

“Run!” The Jedi told Zorya as he shifted his focus back to Azar. The crowds began to clear out, screaming and scattering in all directions.

The Pureblood in question drew out both his Sith blades.

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

Zorya watched Azar as he crafted an intricate response, the syllables sliding from his lips like an exotic melody. There was a rhythm to his speech, a cadence that belied his typical reticence in Basic. His laughter, warm and low, served as a salve to the battering of the incessant clamor around them. It was almost a pity she couldn't grasp the meaning behind his foreign tongue, a secret she was denied deciphering.

Suddenly, an undercurrent shifted in the Force. A presence, all too familiar, emerged from the shadowy edges of her awareness. A Jedi. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth. Her onyx eyes narrowed as the self-proclaimed guardian of peace and justice stormed onto their stage, spouting warnings and admonitions. How dare he assume she was the one in need of saving?

In the chaos, a familiar zephyr whirled around her. O'bog, the ever-troublesome sprite, fluttered onto the scene, his goblin-pixie voice loud and abrasive. "Listen here, ye lumbering dunderheads!" he shrieked. "Ever thought it's the pious robe-wearers causing all the grief? The Sith here was keepin' his nose clean, just tryin' to have a bit o' fun! Now who's the power-hungry git, eh?"

His rhetoric, laced with mischief and defiance, threaded through the fear-infused crowd. Faces turned, whispers rippled, minds wavered. The seeds of doubt sown by O'bog's outlandish accusations started to germinate. There was a palpable tilt in sentiment, a sway in the masses that emboldened Zorya.

Her fingers brushed the hilt of her lightsaber, concealed in the folds of her attire. The hum of the energizing weapon felt comforting, familiar, a testament to countless battles fought and won. She had faced many foes, and this Jedi would be no different. She was no damsel in distress, she was a storm clad in silence, a force to be reckoned with.

As the crowd churned around them, uncertainty coloring their faces, Zorya readied herself. If a confrontation was what the Jedi sought, he would find her standing unflinching, resolute, alongside the misunderstood Pureblood Sith, ready to defend their right to exist outside the stifling dogmas of the Jedi code.

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

The Jedi calmly looked at Zorya - the look on his face was almost one of compassion mixed with pity, “Was he? Or was he simply allowing you to believe that while he lured you into a trap?” He asked as his gaze fixed back on the Pureblood, “They always have an agenda. Always some cruel, self serving goal. I feel his influence on you already,” The Jedi spoke only to Zorya, “You are misguided. There is a better path - a virtuous path.”

Azar was more than a little surprised when Akcija squared up next to him. What was she playing at? She could have run away while he was stuck facing the duelist that clearly only wanted to target him. The Jedi may have been speaking to Zorya, but he wouldn’t lose sight of the wretched Pureblood. Without warning, he used the Force to bodily throw Azar back across the warehouse. He slammed hard against it, falling into a heap. It was then that Azar realized several things - the drugs weren’t entirely out of his system, he was still very injured from being slammed around like a bag of ice by the Wampa, and this Jedi was higher ranked than him.

The Jedi looked at Zorya, “Run away, girl,” He all but pleaded with her before he charged right after Azar. The pureblood was still dazed, struggling to peel himself off the floor. His scarf fell away and he coughed up blood, his body protesting from all the blows it had taken thus far since his time in imprisonment.


@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

Zorya's countenance remained impassive as the Jedi spouted his misgivings, the shimmering condescension in his voice leaving a sour tang on her silence. His faith in his path was touching, in its own dogmatic way. Yet, his warning about Azar had her contemplating. Would this enigmatic Sith betray her in the end? A quizzical shadow lingered in the quiet recesses of her mind.

When Azar was hurled unceremoniously through the air, crashing into the unforgiving warehouse wall, Zorya felt a strange jolt, a concern foreign and unexpected. Azar was a stranger turned temporary ally. And yet, she could not deny the flaring of protective instincts. The sight of his fallen figure, hacking up rivulets of blood, elicited a grimace from her, an ephemeral shiver that echoed her silent disapproval.

“Bloody 'ell! You self-righteous lackwit!” O'bog's shrill voice sliced through the chaos. "You're the one playin' foul here! The lass doesn't need yer soppin' pity or yer puritanical path. Can't you see yer the villain in this piece, tossin' people 'round like rag dolls?"

Zorya was torn between the Jedi's warning and Azar's plight. Her fingers flexed instinctively around the hilt of her concealed saber, her mind already racing with strategies. But she was a Sith, not a knight in shining armor. Her silence swirled around her like a tempest of unvoiced defiance. She would not let the Jedi's sanctimonious prattling sway her.

The Jedi might see her choice as folly, a tragic fallacy of a misguided Sith. But she was not a puppet on the strings of any code. She was Zorya, a force unto herself, and she would decide her own path. She would stand by Azar, come what may. And if it led to a trap, then so be it. A Sith always welcomed a challenge.

As Zorya stepped forward, her proxy made his move. Swift as a whip and cackling with unreserved glee, O'bog zipped through the air, teeth bared like a shark, and latched onto the Jedi's ankle. His screech echoed through the warehouse, the perfect foil for Zorya's silence, as the Jedi recoiled in surprise.

Unsheathing her crimson saber with an echoing hum, Zorya charged. The thrumming of her heart echoed the vibrant dance of her weapon, pulsating with the raw energy of the Dark Side. Her lithe figure twisted and spun, the lethal blade whistling a shrill requiem for the approaching confrontation.

Her first strike was a sidelong slash aimed at his chest, swiftly followed by a downward stroke seeking to exploit the momentary distraction caused by O'bog. Her actions were seamless; she intended to kill. As she engaged the Jedi, her mind flicked briefly to the fallen Azar. She hoped he'd seize the brief respite she offered, trusting the Sith's instinct to survive. Her attack was not just an assertion of her own will, but a tacit invitation for him to rise and reclaim his narrative.

@Sreeya

//Rolled an 18/20: Zorya steps in and defends Azar

 

[Darth Arcanos]

The Jedi was completely caught off guard from the combo attack from Zorya and O’bog. Moreover, he hadn’t expected a red saber to ignite, the shock clear on his face. By then, it was entirely too late, and she had landed at least one hit on him. By then, the Pureblood stumbled to his feet, his body till weak from his earlier injuries. This was becoming a pattern - him doing miserably and her sweeping in to save the day. It began to grate on him, and it hurt his pride.

Brushing the thought aside, he charged towards the Jedi, deciding to humiliate him in his last moments. He used the Force to abruptly call the man’s lightsaber to himself. With the strange new weapon in hand, he was able to sweep in and remove the man’s head clean off his shoulders. The entire move happened in the blink of an eye, and just like that a learned member of the Jedi Order was a heap on the ground.

The patrons of the warehouse, whether caught in a panic or influenced by Zorya, all scrambled to escape and vacated the premises. There was an eerie silence save for the soft hum of the blue saber Azar now held in his hand. It felt alive in his hand but in a negative way. He could tell the weapon rejected him, fought against his very being. It perplexed him because he didn’t understand concepts such as Light and Dark - to him the Force was a singularity and he had only known it one way his entire life.

He wiped blood from his lips, glancing over at Akcija in silence, “Why..no run?” He asked quietly, back to his thickly accented Basic. Why had she stood by him when the Sith way would have been to bail? He had proven himself unworthy by now needing her help twice. The blow to his pride hurt worse than any physical wounds ever could.

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

The climax of the skirmish was punctuated by an eerie silence, a void in time that swallowed the echoes of battle. Zorya, her dark eyes glowing with the remnants of adrenaline, beheld Azar as he wielded the Jedi's lightsaber. The pallid hue of his complexion was stark against the spectral blue of the weapon, the sapphire glimmer casting an ethereal glow over his haggard features.

A soft chuckle emanated from O'bog, his impish eyes gleaming as he fluttered over to perch on Zorya's shoulder, a wingtip gently brushing against her cheek. "Why no run, he asks?" the pixie crowed, his voice laced with amusement. "Well, ye blighted bilge rat, it ain't about runnin', it's about standin'."

Zorya watched Azar, her gaze reflecting a steely resolve. She took a step closer, her footfall a soft sigh against the cold concrete. His query hung in the air like a phantom, a spectral inquiry probing her motives. Despite his injuries and the betrayal etched in his gaze, there was something about the Sith that intrigued her. His strength was clear, even if it lay cloaked beneath the veneer of weakness.

"Y'see, lad, ye might think yerself worthless, but me mistress here..." O'bog gestured grandly towards Zorya, "...she sees somethin' more. She sees fire beneath that ice. Aye, ye've taken a beatin', but ain't we all?" He paused for dramatic effect, then added, "So quit yer bellyachin', ye've still got a fight left in ye."

Zorya offered no physical reply, her silence speaking volumes. Her dark gaze, however, told a tale that words often failed to capture - a narrative of resilience, and adherence to the Sith code. Power was her ally, and she was the catalyst to unlock its potential. She did not see weakness in Azar's eyes; she saw a challenge, a puzzle to unravel. Her connection with the Dark Side was not a crutch but her strength, in time, it would be his too.

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

Azar bristled at what he could understand from the o’bog’s words. He hadn’t intended to project that he felt weak, but clearly it came across and the loudmouth broadcasted it. Azar realized then that it was no use attempting to grasp at the fragments of his shattered ego. It had no place here and was best left behind on Korriban where it mattered. He was a nobody here and perhaps that was a good thing.

However when the glorified monkey spoke about how Akcija saw him, his grumpy expression noticeably softened. The remark about his belly-aching translated to sentiments about upset stomach which left him confused - did he convey to her that he had food poisoning or something? Azar shook his head and sighed. He was going to have a very difficult time adjusting to the greater galaxy.

He fell into step beside her as they made their way out of the warehouse. This time, he let her lead the way instead of getting them sidetracked. Azar’s steps were slower, his injuries clearly catching up to him.

“I..Kissai, not Massassi,” He finally admitted out loud to her. Perhaps she would find it disappointing, or perhaps it meant nothing to her. However, it was an admission that he was not from the warrior class of his people. As if to illustrate his point, he drew out one of his Sith blades, letting her touch it if she chose. It hummed with an alien energy that spoke to how the blade was crafted with the Force and not simply found. It had his essence in it, and it pulsed with power as if it were alive.

“I..create first..I fight second...” He said slowly. It was weakness to admit that fighting wasn’t your strongest suit, but dishonesty with her wouldn’t exactly serve him well at this point.

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

As the pair trudged forward, Zorya offered Azar the silence he seemingly craved, her steady gaze watching over him. His confession of being a Kissai, not a Massassi, merely raised an eyebrow, the nuances of Sith castes barely a blip on her consciousness. It was his actions, his potential, that drew her curiosity, not the name of his ancestral class.

O'bog, fluttering lazily around them, broke the silence, his voice grating against the quiet. "Well, ain't that a pip! Yer a creator first, eh? In a galaxy where everyone's too busy swingin' sabers, it's about time someone carved something worth a damn!" His laughter was a shattering of glass in the stillness.

Her gaze drifted to the Sith blade Azar presented, her fingers gently tracing the pulsating energy that encompassed it. The craftsmanship was immaculate; every groove, every edge a testament to an artist’s meticulous touch. The essence that hummed within the blade mirrored the elusive spark she had glimpsed in Azar. It was more than a weapon; it was an extension of his spirit.

With an enigmatic smile, Zorya extended her own saber towards him, the hilt heavy and the construction alien. Its energy echoed its maker's resolve and strength, singing a symphony of her life's victories and trials. Her unspoken hope was that he would compare this and the Jedi's saber, that he could appreciate the intricacies of the Force imprinted upon each weapon, and feel the difference.

O'bog, balancing on Zorya's shoulder, smirked at Azar, his mischievous eyes glinting. "Ye earned that Jedi’s toy, lad, fair 'n square! Zorya here can show ye how to bend it to yer will. Ain't no need for a weapon to spit in the face of its wielder." His chuckle reverberated in the silence, a harmonious blend of jest and wisdom.

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

He was surprised to see her smiling - it was a strange, yet welcome feature on her normally stoic bearing. She made no sense to him, and her little pet translator was annoying. However, they were both growing on him in a way. She had her strengths where he wasn’t as skilled. Perhaps there was more to learn from her yet.

There was one thing that caught his attention then, however- the monkey thing saying a name. Was that the girl’s name? The one she had been trying to outline against his palm? He was just getting used to his nickname for her, “Zorya,” He said aloud, rolling the r by habit of how he normally spoke. He said it one more time before it rolled off easily.

Azar focused on her weapon, feeling the weight of the saber and the pulse of the crystal embedded within. It also spoke of memories and history, and it was alive in its own way. This weapon also didn’t feel like it belonged to him, but it didn’t harshly reject him like the Jedi’s blade did. He handed it back eventually, wondering what it took to change a lightsaber to obey his commands.

“Why…you here?” He gestured broadly around them, asking about her being on the planet. More importantly, what was she doing throwing herself into the fighting pit? He hadn’t noticed her as a spectator, so his reality was confused. Azar was brought here as a prisoner so he wasn’t entirely sure where he even was. The duo would soon be out into the open again, the area quiet save for drunkards loudly roaming about or other shady characters.

It was late at night and they were technically still being hunted. Did she have a ship off the planet or a place to rest? Was it odd if he stuck around with her?

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

A crude cackle echoed through the night as O'bog responded to Azar's moment of revelation. "At last, ye thick skull cracked it! Aye, that's her name - Zorya!" The impish creature took a moment to revel in Azar's bewildered expression, then busied itself with a derisive chuckle.

Zorya, meanwhile, reclaimed her lightsaber with the graceful ease of long familiarity, securing it firmly at her belt. There was a certain reverence in the way she handled it, as though it was an extension of herself. Even in the gloomy nocturnal ambience, the weapon held a silent aura of threat, a latent energy pulsating within its hilt.

As the scent of spent blaster fire still lingered in the air, Azar's question regarding their presence in the alien planet hung heavily. Upon receiving the mental nudge from Zorya, O'bog grumbled before embarking on a farcical attempt at translating. "We're here to build," he began, miming the act of construction with his tiny arms. "A Sith..." He paused, striking a dramatic pose, hand over heart in a mimicry of the Sith salute. "School!" He finished, sketching a rectangle in the air to signify a building.

Zorya stood by, her impassive facade betraying a twinkling amusement in her eyes as she watched O'bog's desperate pantomime. The contrast between O'bog's frantic movements and Azar's befuddled expression was a sight to behold, a rare moment of levity in their harrowing circumstances. The night's violent escapade had taken a whimsical turn, and it seemed they were now caught in an impromptu comedy routine.

Once the Ximpi had finished his display, Zorya gestured at Azar, a simple tilt of the head indicating an unspoken question. Would he accompany them in their quest to reclaim and restore the ancient Sith Academy? The ambition was audacious, no doubt, but it was not entirely unfeasible. As the mirthful laughter died down, replaced by the steady hum of anticipation, Zorya and O'bog awaited his response.

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

He thought Akcija was far more suitable of a name for her, but she did seem so thrilled about Zorya when she was writing it on his hand. He watched the theatrical display, not comprehending the humor entirely which only added to the comedy. He had a genuinely puzzled look, his yellow eyes following every one of the ximpi’s move and little dances.

“School?” He repeated, trying to envision an establishment of learning dedicated to the Sith. He had known about Sith academies, of course, but they had long since been decommissioned from the original purpose they served. He looked at Zorya, imagining her teaching a class. Actually, he looked to the ximpi that usually spoke for her harping to a class of learners. How long before one of the students used him for target practice? Azar’s lips curled towards a smile and he couldn’t help the quiet chuckle. However, he looked at Zorya - the determined look in her eye and the hopeful expression on her face. She was serious about this. He wiped the grin off his face and cleared his throat, his expression settling back to its usual broody.

Like her, he didn’t say a word, his eyes studying hers in silence. He began to understand her even without the aid of her little beast. After a moment, he slowly nodded his head. If for nothing else, he wanted to leverage an academy for his own learning. He had a long way to go before he found a foothold in this new galaxy, and perhaps this was the way to get there. Besides, he didn’t mind finding an excuse to be around Zorya, even if it meant having her furry translator zooming around at all times.

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

Relief seeped through Zorya's steely facade as Azar finally assented. There was an almost palpable shift in the atmosphere, as if a veil had lifted, revealing the potentiality of shared dreams. It was a delicate harmony between unspoken hopes and silent acceptance, woven together in a fleeting moment of unity.

Yet, in the midst of the quiet triumph, Zorya's eyes narrowed slightly, her senses finely tuned. The rough texture of her lightsaber's hilt under her hand, the moist, loamy smell of the soil beneath her boots, the distant echos of revelry all painted a picture of deceptive tranquility. One could never be too careful, especially not in unfamiliar territories.

"Ah, so the ol' rock-head's on board, eh?" crowed O'bog, breaking the silence with his irreverent glee. His voice, coarse and grating, chafed against the serene tableau, stirring the air like a stone hurled into a still pond. "Well then, off to the ol' ruins we go. Plenty o' secrets to unearth, mysteries to solve, and beasties to skewer, eh?" His antic laughter was a discordant tune in the ambient symphony, but it was the melody they had come to accept.

With the path ahead finally agreed upon, the duo began their trek through the winding streets, their path lit by the sickly glow of neon signs advertising dubious wares. Zorya's strides were steady, resolute, ready to blaze through uncharted terrains.

Behind them, they left the clamor of civilization, delving deeper into the dense maze of alleyways and decaying structures. But they were not without direction. Guided by Zorya's knowledge and intuition, their destination became clearer with each step. A derelict Sith Academy, shrouded in layers of darkness and time, awaited their arrival - a monument of past glory, soon to be the cradle of a new Sith era.

The path ahead gradually succumbed to a desolate, windswept landscape as civilization's vestiges were shed one by one. A mournful moon hung low in the sky, casting an ethereal pallor upon the terrain and throwing into stark relief the skeletal silhouette of the derelict Sith Academy. Its once-mighty edifice now reduced to crumbling masonry, the ruins bore a spectral echo of their former grandeur, standing defiant against the ravages of time.

As they approached, a dim constellation of flickering lights punctured the pervasive gloom. A makeshift camp was nestled in the lee of the ruins, a vibrant, unlikely bloom sprouting in the heart of decay. Crude tents huddled together, each glowing ember in the fire pit a beacon of vitality, while a modest collection of equipment marked their endeavor.

O'bog, weaving erratically in the air like a whimsical sprite, ushered them into this island of refuge with a dramatic flourish of his tiny arms. "Behold, the humble abode of the intrepid, the brave, the slightly mad!" he declared with unmitigated theatrics, his voice reverberating off the ancient stone walls.

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

Azar kept up with her as they walked, but he certainly took advantage of passing by multiple markets. He effortlessly swiped food and trinkets discreetly to stash for later. Azar was used to a nomadic lifestyle where he always kept moving, but he was pretty sure he had a few bruised bones at least. Meanwhile, Zorya practically pranced ahead with O’bog bouncing around on her shoulder.

He slowed down as they arrived at the ruins, his yellow gaze taking in sight of the structure. It was only a shadow of what it once was, and he wondered how it had even come to exist on such a planet. Zorya would notice his demeanor shifted to become far more comfortable than before. Here, away from civilization, away from big cities and bustling crowds was where he felt most at home. He studied the lands, paused to inspect the ground and showed all manners of interest as he passed the rows of Zabrak’s spine plants and their eerie glow. It was all stunning to behold, and there was almost a purple haze along the surface of the dark planet in the absence of city lights.

Azar came to an abrupt halt as he spotted the tents. Were there others there? Was this all an ambush? He couldn’t identify what Zorya would have to gain from turning on him now. The Pureblood didn’t move towards the camp just yet, his focus drawn back towards the ruins. He felt a pulse in the Force - a lifetime of practicing it ensuring that he was more attuned to such things than most.

As if on autopilot, he began to walk towards the ruins, his steps purposeful and methodical as if possessed. He skirted past a column, ducked under a low overhang, circled around a large chunk of parts of a spire. As he drew closer, he felt that presence grow stronger. It was a nexus. And it hummed underground from where they stood. There was more to this region than met the eye, and he could only guess at what the rest of this academy looked like.

Azar crouched down on the ground, tracing his hand along it with his eyes closed. He focused in the plane of the Force, letting it guide him as if an invisible thread tugged at his hand. Eventually, his palm landed on a patch of dirt. He quickly brushed the dirt away, revealing a slab of carved rock that had some ancient etchings on it. As a pureblood, he could read it.

“You have…”He didn’t know how to describe the word for holocron, “Key…key to open?” Azar attempted to communicate, now using hand gestures to make out the shape of a holocron, “It.. alive..under this earth,” He said, almost uncharacteristically excited. He abruptly grasped her hand and placed it on the slab under his, letting her experience the distant pulse from below.

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

Zorya observed Azar's transformation with silent satisfaction, his upright posture and glowing curiosity spreading through the gloom like the flash of bioluminescent algae in an ocean's night. His zealous interest was infectious, and a thrum of pride rippled through her sternum, setting her heart aflutter. His excitement mirrored her own the first time she had beheld the Academy's spectral silhouette.

Zorya watched as Azar's eyes took on a faraway quality, his attention hooked onto something beneath the surface. His fingers traced an intricate dance on the ground, their rhythm resonating with an ancient melody etched in the stone. His question hung in the air like a ghostly echo, the 'key' he sought gleaming brightly in the caverns of her mind.

She extended her senses, letting the tendrils of her awareness seep through the layers of rock and soil. They brushed against an unseen resonance that vibrated beneath the earth like the beat of a primeval heart. Unseen yet palpable, it emanated an allure akin to the distant echo of an ancient symphony, beckoning the worthy.

She honed her focus on the spectral echo, probing its veil with the delicate precision of an archaeologist dusting off a millennia-old artifact. But, like a coiled serpent, it lashed out, a domineering force that surged against her mind. The intensity of it resonated through their mental link, causing O'bog to flutter erratically, his normally jovial features painted with concern.

"Ye great gobshite, help her!" O'bog implored Azar, gesturing towards Zorya with desperate flutterings. "She's tanglin' with somethin' fierce!"

Sweat pearled on Zorya's brow as she wrestled with the resonant force, its invisible assault prickling like a swarm of angry wasps in her mind. Despite the onslaught, her determination stood steadfast, her jaw set with stubborn resilience.

@Sreeya

//Rolled a 5/20.

 

[Darth Arcanos]

There was a reason he didn’t immediately attempt to reach out with the Force beyond feeling the pulse of the Academy’s existence. He was familiar with ancient Sith architecture, and from what he could read, this particular one worked to keep people out at all costs. It was built to trap and imprison without anyone needing to be physically present. He had no time to tell Zorya anything, left watching as her mind was abruptly invaded.

He didn’t do anything at first, his hand slipping off hers where he had guided it to the slab. Azar sat in silence, watching the sweat rapidly forming on her brow, feeling the struggle through the Force. He was not exactly a hero - he had his own fears and he was largely self-serving. This was something beyond what he could handle, or so he believed. Azar’s initial thought was to simply walk away from this. He owed her nothing, and vice versa.

His hand shot up as he snatched the ximpi, bidding him to be silent. Azar could have crushed the little beast right then. His fingers curled around the furry creature, so frail and fragile in his grasp. It was not enough to cause him pain, but certainly would make him nervous.. And yet, he still did not look at O’bog, his gaze on Zorya. He didn’t see the distressed version of her, only the determination as she tried to tell him her name, the way her eyes lit up when she expectantly asked him about this academy, the way she stood by his side when the Jedi arrived. If this was all part of her manipulations, she was crafty indeed. Every fiber of his being failed to come up with a reason not to be selfish. He could raid whatever little camp there was and take everything she built. It was how he was raised.

Azar growled as he released his hold on O’bog suddenly. He didn’t allow logic room to fester, plunging abruptly into Zorya’s mind. He knew vaguely what to expect, but it didn’t make it any less unsettling. In the physical plane, he was left in a meditative state and vulnerable, just like her.

He was in the plane of the Force, a hellish landscape constructed as a prison to trap those that attempted to access the ancient fortress without the proper key. Zorya was lost inside this realm, trapped within a perversion of her own psyche. He was here willingly, so he wasn’t trapped yet, but he risked it to be here. He was still kicking himself, reminding himself that there was no benefit to this. And yet, he kept walking forth, stepping through the haunting valleys to search for her.

“Zorya!” He called out, his voice blurring and echoing. Language was an abstract in this plane, and he could be perceived through his intent and emotions. This meant she could communicate with him here if she heard him.

Azar stepped past tendrils of smoke and what looked like eerie tentacles that threatened to constrict and destroy him. He knew he had to find the woman and yank her out of this prison before she was driven to madness and forced to surrender her mind.

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

Engulfed within the torturous recesses of her psyche, Zorya found herself marooned on a landscape spawned from the abyss of nightmares. Disjointed shards of stone appeared to float in a vacuum, their forms spiraling around a central pulsating column of light. The luminous tower throbbed with a rhythm eerily reminiscent of a monstrous heart, casting ghastly shadows that danced across the hellish expanse. Coarse smoke, almost tangible, twirled and writhed like serpents, its suffocating presence imbued with an uncanny solidity. From all directions at once, distant cries and shrieks perforated the desolate void, the discordant symphony of suffering resonating with an inescapable omnipresence.

An icy shard of anxiety pierced her heart as she sought out the familiar figure of O'bog, her constant companion in both the mundane and the extraordinary. But the expanse was barren of his fluttering form, his mischievous chattering painfully absent. It was a novel and disconcerting sensation. She called out to him, a wordless plea echoing through the mental realm. It wasn't truly speaking; her voice did not ripple through air, rather, it pulsed through the conceptual fabric of this psychic plane. Yet, the haunting silence that followed was as tangible as any echo.

Drawing herself up, Zorya steadied her shaking resolve. The realm was born of the mind, an intricate tapestry woven from thought and consciousness. The smoke, the light, the shrieks – they were all part of a mental construct. Perhaps, she thought, she could exert some influence. Closing her eyes, she envisioned a gust of wind, fierce and cleansing. The resulting zephyr was but a gentle breeze, only partially effective in dispersing the smoky haze. Yet it was a start, a glimmer of hope in this disarrayed reality.

Then, like a stray note in a dissonant melody, she sensed her name. It wafted in on the very breeze she had conjured, carried by the ethereal whispers of the wind. It was not the sound of her name but the impression of it, resonating with an all too familiar timbre. Azar. She recognized the echo of his presence, his unique psychic imprint indelibly etched into the fabric of her awareness.

Focusing her attention, she sought out the origin of the thought, navigating the disorienting landscape with newfound purpose. As her steps drew her closer, she whispered his name into the psychic expanse. "Azar." For the first time in a decade, she found herself communicating her thoughts directly, unfiltered by the proxy of O'bog. She shaped her mental utterance, willing it to sound as she imagined her voice to be – sultry and mature, a far cry from the youthful voice that had last spoken her thoughts aloud.

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

This was all unrecognizable to him, and he knew it was too late to turn back now. He couldn’t hide anything, not even his fears could be hidden here, and they pulsed in his presence. It only fed the darkness that created this landscape, and he had to actively find his courage. He felt lost, the barren valleys stretching far beyond what he could see. Artificial thunderstorms roiled above, and he realized that instead of the sound of thunder or lightning it was a cacophony of voices. He could hear ur’Kittat amidst the languages and a thousand others he didn’t recognize.

Azar called out her name once more, but to no avail. And then, when he began to completely regret his decisions, he felt the brush of an unnatural gale. It was constructed, but it didn’t feel malicious like the rest of his surroundings. There was something familiar about it, and he realized what it was when he heard her. Heard her. It was partially a sound and mostly what he felt, hints of fear and a sense of panic bleeding into the name.

It was the sense of direction he needed, and he chased after that gale, leaping over crevices, ridges, scaling over hills and jumping across platforms. He glanced over every now and then when he saw hints of her own thoughts displaying in the lands around him. After all, this was an intrusion into her psyche. Hidden ideas, dreams, thoughts would all exist here as faint imprints or whispers where the academy’s defense mechanism hadn’t corrupted yet.

He called her again and once she answered, he knew he was close. He could make out her faint outline in the distance just briefly before the smoky haze clouded her from view again. Before she saw that, she would catch a glimpse of a dark shape rapidly forming before where Azar stood.

The Pureblood stopped in his tracks, looking at the culprit of all this - the guardian and beast that sought to imprison Zorya in here forever. It was a shapeless thing, a shadow constructed from years of dark, arcane ritualistic Force. This was his enemy to fight - Zorya couldn’t touch it because she had been trapped. He had walked in here willingly.

Azar felt fear course through him, and he saw fear manifest into tangible form, morphing into a black ichor that extended from him and towards the beast. It fed it and added to its form. He could see that similar ichor floating from where Zorya was if she felt any fear, feeding the shadow beast. Azar exhaled slowly, remembering his courage and remembering his strength. He was a shepherd of the Force. His skills were in creation and manipulation of the Force, and this entire world and this beast were ultimately manipulations of the Force.

The Pureblood focused and called upon his knowledge, drawing in the ancient teachings of his people. Soon enough, the surrounding bits of earth began to crumble and break away. Instead of focusing on the beast, he focused on everything around it, in this entire reality that was ultimately woven from a power he could influence. The land beneath the creature began to give away, and the darkness that made up the creature began to pull away from it and evaporate into the mist that loomed above them. He began to tear the beast up from the inside, hearing its shrieks as it attempted to claw at Azar. However, it began to spiral and churn down into a whirlpool that Azar fashioned beneath it, taxing his Force reserves to manipulate it.

Roll: 20/20 to fight this thing

@Aberforth

 

[Zorya]

As Zorya advanced towards Azar's silhouette, an ominous shape suddenly manifested, coalescing from the ethereal fog into a predatory specter of shadow. Her progress halted, a chilling wave of paralysis washing over her. This grotesque beast, born of her psyche, served as an unnerving mirror into her subconscious. If this realm was the manifestation of her mind, what did this darkness represent? What were these predatory instincts, these chthonic fears she had buried deep?

She watched with a sense of detached awe as Azar, the uninvited interloper, dared to engage the fearsome apparition. His courage resonated in this abstract dimension, painting him in shades of heroism she had not previously observed. His actions defied the self-preserving pragmatism she had attributed to him, revealing instead an unexpected fortitude. The Pureblood's valor rippled through the distorted space, clashing against the monstrous embodiment of her inner demons.

When the shadow beast ruptured into a thousand swirling fragments, Zorya felt the ethereal chains that bound her dissolve. Free from her immobilization, she moved towards the panting Azar. There was a newfound respect burning in her gaze, the intensity of her silent gratitude carving itself into the psychic ether. She peered into his eyes, her own orbs mirroring the eerie pulsating light of this realm. "I see you, Azar," her gaze seemed to whisper, even as the words remained unspoken.

Pausing, she allowed the ethereal winds to stir her ebony robes before a glimmer of levity touched her thoughts. "So," she queried, her mental voice the low smoky echo she had fashioned earlier, "Ye happen to know the way out, love?" She couldn't resist the quip, the light banter an attempt to ground them both in the surreal reality they were negotiating.

@Sreeya

 

[Darth Arcanos]

When it was all over, he was lying on his back, entirely taxed from combating the beast of this realm. He knew that when he left this plane, his physical body would collapse into a deep slumber. He would be vulnerable, and it left him with an unpleasant feeling. He glanced over when Zorya emerged, unbound from her tenuous chains. It was still bizarre to hear her speak, but it was a voice far more fitting than the squawking of her companion.

“Don’t make a habit of this,” Azar quipped back moodily, though his eyes gave away it was lighthearted, and weakly rose to his feet. Though he didn’t sustain injuries in the conventional sense, he had depleted his reserves and was taxed. Every footstep took effort, and he was slower to traverse this plane. Their surroundings broke away from what it was and returned to its original rendition absent corruption. It was Zorya’s mind once more and it was all under her control. He would see only the landscape she manipulated into creation.

“A Holocron is needed to open the academy,” He explained, his voice the similar baritone to what he sounded like in the physical plane, but there was no thick accent or broken speech, “This school was intended to keep others out and it was for specialized and discreet studies,” Fighting the monster and feeling the sensations through the slab of rock had allowed him to gain some basic insights. He could decipher old Sith texts and arcane wards simply by virtue of belonging to the group that originated a lot of it.

“You haven’t found that holocron, have you?” He asked as he led the way back from where he came. It was refreshing to be able to communicate so easily without multiple barriers in the way. He could only muse about what O’bog was doing right now – probably drawing crude things on Azar’s catatonic form.

@Aberforth