"Those whose tongues sting and deceive shall not be forgiven."<br/><br/>-<span style="font-style: italic">Sacrament:1:3</span><br/><br/><br/><br/>His heavy footfalls glided over the stone. His mind willed him to be like the wind, but his heart made him into the wind. So he flew, he felt as if he were flying, his feet barely touching the ground. That was a wonderful feeling, as if he was soaring like an Eagle.<br/><br/>As he thought, he suddenly felt like he was plummeting. As he realized why a sickening feeling washed over him.<br/><br/>The next moment he was plummeting, barely touching the ground as if he were still ascending. To his dread he found himself descending into a great pillar.<br/>Only to come crashing into it.<br/><br/>He was confused; a great sense of dread rising up through him; but he realized it wasn't dread and started vomiting on the ground beside himself. He felt like curling up into a ball; curling up into a ball and dying. He rolled over and sat against the pillar, he was surprised to be still intact, an impact like that should've broken something. Head on into a pillar and he's basically intact still, despite his situation he smiles.<br/><br/>His back felt as if it were on fire, he already could imagine it; crimson. The thought that followed made him feel guilty. He tried not to think about it and picked himself off the ground and then stared forwards.<br/><br/>Four sentries stood in the way; their weapons were already drawn. Without a word he approached. Without a word a hand was placed on a scabbard. Without a word there was shock to hear nothing;to see the lack of a weapon.<br/><br/>They did not halt and as one charged him head on in an organized fashion.<br/><br/>His hand remained unmoving on the scabbard.<br/><br/>The Sentries began swinging their weapons, but the only noise was their weapons whistling into the air, he was quick and made sure to stay clear, now was playing the waiting game.<br/><br/>The second he had a chance he'd make his escape, or he'd die. Quite the way to die nonetheless; but shameful. It would be embarrassing to be remembered as the one who died by the Sentinels. The lawbringers of his people.<br/><br/>Dying like this is not unheard of; but dying like this with his title would haunt him forever. A sudden shock raptured across his ribs. He had been cut. A large portion of his side WS cut open, blood dribbling out of it.<br/><br/>He stumbled and fell into a wall; his tired eyes jerked upwards and saw death slicing towards him. He had no choice.<br/><br/>With lightning quick motions he leaned forwards and with his right hand reached across his body and grabbed the hilt. In another moment he lunged forwards and in one arcing motion ducked, and sliced forwards. A small shrowd of crimson followed him. He ran forwards and did not stop, he could've sworn as he was running that he heard two sickening thuds, not one. He didn't slow down, charging the two.<br/><br/>Once he reaches the two he twirls himself, swinging his sword into a blade knocking one off balance he turns and begins to do a deadly dance with the sentry, as he fights he thinks of his past. As he remembers he never knew his mother, she was just another courtesan. But, this is a common practice for children whose lives are devoted to war."Like a needle and thread so to, must failure be sewn into the flesh." He's heard that phrase so many times in his life.<br/>Followed by the stinging pain of a blade biting into his flesh.<br/><br/>This situation isn't as strange as he thought, he has been trained from birth<br/>to handle situations like this. As a result he can call himself a trained killer. Yes, strangely this is comforting;like the old days when he sparred with children of all ages. Except this time it is not sparring. This time it is not a drill, not a joke. This time it is to the death.<br/><br/>He looked back to the other soldier he had locked blades with and flipped his sword to face himself horizontally. He placed his other hand near the end of the blade and pushed upwards. Forcing the Sentry to move backwards to regain his balance while the blade is still in the air. He did not waste time and leaped forwards, he passed the unbalanced sentry and with all his might elbowed him square in the back.<br/><br/>The more naive Sentry did not take note of the confusion and swung his weapon into his coworker's shoulder, tearing through muscle and breaking bone. The sentry bled to death in a matter of moments;the heavy zweihander stuck deep in him.<br/><br/>While the sentry was struggling with his blade the man ran backwards with his sword now in a backhanded position, his palm now resting on the end of the hilt, while his other fist holding it in a vice grip. The firmly held blade was swung through the dead sentry into the other sentry.<br/><br/>To make it a quick death he jerked the blade upwards and twisted, the blade made a deadly trip up;and made grotesque noises along the way. When its trip ended, with a sharp jerk he twisted the blade, finishing the last sentry off<br/><br/>The whole scene was sickening;everything went dead silent and the smell of blood was overwhelming. A pool of blood was moving towards his feet, he couldn't help but glance over to the scene.<br/><br/>The scene was ugly. That was the precise word to describe it;the hall looked as if a child got into red paint and smeared it within his arms reach. The sentry's looked mangled and it looked as if it were a murder scene. The walls and pillars were lascerated with straight markings, stone that was carefully placed now chipping away.<br/><br/>He averted his eyes, he surveyed the scene for only a few seconds and already it feels as if somebody punched him in the stomach. The smell of blood made his stomach churn. He knew one of them;without thought he bolted down the hallway as fast as he could move, out of the Citadel.<br/><br/><br/>On a balcony far above he was being watched like a hawk, the current Sith, Meddivh watching his every move.<br/><br/>His concentrated gaze was interrupted by heavy footsteps pounding towards him. It was the Captain of the Sentries.<br/><br/>"My Sith, forgive me, the Traitor has escaped and slaughtered several of our men. I have made ends to have a party formed to track him down."<br/><br/>The Captain said this while doing a low kneel having his head lowered with his arms crossed over his chest. After a moment the Captain slowly rises to meet Meddivh's gaze.<br/><br/>"Don't send a party just yet, let him run and then find him, bring him back here."<br/><br/>Meddivh strolls over to the balcony's edge and leans on the railing.<br/><br/>"It will be easy, when I send the party he will be close."<br/><br/>Again his powerful gaze returns to the captain. "I know this because, this..." He waves his arm across to the mighty Citadel. "...This is all he knows, he won't know what to do next."<br/><br/>"Dismissed."<br/><br/>Again the captain takes a low kneel. "As you command, my Sith."<br/><br/><br/>He was now walking in a frozen wasteland, far from home his knees buckled and fell into the cold snow. He pictures the fight again and retches. He swore he knew at least one of them personally. Those were his kinsmen, what the hell was he doing? The only answer he got was the cold wind pushing him forwards, and so he got on his feet and walked on.