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“Of course, my darling,” she crooned, as if opening the way was the trailing punchline of a joke only the dead could truly savor. The jewel was set off-center, the color of arterial blood, and perhaps she lingered a fraction too long, tempted to see if any residual poison or curse might take her. The prospect thrilled, briefly, the old deathwish knotted beneath her sternum. Unwise to indulge, but Agonia was not known for her temperance.

Her thumb pressed down.

The room responded, stone shifting with seismic intent, and from somewhere deeper within the walls came a groan like a soul resigning itself to oblivion. The groan was joined by the slithering clatter of stone on stone, a kind of rough symphony— as if the dead were orchestrating their last, desperate pageant for two unimpressed critics.

Agonia, possessed of her own breed of anticipation, braced for the arrival of a classic death machine, as the ornamental columns shattered their illusion of fragility, erupting as if in furious revenge. The first volley of splintered stone missed her face by a whisper; the next clip ricocheted off her mask, drawing an involuntary laugh from her. Hollow, unhinged.

Following the logic of temple designers everywhere, she maneuvered herself and Asamta (and, of course, the droid), barely, into the wedge of safety behind the open sarcophagus. At her back, the tumult of boulders and shattered masonry filled the chamber with a music of destruction— far preferable, to her, than the elegantly mingled voices of the dead.

Finally the rumbling died, and Asamta peered under Agonia's arm to survey the now ruined tomb. Why Sith complained about disturbing the dead, when they insisted on doing it to themselves, was beyond her. And Dysentis, now apparently thoroughly bored by the lack of bloodshed, faded into what remained of the masonry.

“L-lord Honos,” says another officer, voice quavering with the sudden knowledge of context. “Your Excellency—”

The Sith does not let go. He waits for a silence to bloom— watches the color in the officer's hand fade from ruddy to ghastly, the pain painting itself across the young man’s face. Waits further, letting the tremor of fear that moves through the immediate crowd reach maximum amplitude. Only then does the Zabrak finally speak, voice low and courtly as silk laid smooth over a blade: "Lieutenant. That arm— would you prefer to lose it?” “N-no, of course not, m’lord, I—”

“Then I suggest you apologize to my lady, and remove yourself from her presence. Now."

Something in the casual certainty of Jarrok's tone, the way his eyes did not so much flicker as burn, removes all further belligerence from the officer. He’ll contemplate how lucky— that Lord Honos hadn’t wanted to risk dirtying Xyraan’s dress— he was later, no doubt. “I apologize, sincerely, my lady!”

The officer stumbles away, clutching his wrist, shame and adrenaline painting a cold sheen on his brow. The laughter and gossip swirl, predatory and electric, as other guests quietly recalibrate their rankings of who commands true respect in this room.

Jarrok, for his part, does not bother projecting further authority— he knows the difference between respect, fear, and the absence of both. Merely turns to Xyraan, drains his flute of champagne all at once and sets it, very pointedly, on the tray of a passing waiter; the earlier spark of mischief in their dance now eclipsed by a quiet stormcloud.

Safe. Protected. Respected. Desired. So rarely has anyone provided all of that for her...

... It turned her on. Hard.

"... I think I'm inclined to agree," she replied, voice light and casual, as she replaced the champagne flute with a grip on his arm to tug him away. "Let us find a private little spot for us, yes?"

Brief pleasantries were exchanged, and although Silaina felt a sense of hesitation at the thought of working directly with a Jedi, she agreed nonetheless. Conversing with Force ghosts was her particular area of expertise, and while she viewed this temporary alliance as distasteful... she was also wholly aware of the fact that it was necessary.

So she strode along in Lana's wake, clipping the spiked hilt of her lightsaber to her belt as she walked, trenchcoat swishing against her legs.

"Sith Ghosts, is it?" were the first words from painted lips, as she halted neatly at a small remove from the Jedi's location, crossing her arms over her chest. Those lips then curled into a feline grin, as her crimson gaze landed upon the familiar figure of Agent Shan leaning against a stack of crates nearby.

Azukni looked up at him, and titled her head. It was true; she generally worked closely with other Jedi and the Republic, and she'd never really had the chance to experience the storied cruelty of the Empire or its Sith. However what little experience she did have, was far less frightening than what she had grown up believing.

She knew very well it'd be folly to trust everything that was told to her, but such was the case with anyone, regardless their loyalties. But with her Force-blessed intuition, she'd be fine. She knew this. Theron knew this, if he had read any file about her.

"I'm quite positive, thank you Agent Shan," she replied, her voice lowering to not be overheard. In her peripheral, Lana's presence returned, along with another individual -- strong in the Force, honed like a fine blade. "But what about your experience with Imperials makes you this guarded? It seems you're being more cautious than even some of our most paranoid Republic soldiers." Theron's face twitched, and from here Azukni could practically feel his heart rate pick up.

Lana and her companion stepped into view, and Azukni turned to them both. "Lana, you failed to inform me that I'd be working with my favourite handsome spy boy," the stranger said. Beside her, Theron stammered in protest before Azukni saved him from his embarrassment. "Unfortunately, Agent Shan will not be participating in this particular mission. That responsibility falls to me." Azukni offered a polite bow before smiling up at the tall chiss.

“Fame has finally found me, then? After all of those mix-holos.”

There is a gnawing disappointment at survival, not for lack of appreciation— she loves a good resurrection, especially when she doesn’t have to do any of the work— but for the anticlimax, the utter lack of spectacle. No celestial gates, no secret council of dead Sith plotting their return, no parade of her past manifestations, which was honestly her biggest regret, given how much effort she'd put into curating a healthy following of post-mortem fans.

She checks, as she always does, her connection to the Force. Still there, and more elastic than before, a hot-cold river shoving through her like it plans to make landfall on the battered shore of her ribcage. The current is different. Not the familiar roar of Dark Side, not the braided double-helix of passion and pain with which she’d always strangled her own life-force. Something else is patching her up, knotting her cells and ordering the chaos to stand in line, suture after suture.

Jedi-made. Hilarious.

Agonia smiles, or tries to— the gesture gets tangled in the mess of her lips and the too-bright taste of recycled blood. “I’m told it’s difficult to kill me. But yooouuu, Master Jedi,” words slurring with the effort, the saliva, “Are the first to try bandages instead of a blaster.”

The humor comes out raw. Less hilarious, really.

Oh. There was a question there.

“Happened,” reining in her tongue to focus-focus-focus; each heartbeat a tick toward clarity. “What happened was Skytroopers, some shrapnel, and knowing that I should have worn my armor.”

Azukni’s hands are small but strong. Unnecessarily gentle. It’s almost offensive— Agonia has never respected kindness, nor the cosmetic healing of surface wounds. Pain is a teacher, violence its curriculum. She expects, craves, the jagged education of it; instead, this Jedi treats her as one might a wounded nestling— delicate and pitiable, even as Agonia coughs up what may or may not be an oozing segment of her own intestine.

If anything, the raw wound in the Force where Agonia nestles— has always nestled, a hot ache in the center of all things— should be leaking her essence like a sieve. But instead, it seems to fortify her, some sick upside to being the galaxy’s favorite existential ulcer. She can feel the Jedi’s presence in the current, a silk thread stitching through the blood-rank depths of that unseen wound, tempering that primordial hunger at her core. Most other healers shy clear of her, and for good reason— her soul is less an eddy in the Force than a perpetual, sucking sinkhole, a metaphysical open gash, actively sabotaging any attempt at tidy closure.

The wound within a wound, the paradox that refuses to die, that feeds itself from what should rightly be its own unraveling.

The tiny hands continued pressing against Agonia's side, doing their damnedest to keep all the blood on the inside. "Jedi medevac, Alliance, Sith, at the moment isn't it all the same, as long as it isn't the Eternal Empire? They went off to the south, by the way, to continue... whatever Skytroopers are ordered to do. Commit arson, by the smell of ash? Stars if I know."

Something was off. Strange. Any other patient, given the severity of these particular injuries, not only would have died by now, should have died by now, but her strength in the Force, wasn't nearly as effective as usual. It was working, yes, but not as fast as it usually did. And she was getting tired faster, too...

The sound of her comm went off, a distorted voice came through and the engine of the medevac over the horizon. It had seen them. Promptly, she shut the thought inside of a box and shoved it into the deepest corners of her mind. She could not lose focus right now. If anything the strangeness required more of her and she had to be dedicated.

The (Jedi) medevac made its descent, little metal feet extending as other medics came tumbling out with a gurney. The Force made safe transportation of Sith-to-gurney easy, at least. Some of these medics would take her place on the battlefield for now; apparently the Darth was more important to keep alive than Azukni had realized. She'd been quickly reassigned to focus on her specifically, and she didn't argue. With whatever was draining her, she understood that Agonia would have that answer... And a nagging feeling said few other Force-healers could put in the same work.

The commanding officer took his duties seriously compared to most officers in the Balmorra. His own retired adopted father had once served the Empire many moons and took the young cathar in as his own. One of the rare few in his opinion that treated other species as comrades and equals (albeit his training was still difficult and more harsh compared to regular recruits in the imperial army).

Knowing that there was other soldiers to tend to, Koh Ta moved over from the soldier's bed to help assist Fauli with the remaining soldiers in the medic tent. He looked over with fondness wondering how such a skilled medic could still smile in such dire circumstances.

"... I wonder what would happen if all it's done is made us brittle," she said quietly, "And instead of adapting, you just learned to shoulder the pain with a smile. What would happen then...?"

PTSD was practically a requirement after coming back from battle, after all. At least in her experience. Sometimes, patients made it past their trauma, but more often than not it would consume them. Relief would come in the form of a glass bottle, or violence that matched a warzone, or worse.

“He understood terrible purposes. They drove against all odds. They were their own necessity. Paul felt that he had been infected with terrible purpose. He did not know yet what the terrible purpose was.”

― Frank Herbert, Dune

“My body is a dead language and you pronounce each word perfectly."

--Sierra DeMulder, “On Watching Someone You Love Love Someone Else,” from New Shoes on a Dead Horse

HEY FOLKS , WE NEED TO TALK! get comfy because this is a long post with important stuff in it , that will briefly discuss examples of transphobia we've spotted in the rpc. just a heads up that this includes some quotes of transphobic things that have been said. as a trans person who is also friends with a lot of other trans people in the rpc , we've been seeing quite the uptick of incidents of transphobia in the community for a few months now. a lot of it has been going on in fantasy fandoms , but it's probably because we're in those most that we see it the most and this isn't isolated to just those. it's an issue that's more prevalent recently , and it's something that we think needs to be pointed out and most importantly actually tell you our suggestions for what you can do to help make and keep the rpc safe for trans people. our rights are being attacked tenfold right now and finding safe places in real life and online is getting harder and harder. please don't contribute to that and try to help us in making it better. i won't be calling anyone out on this post , going into specifics , mud-slinging or name calling. that won't solve any problems or let anyone move forward. the key to being better is giving people room to learn from their accidents , screw ups and mistakes , and reflect on how they can better that behaviour for the whole community to benefit. i won't be taking questions or responding to messages unless it's to chat about moving forward with these intentions.

*:･ﾟ✧ WHAT'S BEEN GOING ON? i'll tell ya!

roleplayers have been fetishising other people's trans characters like they're sexual oddities and not people. focus on a character's genitals , asking if a character's genitals are ' normal ' or not ( heads up , trans people's are as normal as everyone else's ) , treating trans people and muses as if their gender is ' fake ' , or pushing fetishes related to topics like pregnancy or periods on them without their consent. conversely , writing nsfw rp involving trans characters is not always inherently fetishistic ---- some roleplayers have been telling them it is. trans people can be sexy , have sex and enjoy sex , and they should be able to write and discuss this material as openly as everyone else does. implying that trans people just having sex lives is fetishistic and shouldn't be allowed can contribute to the shame that some of us feel about our bodies and us having healthy , normal desires that a lot of people have. roleplayers have been equating gender to genitals in and out of character. not everyone of the same gender has the same genitals , and not everyone with the same genitals has the same gender. neither invalidate the other and phrases like ' she has what every women has ' or ' he's just like all men ' when talking about muses that are cis or trans aren't helpful and can make us feel dysphoric. roleplayers have been openly mocking trans people who have said they don't want to be approached by people who write harry potter content. it's mean-spirited , implies our feelings and boundaries are an over reaction , and doesn't extend any empathy. it ignores the point we're making that we're just asking to not have to interact with material written by an active oppressor of our rights. trans roleplayers have been including rhetoric in their roleplay that reflects transmedicalist beliefs , that trans people should adhere to strict gender roles , and stereotypes that people are trans because they're groomed to be. these are stereotypes that people use to attack us , discredit us , and police our gender expression. our own community isn't perfect and we need to challenge and talk about internalised transphobia as much as external.

*:･ﾟ✧ BUT WHAT CAN I DO ABOUT IT? i'll tell ya that too!

that is also transphobic.

treated myself with an Agonia commission from the amazing @inkedstone 🖤🖤🖤