*This takes place during the events of Choosing My Confessions. As I was away and never got to reply while the thread was current, I'm placing it here!
The sand seemed to dissolve under her feet whenever the waves pulled away, pulling her under. She’d been named for its depths, and yet they remained completely impenetrable to her. All things had their wonder for her but the sea would always be a mystery at least in part.
And the sea was her reason for venturing out this far on Maena that morning. The sun had just risen, though it was difficult to tell through the ever-gray pall that hung over a planet near constantly choked by ash. It glimpsed between clouds, sparkling off black water as Matsu stood with arms crossed over her chest. In his efforts to find a place suitable for the Tower he would eventually build himself here in this lonely place, Jacob Crawford had unearthed particular superstitions that ran rampant among the Maenan people. It was most prevalent among those who lived in the Slums, those who could see the quiet mountains that bordered the Wastelands and the sea.
The Sith Lord had stumbled upon the goldmine of a planet through exploration and was still learning the true depth of its history, but those stuck here - multi-generational miners dreaming of a place outside the only planet they’d ever known if only they could find the means - could tell you everything. They were the historians of the planet, stuck outside the vice and transience of the New City where the past seemed irrelevant. Their legends were long, their folklore convoluted. Few knew how to write but most had they had heard the stories a hundred times as children. Inaccuracies no doubt abounded, but the basics…
It was said that during the Gulag plague those that grew sick and feared infecting their families, those that had lost everything, those that feared...they came to this place in droves and leapt off the mountains in to the sea. Matsu could imagine them, bodies cresting silently over gentle waves (the view from below as she swam underneath and motes of sun leaked between thousands of them staring sightlessly down at her in the deep)...littering these black sand beaches. They said if one ventured out here alone they would find the places people have scrawled messages in to the rock.
She knelt down, the hem of her dress damp with seawater, bare feet poking out from its edge as she pressed her hand to the sand.
At first it was hard to tell where the despair was coming from. This place? No…
All the sudden she was dying. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers dug in to the sand, pulling it from its perfect flatness in great clumps as it spooled out between her clutch.
“It’s not happening…” she breathed to herself, a whistle of a sound with the breath she had left. “Please, it’s not happening…”
Somewhere, Irajah Ven was dying.
Funny. It felt slow. As Matsu’s other hand found the sand, dropping out of the crouch as she lost her legs and sat in the tide, water rushing up around her. Emotions she couldn’t choose between swirled in her mind - anguish, a peace that wasn’t her own, and anger. She still couldn’t breathe - a heartbeat slow, a heartbeat slower. And then all the sudden air rushed back in in a gasp.
Somewhere, Irajah Ven was dead.
A wave of crippling, unbelievable grief washed over her like the reach of the next wave.
And just as quickly she was on her feet, sprinting for the ship she’d come out here on.