Donall first fell forward, his hands extending out to stop his body before he fell upon his face. He couldn’t tell where he was, what he was doing, or what was in front of him, only the utter nothingness that came with blindness. He could feel…cold as he pushed himself up, allowing his ears a chance to pick up on the errant noises around him. He was almost naked, save for a simple device around his waist that hid his manhood from whatever could see him. He…felt the man first, the presence unknown to him, and for now that was all he felt as he steadied himself, pushing himself off of the floor, a hungry in his soul for something to strike at. Almost a few moments after leaving hibernation, with the pain stinging in his eyes and his inability to properly breathe, and he already wanted to let loose the howling monster inside of his body.
He heard words, but they did not form much in his head, not at first. All he heard was the incoherent babble of noise deep in his ears as he tried again to open his eyes, but they did not cooperate, nor did his ears open up to him. He waited, just waiting for the man to make his move and attempt to kill Donall so he could rip his eyes out with his own hands. To tear him asunder. But he stopped himself, another presence in the room growing to him.
His memory flooded in a moment after…Donall. Then his race. His childhood. The face of his mother and father smiling. The face of his mother and father dead against the ground. He let his rage pool, collecting his primary source of power, as he let one of the last memories flutter to his senses.
The first memory to arrive in his head was a simple one, the one of him screaming at the top of his lungs at the Council…Council…The beads of memory formed quickly as he growled, the energy in him pooling up for a vicious strike at whatever was next to him, an unknown enemy who he had to defeat, to murder and kill. “Stun him!” was the last words he had heard, and the feeling of electricity and drugs into his system killed his senses…and he thought no more.
They did this to me, he thought as he tilted his head up at the man, his teeth slowly baring. The need for death was growing, his rage almost ready to eclipse his senses completely and utterly until his foe was destroyed, simple and done. He shot himself up, but a hand stopped him.
Palm. Nails that were fairly long and dug slightly into a point at the median of the length of the nail. The easy way her words now pierced not his ears, but his mind completely.
We are safe, brother. Hold your rage for now.
The female’s voice entered his head.
“Sis…ter.” He said out loud, the rage inside of him dissipating like a drop of water against a stone, the explosion quick but the aftermath even more so, his breathing now coming to him as he let one long breathe of air into him. It was wonderful, like a drug he had never taken before. The knowledge that she was alive tempered everything in him, that she could start anew and he could be the tip of her spear once more.
To fight her battles. To help her win
He is a tool. We will use him for the time being. Do not kill him.
I understand. I require space to meditate, to pool my rage.
The answer he received was not immediate, but he heard them speak again, standing tall in his position, his hands still ready to strike, but his face and head focused in the far distance of wherever he was looking, still not aware of the surroundings he was within. Not yet, but still not now.
You will have your space.
He felt, not heard, their footsteps grow farther and farther away from him. Gently, using his hands, he sat down upon his backside, the cold plate not stopping him as he breathed in a deep breath of air once more. His feet came inwards, resting under the strength of his kneecap, while his hands came together in front of his chest.
Open palm crushed by a closed fist. Jedi bent by the fist of the Sith. Light penetrated by the dark. However allegorical and metaphorical it could be, Donall knew it was not important in the sense of why he did it, but rather if it worked. Meditating on his anger, on the reasons why he was angry, only focused it to a point where he could use it like a weapon.
One of the many lessons Donall tore from the first Lord Furoran, when he killed his very soul with his own rage.
His rage enveloped him in a cloud of haze, something only he could perceive, and soon he entered into a trance…
Some people say focusing your body for meditation was a powerful calming tool, where you could eliminate the problems in your soul just by focusing on peace. But others, like Donall could attest if he so desired, it was like he was stuffed into a nightmare for the entirety, time and reality warping into one, huge focus of hatred. The first long moments, all he did was think of his mother. And once he began to dream about his mother, he was locked in a trance that only he could manipulate.
The locks of two-toned black and blonde hair were a sight for sore eyes, and he tried to approach her on the family property. The grey sky warped constantly, but he didn’t mind; it was a part of his reality now. Did it matter?
The sky wasn’t important. Only his mother, who taught the boy everything he needed to know how to fight.
” She said, turning around, a bright smile on her face as she brought her wooden staff to bear. It was the command she used on him when he was younger, to train him and teach him the basic elements of the first Form. Where he learned how to use his double lightsaber.
Where he learned his whole life.
But soon, it changed, like his rage forced it too. She disappeared after a few long moments, replaced by a horror he dreamed about. It
sought him again, trying to take back what was rightfully his, but Donall denied him at every opportunity. The grey sky melted into a canopy of purple, black, rainbows and utter blackness; some colors so vivid and bright that they illuminated the distant treeline as if it was on fire.
Beauty was not why he was here.
“Give into me! You know I am stronger! I am much more powerful than you will ever be!
“And watch me fall into oblivion? You are a fool!” He screamed to the algamated horror of rotting flesh and horrible orifices that stood in front of him, his lightsaber in the ready stance as he took in a breathe of air. The creature of flesh before him wore several different faces of sewn-on flesh, its eyes glowing with a corpse-y green that reeked of putrid and rotting flesh.
His master, the one he was given to with his sister after the death of their parents, forced him to fight this creature in his nightmares every night. Every time he meditates on his old master, this creature comes back into focus, a nightmare that would refuse to die. It would always refuse until, after a long battle, Donall stood over its bloated form, his lightsaber cutting wildly into its dead and rotting form.
“Not before I kill you!” He screamed, throwing the dream aside and shoving his lightsaber into apparent blackness, only for a shriek to leave before the sound of a thud collapsing into his ear. Donall’s trance was going black as he saw the body of his former master, a look of shock across his face before Donall howled, a cry of rage so loud it eclipsed the rush of the imploding world…
The man opened his eyes, and he could see, finally. The errant gusts of wind from a crack in the wall leapt into his ear as he breathed again. He could see, and he could hear, and most importantly, his rage was focused and ready to strike. He was tempted to allow himself to partake in the Force completely, to shoot his presence up into the power of the Force like a beacon…but he resisted that urge.
That would come later, he promised himself, as he breathed in one more time and thought of his sister, a single phrase sent to her through the power of their Force Bond.
I am ready, dear sister.
He was ready to take on the galaxy. To destroy his enemies and his foes completely.
To bring her vision to victory.