#pernix: the knife of the ren

[rensect]

"Are you in pain like I am?"

Post!RagnarokB, in the ashes of Asgard.

[▼]

"Yes," she says, obliquely. In the language of droids, a voice that flatlines. "—but only because you're in pain."

Pernix looks up. Her ink-drop helm seems to hold Brunnhilde's gaze, the way a scalpel's edge holds an eyeball.

"You should stop. It's a terrible waste."

A waste of the wound made in Brunnhilde's chest. Why mourn the one who made it? The wound was itself was god enough.

@valkxrie

[rensect]

Femoral pathways slice two ways, and tendons are undone—what agony; Pernix electrified.

"Ah—"

Her hips roll, momentarily bewitched by the plunging blade, though the Stray doesn't give the Scum the satisfaction of thrashing or screaming. Perhaps she'll give him nothing in return.

Pain is so ordinary. Everything that feels experiences pain in its own way. But once one pushes beyond pain, there is ecstasy and sublimation. Few give themselves to those higher states of being and dying. Feeling beyond the flesh, into the blood, and through the oxygen that touches it. Expansion. It is Ren. Everything, a vein. Nothing, an aperture.

Pernix seizes Feyd-Rautha in her throes; this is what she gives him. She won't go alone. Let her at least take Feyd-Rautha to the river's edge and show him his new smile in its black mirror. She laughs into his ear in that strange, measured monotone.

Then it shorts, and she's but a dark tangle of limbs holding Feyd-Rautha around the ribcage, the waist, blood to blood. Trembling, asking him, without asking him, to feel each angle of the little deaths before the last rasping breath.

Don't breathe, Pernix commands, her shadow tongue flicking around Feyd's skull. His inner eye. The slick thing with no pupil.

Don't breathe, she tells it.

Let him choke on his blood because a very nice voice in his stupid, empty head tells him so.

—We can't have that.

The pleasure of a full death. It's this she'd give him, na-Baron, Scum, but Pernix already knows he won't receive her gift. Even as she expels her final breath, she can perceive Zela's cowl fluttering toward their shared pool. A yellow wing over their crimson body, adrift in a nothing space; how the world re-translates to heat signature because the bitch unclasps her helm.

Because now, sweet Zela will take their pain back from them.

Neither Pernix nor Feyd know anything about worse.

Neither paid heed their hand.

@nightmarefuele

In a hand, in a hand, then is he in her.

He's on a shelf where Baron lusts after the green boy with a hawk name.

For the waste about him, Uncle deserves to be fucked bloody on Feyd-Rautha's blade. Feyd-Rautha doesn't need suspensors. Feyd-Rautha doesn't need to rise again.

Pernix has no idea about worse.

Maybe she will, if he'll honor her that way. Before The-Ren, the pup was just⸺

Feyd sinks, atlas to sacrum, molting. That's not the human in him the Gesserit witch took him for. He locks in just fine without self-persuasion, uninterested in preserving, impatient about it, blown in the eyes, an invert dead star. His sounds belong to liminal spaces. He can't hear them. He rustles under his scales instead; he chokes her sticky non-body beneath his legs; he listens.

⸺a stray.

And his cheek smiles away from him, ants dog-panting through the flaps.

Feyd-Rautha cements himself to the forearm. Her blood eats over his puffed grey veins. He's noblest like this: giving and watching, more wonder than strain in his lips, exploring upward. He goes inside Pernix's femoral arteries. He doesn't wait to see.

@rensect

[rensect]

She does not recognize the brutes that carry these burst marble corses. She listens to the carnelian ossifying through ruptures in the friezes of their folded limbs, the leftover whispers of stone hands clasped in plea. This she recognizes.

Pernix watches the houseguards drag them, wan gaze held high within her visor. Avoids Feyd-Rautha, heir to oil scum, his ceremonials painted in the same blood that licks the floor. That licks all of Giedi Prime, the Harkonnen fief. 

Do they bury these bodies? Burn them? Do they mourn or eat them? Deliver their dead in milky slabs to the lowers? Zela says House Harkonnen is barbaric; Pernix thinks she is jealous. 

—You wish you still had a people.  —♱I want for nothing.♱ —What a lie! You want that Desert Boy to remain as he is. What a small thing for a heart to wish—sad and small.  

Zela's love for everything and desire for nothing is sentimental, stupid, and a lie, for Zela takes everything. She has even taken the marks Pernix imprinted on Feyd-Rautha. 

He was nicer to look at with the bandorium smile and flayed cheeks. Better with another hole in him. But Zela was called on in those celebratory early hours of his victory. She stepped through the mysterious disc of Arrakis night Dräede drew between himself and Giedi Prime, took Scum in her arms, begging to hold his pain, his blood. 

Repugnant Zela wearing the cut Pernix had made from the corner of his mouth up to his ear. She was so weak that Dräede had to carry her back. Ren had to carry her back.

Those wounds were not meant for Zela. 

They were not meant for Feyd-Rautha either. At the least, he would have claimed and died in them. 

"You are almost like Syrax." Pernix's vocoder addresses Feyd, even if she doesn't look at him right then. "Are they more useful in death if you kill them because you can?" 

Raises her ink-sharp helm up to Feyd-Rautha's, Scum's, marble brow. Asks with all the warmth and pleasantry of a combat droid, "Are these women cattle? Do you even feed on them?"

Her torso swims in itself like a close-packed mud bath. 

@nightmarefuele

[rensect]

pernix

i.

age:// nubile species:// rumored chiss; argued pantoran; and neither; she is arkanian offshoot; she has chlorophyll in her blood height:// 5'6" build:// hewn muscle; powerful thighs known features:// she has been described as a liquid

II.

force adeptness:// ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️◻️◻️◻️ force tactics:// force speed sound mimicry technopathy third sight voice manipulation

IV.

visible armor:// smooth black durasteel helm with peaked visor and back plate cyber-tactical boots protean chest and stomach guard of supposed biomechanical origin shoulder guards spiked knee guards (on occasion ~) weapons:// bandorium chain her very body

V.

absorption point:// found and joined in the wastes of arkania purpose:// find out

V.

[rensect]

❛ Everybody decides their own versions of the truth. ❜ pernix

The Finalizer reeks of meat. She can taste its innards, belly full of wires and troopers, through her ribbed fourchettes. General Hux; maybe he smells it too. Maybe that’s why he has such a haughty face on. 

"Everybody lies."

A fountain of disrelish unto herself, sinew running on micro-velocity, burning rubber, Pernix's body undulates. She’s neither here nor there before; suddenly, she is, her helm’s visor flowing forth into shiny talons, lunging toward his greatcoat as if she might rip it to shreds. Oil-black muscles in her shoulders roll and then relax. 

"Take you, for example," she says, delighted, vocoder stretching her vowels into pleasant shapes. Antagonism drips off her form like a hot wax, appealing only to those with a taste for advanced forms of play. "You were a lie told by your family. And now you helm an even greater lie. Are you very proud of your version of the truth, General?" 

Pernix’s helmet settles as she does, smoothing back into peaked visor, down-pointed backplate, lockjawed chinbar. 

“Why have you summoned me here?”

@acharnemcnt

[kylo-wrecked]

"I hate Syrax."  Pernix's helm renders her words into droid-like shapes, though its core quality is monotone, following automated speech patterns. "He should never have been chosen. I hate him." 

There are moments when Pernix is still who she was. Starving, naked, jealous, and viscid with need. She's learned new pain since, agony that burns like no other, how the strain of the Ren is a contracting wound, how it is simple as any life, as any death, as she has learned how not to crumple into the same pathetic shapes as Syrax, not to hit the ground where he does so ungracefully. To burst into rotten fruit, mealy with twitching maggots and festering seeds, as he does. 

She will not be reduced to an ungainly husk. In that step, Ren stops her, and she allows herself to be stopped—an exchange—a breath—in which Pernix slips back into that silent river of the undying, back into the Ren's arsenal, ready to be used at its disposal. 

There's something at the end of the river. Take it. 

Her posture shifts, oil invading form, form invading oil. A man's voice, chipper and oblivious, flows through the helm.

"I'm not talking about the Resistance. Where I'm taking us is way better—and I'd know, trust me." 

Form seeping out of oil, oil seeping out of form. 

Yes, that's enough. More than enough. 

With that, Pernix peels off, picking her way through the field of Syrax's body, kicking at whorls of flowering dendrites belaboured by deep black cherries of blood while the nerves shine wet and pale as the arms of a squid skimming the surface of tides ruled by wild moon. Rippling to and fro the grassy blood. 

@kylo-wrecked | xx

Good. Hunger is enough.

A place is more than a place. That water Pernix tastes is tepid, charged with copper and brine. If Syrax had not faltered, the river would be missing something, and yet would bleed metal still. It makes little difference. A place is more than a place. This one, static, but living, exacts the same toll as do all predators: sacrifice.

“Syrax doesn't need your words to speak for him.” Amorphous as the achrome winds, though his inflection is singularly vacant. Ren's silhouette sifts the dusk palette under cover of coniferous refuse. Rotten limbs clotting a muffled horizon.

See? “No. I won't.” 'Make them.'

Ren's helm cedes nothing when it moves—slower, slower than Pernix, if that oil were mutant and viscous. Syrax distends upon a bed of his own warfare. Little more than a body, beggarly and depraved. If the place is one for sacrifice, then the Ren will claim its own evolution. Hunger is enough.

“Syrax has plenty in his own eyes.” Unclear to whom it's for, but the second thing he offers is lashing, steeped in modulation decay, “Be still,” and his footfalls engrave his intent into the muck as cleanly as does his shadow across Syrax's bent skull. He extends no more than material imminence.

“You have something,” the helm murmurs. Might be prompting, might be taunting. Perhaps as tender as both. “In your eyes. Will that be enough, do you think?”

[rensect]

you do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. if you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. and when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. (ren, to pernix/zela in their early days.)

His pall reaches their sight long before his presence presses their senses. When Ren pulls his shadow over the junk heaps, all but one scavenging body is left in view.

Dirty [Pernix] with naked, soot-streaked cheeks. A pup with her back legs curled beneath her, her blackened fingers still groping at a bundle of operator belts.

Squinting up at a monolithic patch of cold—a starker blue against the blue of her world—she answers, "Daydreams are for the dead," clasping the belts harder. Red hands, red hands. Peridot eyes where the eyes of the elder mechanics and their somber wards, keep watch with all moon pupils from under night-dark tunnel scaffolds.

"And my blood is wrong," she adds. "I've never wanted it."

What did he offer? A way out of her blood? Her gaze held this question up like the edge of a whittling blade to a throat, a small but cutting thing.

"Why are you in the kills?" She studies him, this sentient blue pillar. "Don't lie."

A forceful demand from a stray child. The First Order weighed on their atmosphere, a lead, miasmatic cloud, and the mechanics kept working; the machines kept running. Still, death and fear of death hung in the air, none of which seemed to shine in the hollows of her eyes.

@nightmarefuele

[rensect]

picture that. in your dreams. (scum, to stray.)

He thought she went into a stupor each day. She almost pitied him. Poor na-Baron, fruit scum. The apple should be crisp, but then look at the tree; his blood father. Who was he? Irrelevant.

Her shadow tongue curled.

I don't dream.

Pernix raised her helm defiantly. She watched the flares spilling down a haloprojectic half-globe of Arrakis, leaning into the Harkonnens' chanting coordinates. They were their own mainframe. A sort of body.

Suddenly, Pernix re-registered Feyd-Rautha. A stillness seized her oil-slick thorax as if she'd sheathed and shielded it in cement. Sealed off her visor, the edge of it ironed, featureless. Her voice slunk toward the back of his skull, growling and remote, a pup pressed into its den.

Did your very thick skull

not receive my transmission?

Show it to me, or get away.  

@nightmarefuele

[rensect]

[🖤]

The heart is a jealous thing. A thing that can turn black and shrivel without any intervention on its flesh. Zela is a rotten plinth for a love that bows in two bodies and separates them.

Her shadow will hang on Pernix, embracing her face and eyes until Zela acquires insight into this outlying union. When time passes from Pernix, she will flutter about the sap of Feyd-Rautha, and in Giedi Prime's tepid rays, Zela's shadow will move over the na-Baron's bloodless unskin like a sun clock. A patient aphid.

Devil-helmed echos hold him down like droid medics; one bores into the changing Feyd-Rautha; one glares at the hotly pumping organ before it.

How long will it take?

"As long as it takes, darling Cident. As long as it takes."

She'll restore the na-Baron and transplant a shard of Pernix within him before his tissues straiten. Test new organisms in a petri dish, not all at once, in the open field. And there, there, all finished. Zela rises with Pernix's carvings, her mouth hanging off the stem of her throat like a shriveled petal, the backs of her palms bruised and pitted by claws of unknown origin. This Zela examines with great interest.

Of Feyd-Rautha?

Black-eyed and drooling, restrained only by his revulsion, or by his own traces staked in Zela's outer core. The voice flushing from her throat is not her own; it is a different blood, swelling and rushing. All of shadow.

-Return him to his flesh.-

To the Baron, who speaks at Ren, but mostly to a Lady Fenring.

Of Pernix?

Zela turns, and her heel ripples the ink waste. Her eyespots flow with such a shimmer of grief that only the cores, their incense haze, soften the flames.

-Leave her blood to its devices.-

Her helm?

The prodding devil shudders.

L̵̨̤̲̬̳̪͇͓͕͙̂̍̈́͐̚ě̸̝͈̫̟͙̥̈́̽͑̈́̀͂a̶̯̜̣̳̲̰͈͈̓̃̓̉̕͝v̵̧̙͊̊̂͊̂͠ë̴̡̯̎̎ ̷͖̬̯̲̪͛͌̋h̴̼̙̗̦͊͆̾̐̐̈́̍ẽ̴̡̡̢̛̦̥̼̿͛͌̑̕͝͠ͅȓ̴̡̦̝͔̪̩̙̤̣̥

I.

At first, she doesn't recognize the barrenness. Her hunger for a piece of herself that, while not essential to the body, her inkwell of power, is hers and hers alone.

Was hers and could still be. Yet, having discovered where it's gone, Pernix 's desire ebbs.  

Scum carries it now. The na-Baron vipers into Muad'Dib's decoy sietches with that piece of Pernix in his thoracic cavity or on his lungs, spreading the Ren further with each breath and stroke of his blade, bringing the dawns of black mud seeps to Arrakeen. All the while, that shard of Pernix teems in Feyd-Rautha, pulsing sharply.

From Giedi Prime's hollow cardinal belly, Pernix vaults between twisted iron peaks, chasing its pulse behind the Scum Baron's harsh but prosperous bannered Harko, tasting all the ways its outer body is callous and destitute, in battle with absence like she is, led by her shard, her phantom limb.

Maybe Feyd-Rautha isn't aware of the double within his body's cage, how it festers somewhere near his ruby-meated organ like a teratoma. This brittle knife prays he does; she prays it's taxing, too much. Prays that the shard puffs and putrifies inside him.  

When she reaches it, panting, ragged from chasing the glimmer of herself always seeming to dart a foot or so ahead of her horizon, Pernix squats on the propeller-sharp barge cap of some stranded factory, peels the glove from a hatched palm, and sifts the ether. A part of Giedi's brutalist landscape coppers; her fingerpads taste melange. Scum.

She tests the seam between them.

You won't find anything. I hope you're prepared for failure.

And she does have a vague sense of hope, though it leeches from Feyd-Rautha through that fickle vein.

She has nothing now; an almost perfect specimen. Three mornings ago, Pernix came to with her limbs and femoris tendons heliotroped toward a corridor glow panel, aberrantly unburdened, though she was left unhelmed to revive by the bastardized green-rust fluid in her veins called blood. (~Her only component she thirsts to be free from.)

Even if Pernix's is a weak, grey fetus of vitreous humour—to have one heart is too much, but to have two?

I hope you come back in little pieces.

@nightmarefuele

[kylo-wrecked]

"Voe, be—" serious. Be serious. That's what he was going to venture to the negging, halfling-Jedi. Good thing then that she grabbed his arm, yanking him back to attention, Nar Shaddaa and its sick dog yellow haze. Its food-stall yappings. Children who were most certainly corner boys, spies for the big bosses, as Syrax Ren had been. All of it rose above them as they dropped and touched ever more squalid ground, soundless as falling leaves. His gloves fallen like leaves. 

Pressure points at every level, every apse, and hollow. They were close. So then would this brief reunion come to its bitter end. Fine. Kylo Ren observed Voe's stance. Firm, yes. Always. But shaken. And impatient. Ever impatient, too. 

Ren rolled his shoulder. 

"That's all you have for proof of faith?" 

The faith that she would land well. He peered at her with an expression more than sympathetic; it saw her. An odd look on him, to be sure.  

"I'm sorry." 

Was she too blind-sided by her diminished faith to hear the softness in his voice? See it in his crescent jasper gaze? A gaze that was a knife sunk deeper then yanked away.  

Kylo Ren counted the pressure points around them, made rudely aware that he'd miscalculated several risks, including that of his split soul. He swathed his face in his stole and kicked his cowl under a vile heap of wires and plugless motherboards. Old bones. 

And should these bones, and the feeling here, between his spine and the memory in his ribs, be raised from their grave... did he call upon Pernix? Syrax? A knife and a reservatory? Dräede? Did he call upon another corpse to shoulder this memory before him? 

His eyes slid toward Voe, his scowl veiled by monk's cloth. His hands were bare and balled into fists.

"Well then? You have the intel, 'Princess Jedi.' You can end this any time."

@mayxthexforce

[rensect]

❛ You have endured terrible suffering, haven’t you? ❜ (Pernix, Luna) + option to add spice: ❛ We are products of our past, but we don’t have to be prisoners of it. ❜ 

Luna really shouldn't be in this room.

"Yes," Pernix admits with a glee that is really cruelty, surging around Luna's presence. She admits, but she doesn't concede. "I've endured terrible suffering." 

Even without the helm, her laughter is chrome, a defense line against viruses. Her body is like chromium, bandorium, sturdy, then aqueous, swimming, then wrapping, snaking on love. Pernix's finger-pads crawl over Luna's lymphoid tissues, searching for answers in her sebaceous glands, the glossy black of them. 

"But that's obvious, isn't it?"

And Pernix shouldn't have let her in. She assesses the virus (~that would be Luna~) with yesterday's old scars. By tomorrow, the eye bruises will be gone, and so will the facial incisions; it's written in her blood and on a stained cot. If Pernix alters the virus (~oops, she means Goddess~) in that way, she may not survive. How sad. Then, she wouldn't have the chance to suffer. 

"Look at your suffering," Pernix declares, speaking in ethylene glycol. "You're a product, you know. What is love? A totality of goods and services."

"As a result of history," she adds, with some pity, imprinting her thumb into Luna's parotid gland. "You've been formed by a particular period or situation, which makes you a prisoner and a prison. Even for other people. You know that, don't you?"

Pernix finds Luna's eyes, and her gaze accepts them, unspooling spite in uveitis.

"I was engineered." A whisper and her small hands crawl across Luna's brow. Her mouth draws nearer, poised to strike, while in a single stroke, her chain snaps through the air, digging its teeth into Luna's ankle, drawing poison.

"It's different," Pernix promises. "It's very different." 

@ilunand

[rensect]

❛ i want to see your true face. ❜ (( for Pernix! ))

Are you very stupid?

She didn't move a hair. Her inkwell apparatus, a fount for undulations, rippled in wait. Nothing about her stature suggested incompetency. Pernix shone like a dark blade at the vault that led to the Lord-child's quarters, a warning staked by Dräede Ren.

Only Dräede would think to teach a lesson the long way around. Kylo Ren would have driven her into the ground. Smashed her oil-slick frame into a pomace and poured her marrow back inside her anew. Dräede opened up a wall in the wastes and sent her to dally in an even greater squander: guarding the Lord-child.

Khan wore the skin of a man but made boyish requests. Pernix unleashed another drop from her secret tongue; the voice that flanked Khan's mind hardened and circled like a bead down a funnel.

Don't mistake me

for an organ.

Her helm was an angle always pointing toward the wastes and never concerned itself with Khan. A yellow halo curled around the horizon, stuttering her optics, and Pernix kept watch; of nothing.

Here was a punishment for Syrax.

@paramounticebound

[rensect]

tag, you’re it

🗡️

zela tags

zela: heart of the ren {headcanons, drabbles, etc.} zelacore {mood appropriate aesthetics; things that make you think “that’s zela coded”} heartbreaker; dream maker {zela memes; misc}

syrax tags

syrax: the rogue; receptacle {headcanons, etc.} syraxcore {mood appropriate aesthetics; things that make you say "so cool but so extra”} livin’ on the edge {syrax memes; misc}

draëde tags

draëde: the heavy; conductor {headcanons, drabbles, etc.} draëdecore {mood appropriate aesthetics; things that make you go ":/"} flesh and bone by the telephone {dräede memes; misc}

pernix tags

pernix: knife of the ren {headcanons, drabbles, etc.} pernixcore: {mood-appropriate aesthetics; things that make you bark like a dog} one dream; only master {pernix memes; misc}

cident/cisor tags

cident/cisor ren: the hands of the ren [headcanons, drabbles, etc.} cident/cisorcore: {mood-appropriate aesthetics; items on symbiosis; brotherly love} gotta keep 'em separated {cident/cisor memes; misc}

verses/aus

v. somewhere beyond the burning sea {dune} v. first blood {tfa timezone} v. crude matter {VIII riot} v. 'black becomes the sun's beam’ {ragnarok}

others/in reference

prompts queue kylo ren: the harbinger; shadow the ren

[kylo-wrecked]

"I have really had enough of your incredible stupidity." —horrorofren

@anachronistic-darkness://

<< Kylo Ren's Command Shuttle, Doaba Guerfel, Corellia >>

Kylo Ren's head swivels around. His underlying expression matches his blank, glaring helmet. Uzhas Ren calls anything he doesn't like stupid. But he's right in essence; the mission had gone poorly.

"Well then, Uzhas," he hums. "What are we to do? Grace us with your wisdom."

The other Knights idle on the fringes. Hindrel oils his weapon. Trudgen scrapes mud and dried blood out of the soles of his boots with a knife. He does not look up. And Pernix flips her visor open, revealing a set of severe eyebrows and piercing eyes to match, though she struggles to keep them open.

"Or do you wish to retire? That can be arranged."

In one fell swoop, he might have added. But Ren's tired, too, and he doesn't want to lose another on this brittle stone of a planet. For once, he might concede that there was nothing to be gained by more loss.

[rensect]

Pernix Ren is a knife with a fine handle. She accepts the blow, the precognitive force. Still, she is small. Still, Pernix stumbles two steps into the viscous black of the na-Baron's waste. Once she catches herself, her thighs engage like two blaster rifles. Springing forward with her, the bandorium spine. It snaps at the na-Baron's heels. Pity it only teases.

Her laughter stutters—a temporary malfunction—and then 'Uncle' emerges once more.

"-Such a lovely body. Really a lovely boy.-"

The protean bones below her clavicle catch the arc of Feyd-Rautha's blade. Two black hands emerge from her armor pool as he swipes, grasping and pulling the blade deeper. Oil-slicked digits pull his knuckles through the inky lake in its durasteel constraint. Grip and gum.

Syrax isn't important because he is better.

The na-Baron will learn. Where to stand, as the master says. Yes, one day, Feyd-Rautha won't be quite so stupid. He won't taste death again. He'll know a real thirst.

A kernel of Zela swirls on Pernix's visor, considers.

Such a Dear Boy.

"Do you feed on these cattle?" The vocoder repeats its transmission. "What is the sound that fills you?"

A sound she can echo.

Such a beauty.

One day, the na-Baron will know the truth about Syrax, as all Knights come to know when they cross the Ren's banks. Perhaps a day or so sooner than her brothers have planned, sooner than the Order would fall. Were they not traitors themselves?

Pernix grips the na-Baron’s blade, eats him up to his elbow, grips him, grips him, and grips him. Slicks on him.

A knife can change hands in a flash.

@nightmarefuele

@rensect

Important. What is so important about a pustule.

Feyd-Rautha's importance doesn't argue. What he's like is a sky all teeth, everywhere, chrome suns and tarmac moons swallowed. What he's like is renal. A thoroughbred Giedi stomach.

Feyd-Rautha wasting. This is a girlish conception. Pernix sounds as sentimental as repugnant Zela.

Uncle's voice under corners and corners on corners. Thrown backward, Feyd's brow lazies on how it rankles to be learning again.

He tilts his neck, wondering. When is a sport not a sport.

(Can a knife be so verile.)

He, like Pernix, fits the bath he's been moulded into.

He tramples her ripples by their tails; snaps for her hinge; he embeds a boot across Pernix's solar plexus to see if there is substance there. Or to watch her go in on her husk that's as like to be pocked as deranged.

Feyd-Rautha comes back down to see how deep through the carrion deluge she'll fall.

[kylo-wrecked]

<< Giedi Prime >>

Pernix grunts and, with her arms poised about her onyx abdomen, in a half-spin, remits one barbed knee-bomb to the jawbone affiliated with this sallow creature's lips, visor on the dagger, finer than he. The blade that holds to his hand because it is a perfect thing. Unalike its stunned handler, whose chin and mouth wear broken skin, thorny imprints a mirror of the bandorium quills wrapped around, through, and behind the thew in her thighs and calves.

Sheening dark and bright with blood, Pernix leaps and straddles the strength whipping through his descended body as it braces the dust. She's small, yet she covers him. Her inkblot helm grips his reflection in obsidian, the geology of the wastelands.

Feyd-Rautha, beyond spiritual surgery in this sanctum, so feebly named, deracinated from the laws of his arena, a sleeping heap of flesh beneath her, as much the same as his victories. 

She must be quick. While Feyd-Rautha is still down like a dog, Pernix whispers swords—not in her colorless vocoder, the dead voice that forms vowels, but in her shadow speech, her secret cry that shatters the Force, that calls the Ren.

Houghs wetted through, seeping into twitching osseous matter; Pernix veers forward on Feyd, stomachless, toothless animal, refusing to taste him even as she leans her elbow on his throat, even as she forces her helm against his naked skull. 

You are not from the sea of ravens

You are not of the dark star

You are not even of house harkonnen 

You are renounced seed 

You are nothing

'Scum'

The thrust of each sword, the fever in her shadow voice, imbue more pain than language could impart. Swords soaked in colloidal loathing, inkvine burning both ways.

@nightmarefuele