Andorra, in her deep state of sublustrum, went from a hazy red field of vision, to orange, to gold, to white. White hot rage. Her heart was beating slowly to her, yet in real life, that muscle was being overclocked inside her chest. In the blink of an eye, she had reached the fourth level of that state.
Chetyr'...chetyr'...chetyr'...chetyr'... Sweat was forming on her brow.
There was Virul, Dark Lord of the Sith, assaulting her dearest allies. There were all her hopes and dreams, the last, best hopes of the galaxy, writhing nearly at his mercy. Andorra knew, of course, that he had none. He would turn the Jedi into charred corpses, or failing that, into his loyal thralls.
She would not have it. Weakling, she'd been deemed. Useless, she'd been called. Not fit for the rage of war, others had said of her. This was the moment to either prove herself, or die. She would not die. Instead, Lord Virul would. He was concentrating on his potent prey, and not upon the predator that had snuck up right behind him with a sacred blade.
Chetyr'...chetyr'...chetyr'... This was Stage Four, the final, lethal one.
The Avalonian maiden licked her lips in sublime anticipation. They were as parched as the sands of the deserts of Tatooine, as starved as a malraas without any cannoks to hunt, and as thirsty as a gizka dying of a poison pill.
She'd kill him. She hated all that Virul was, all that he stood for, and though hate was not the Jedi way, this parasitic being would never respond to anything that resembled love or compassion. He--it--would only die if its head were split in half. All of Andorra's body tensed, her muscles taut in pain.
How in the Force had she reached Stage Four so quickly? It wasn't possible.
It was. Her heart was near to stopping, though Andorra did not notice it.
Andorra let out an animal scream, one of inhuman and insentient anger, and raised the sword she prized. Without one wasted ounce of strength, she slashed it downward, intending to slice it right through Virul's gray flesh...