Wednesday, September 1, 2010

[USS Charon] SD241009.01 || Joint Log "Fatal Attraction" Part IV || Savant, LtCmdr Sakarra Tyrax, Itsak tr`Sahen

[IRW Endless Sky, Leih's quarters]     



Only the low hum of a great ship, alive with the throbbing of a singularity at its heart, the energy coursing through its veins, the people walking its corridors.

Stretching under the emerald stained sheets, the Vulcan wanted to lose herself in that silence, become one with it. But even the peace of meditation seemed to elude her, the delicate balance of emotional control shattered and mangled by the infernal machine designed specifically to manipulate Vulcan brain chemistry. And it had, though perhaps not in the way its users – or inventors – had intended.   


Perhaps even more so now that she was fully able to appreciate the … feeling. Or rather, unable to experience it and put it aside to deal with more urgent, more important matters.


Stretching once more, the Vulcan didn't even bother to wrinkle her nose at the sharp, coppery scent of her blood wafting up from the tangled silks or furrow her brows over the multitude of aches and pains clamoring for attention. Instead, she did what none of her race would usually consider, even if they believed themselves unobserved. A heartfelt colorful metaphor in a lovely, melodious Andorian dialect briefly echoed through the dimly lit quarters and she threw the fabric against the wall. Unfortunately it failed to make a satisfactory noise and merely rustled quietly to the floor.



She propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring her body's protest at the sudden move and took stock of her surroundings.

Warm, green tinted light cast velvety shadows over a room that would not have been entirely out of place on a Vulcan ship. Spartan and functional, but with small touches of elegance and concessions to personal taste. A pristine desk, a sword stand currently bereft of the blade that would be nestled on the polished wood, a drink cabinet tucked away in a corner. Fine silks on the bed that were by now quite ruined as she noted with no small amount of grim satisfaction and, greatest of luxuries, a large window looking out at a vista of stars. It was there where the dark eyed Vulcan's gaze was riveted, because before the backdrop of night a silver shape hovered, silently gleaming with her running lights reflecting off the hull.


Slowly, ever so slowly she managed to tear her eyes away and focused … no, he wouldn't have left without locking out access to the ship's computer. But the last thing she intended was to lie down and lick her wounds, curl up and lament her fate or in any way concede defeat.

More rustling of silk as she carefully set her bare feet on the carpet – slightly rough, and warm, pleasantly so, as the entire quarters seemed keyed to a Vulcan's comfort which came as no surprise considering the … inhabitant. The mere thought of him nearly prompted a snarl and a brief flare of the rage she had been keeping in check so diligently. But there was no escaping his presence here. It was everywhere, from the sash so carelessly flung over the back of a chair to the intricate artwork of the daggers proudly displayed on a wall, from the shimmering blue liquid in the bottle by the window to the scent permeating the very air she breathed. The scent that clung to her skin like the dried blood.


A long, long thoughtful gaze rested on the daggers, and before the Vulcan was even aware of what she was doing she stood before the gleaming metal as if drawn there by an invisible force. Slender fingers traced the hilt, the cool blade. Almost mesmerizing, the way light glinted off the polished steel, inviting, beckoning, …

Ah, foolishness. Even if she managed to plunge the dagger into his side, weak as a newborn Sehlat as she was from loss of blood and lack of water … she would only doom her ship, her crewmates. The Sundered would not only avenge their commander, but make certain no questions would ever be raised concerning a lone Federation starship lost inexplicably at the frontier. Irony of ironies that for now, he had to live so that her allies had time. Time to foils his plans, to mount resistance. Time … that was running out.

Her forehead leaned against the steel. So cool, refreshing even.

Useless. Useless.


Squaring her shoulders, the Vulcan took a deep breath and let her hands fall away, berating herself for her moment of weakness. No, she was not ready to give up. Not now, not ever. If only she could think clearly, if only the green haze that kept tugging at her consciousness would subside. If only her senses were not ruling over her reason, making everything seem so clear, so sharp, so acute … if, if …

The angry toss of her head sent sable curls flying and made a harsh, rough scent waft towards her nose. The merest trace, emanating from the empty glass on the otherwise immaculate desk. She remembered it well. Though her arrival here was little more than a fog, cradled against a warm chest, so warm after the cold room … the very arms that had brought her here had made her sit up, the hand that had inflicted all this cruelty brought that glass to her lips. Thinking it was water, sweet, life giving water, she had drunk deeply. And then coughed and gasped for the blue ale had been as liquid fire. He had laughed, amused, cruelty and tenderness mingling until one was as the other. Kissed the last traces off her lips, kissed her like a man starving …

The impulse to take that glass and make it shatter against a bulkhead came and went.


"You like them, lady Vulcan?"

It was all she could do not to jump, not to twirl around and hiss at the sudden intrusion. She had not even heard the door, the soft footfalls, not realized she was still staring … staring at the gleaming steel. Was this what encroaching madness was like?

"They are most exquisitely made."

How odd, her low, melodious voice was the same as ever. Betraying little more than a hint of fatigue in its soft timbre, a mere shadow of pain in the slow articulation of words.

"Yes." Hands reached out to brush the heavy curls off her shoulders, trace the curve of her neck. He stood behind her, his breath whispering over her ear, looking at the blades that had captured her attention. "Yes, they are."


The sound of heavy boots, and something being dragged across the carpet. Scent of food, and ... ah, water. Water …

Shuffling, near imperceptible but loud and clear in the Vulcan's ears.

"Out." Shielding her rather insufficiently dressed body – meaning not at all, in fact – from view and sliding one arm around her waist, he merely glanced over his shoulder to point his chin at the door. Immediately, the boots retreated.

"They are called Kalen." His conversational tone was in rather sharp contrast to the fingers toying with her hair, but she was too busy focusing on the slow, painful breaths echoing through the room and stomping down the urge to break the insolent hand to pay attention, let alone reply.

But she knew. She had seen such daggers before. It seemed an eternity ago.


"Exquisite." The voice by her ear murmured, low and ... almost gentle. "So rare … they are yours, lady Vulcan. I trust you won't use them for anything … foolish?"

Before she could make known just how many 'foolish' uses she could think of right now, she felt herself released and he walked to the crumpled heap laying on the floor, prodding it with a boot.
"Yyaio." The amusement was back in his tone, and the infuriating smirk played over his face. "This is no time to live up to your adopted name. You will see to it she eats, and help her get cleaned up. Do have the sense of not forcing me to become displeased with you."

He lazily let the fabric of one of the dresses flung over the desk run through his fingers and raised a brow at the groaning woman at his feet. "My, how pathetic."

With that, he left.


Only the fact that the Vulcan rushed forward to kneel by Yyaio/Savant's side saved him from a ball of fury racing after him. Naked, bleeding and abused, Yyaio had seen nothing mixed in with the cruelty she had endured. As the doors to the room slid closed, her pale eyes slid open.

"Commander," she spoke, her voice hoarse and raw, but even-keeled. She sat up slowly, looking to all the world to be in agony at the shaking movement.
Still, she waved off any help, "No, Commander. I am still capable. You will find that I can endure at least three more days of this treatment before any serious repercussions."

"Even so, … Yyaio." How strange, to touch another Vulcan and not immediately feel the rush of recognition, the pull of a familiar mind. The most feather light of grips steadied the other, and the woman was warm, nearly as warm as she should be, but this was no living skin though even its very scent said it was so. Had Sakarra not come to the conclusion this being was one of Savant's … corporeal vessels long ago, she would truly have believed she was going mad.

But she respected the gesture or refusal and retreated, if only far enough to see in full detail the horrible injuries that had been inflicted. Another flaming storm of fury wanted to rise, and once more was sent back to lie still, simmering, seething … how long until her will would shatter under the heat? She did not know.

"Logic alone suggests that undue exertion will only hasten such an event." Her statement sounded dry enough to the untrained ear, but her body language radiated concern – far above what a Vulcan in her right mind would allow to show.  

"Very true," she replied. Were Sakarra's imaginary adjutant not so calm and clinical in all of her dealings, one might believe there were a ring of humour behind it. Certainly it was in character for Savant to speak with uncalled-for amusement. A little of it bled through where none had in hours past. "I will strive to ensure that my exertions are not undue."



[To be continued ...]

LtCmdr Sakarra Tyrax
Executive Officer


Aka Yyaio the insolent Vulcan


USS Charon


Vaek'Riov Itsak tr'Sahen

Fleet Commander