Bastila:

            Only one knot remained.  The slickest, the tightest, the last.

            To help guide my mind, I had envisioned fingers digging into the knots, prying them apart.  My imaginary fingers were now torn and bloodied, but persistent.

            My physical fingers were filed and painted with lavender enamel.  Tacky, but I could sense them now amid the drunken headache that the neural disruptor induced.

            I could feel the slow rise and fall of my breasts against a primitive metal bustier with each breath.  My awareness was back, but any attempted movement was groggy and ill-maneuvered.

            Concentrate.  One final oily knot and I would be free.  Then that Vulkar beast would pay.  Jedi belong to no one.