Private A Fever You Can't Sweat Out

[Vatrës Dhalis]

THE LIGHT OF VAHL ENCLAVE
SARNUS
​

rumor runneth in flame-choked ways
'false is her hearth! not hers the blaze!
she was not forged by temple's brand
nor stamped the seal our priestly hand!'​

It was not an impressive building. It wasn't a building, really, when one considered it honestly.

Hardly fitting the dark goddess of Vahl, indwelt within the waiflike woman who stood before the brazier in the small courtyard at its center. A warren of buildings -- few worthy of the name, and mostly shanties -- ringed the courtyard, whitewashed walls or else corrugated steel hosting the flickering of flame or shadow. It was not much, to be sure, but it was hers.

Not the girl standing at the brazier's. The enclave belonged not to Vatrës Dhalis, whatever it looked like to an observer, but to Vahl herself. The goddess who even now murmured in a language Vatrës had never learned but understood implicitly in the part of her brain now the holy of holies of Vahl herself. It could be said, if one was feeling poetic, that it was Vatrës herself, her body and her mind, and not this ramshackle complex, this shabby little warren, that was the inner sanctuary and sanctum of the Light of Vahl.

Vatrës did not feel poetic.

One of her flock, of the Vahla community here on Sarnus, stood by her side, his voice urgent but low. "I wish only to warn you, Highest. I wish I had more detail to share, but all I know is that they know of you. Of your -- forgive me, Highest -- they call it your heretical claim. I have reason to believe they mean you harm."

"They would raise a blade against the vessel of the Dark Goddess herself, and yet they name me heretic," Vatrës said, shaking her magnificent white-haired, black-eyed head. Her voice was soft, deceptively so, and accented in a way it hadn't been before her trip to the volcano. The dialect of a world long forgotten, of a mother never forgotten. The heat radiating from the brazier, the light that bathed her features and his and the room's, swelled, fed by divine fury. "I am tempted to say: let them come. Vahl does not stand with me, but within me. Against her, no man will triumph. No man can triumph." The soft approval, whispered in gentle candlelight within her, of Vahl warmed her. "But... prepare the faithful. They must not put themselves before danger for my sake. Send them away from the Enclave until I send for them. The same goes for you."

"But Highest," the man protested. "You benefit from the Dark Goddess' embrace, but if they send assassins -- I was given to understand that you were... not yet fully trained in the arts of the lightsaber."

Vatrës felt something cold and damp in his words. Disbelief. Not disloyalty. "Fear not," she said flatly. "Our Lady of the Flame promises protection -- to divert the blade. But what she has shown me does not guarantee that protection for others. And if the worst should happen, the failure is mine. You will carry on as you did before she touched me, coroneted me Highest. Am I understood?" His only response was a bow. "Then go, now, and leave me to prepare. Feed your fears to the flames. Vahl will provide."

speak once and let thy word have teeth
let witness stand and ash bear wreath
for forth they send a wraith in mail
ordained to strike and leave no tale
​

Hasuras Na-Gerra​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Even Qhans kneel before the Chosen. So Gerra bowed his head, one knee pressed to the floor, surrounded by the Six.

"You venture to Chiloon," spake one.

"There is a heretic," say three.

"She must be destroyed," intoned six.

"Who is she?" rumbled Gerra, though he did not look up.

"A pissant of no lineage," spake one.

"A woman of no renown," say three.

"Kill her, Vahl wills it," intoned six.

"Vahl wills it," answered Gerra.

No other affirmation need there be.

Later...

Sarnus
​

The shuttle which landed outside the Light of Vahl's enclave bore the markings of the Ember. All knew what came next. But to shoot down the shuttle was to provoke a holy war, a strife between the branches of the One True Flame. And so the shuttle landed. No inquisitor of the Chosen emerged. No cadre of the priesthood. None but a gene-warrior, vat-birthed and hard-bodied. Tall he stood, far taller than most. His skin was ash, his eyes golden. His hair red as fire. Blessed by the goddess, surely.

He wore no armor, only robes of crimson and gold, but he carried a Sith sword at his waist and gauntlets upon his hands and his face looked carved of granite.

The warrior approached the gate of the enclave and called out in a voice deep as thunder, "I am Hasuras na-Gerra, Qhan of the Firefist Vahla. And I have come on orders of the Chosen to see your so called avatara."

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

lo, cometh the wraith, no need of mail
the lamps burn low and faint hearts fail
he climbeth stair and shadowed lane
his oath in fire, his errand plain
​

The thundering voice of the Qhal would have been enough to terrify a girl named Vatrës Dhalis, a pathetic mortal, a woman of no renown, a pissant of no lineage. If only the dark goddess had seen fit to leave Vatrës the way she found her. How unfortunate for the Six that the Lady of the Flame worked in mysterious ways, her wonders to perform.

Hasuras Na-Gerra would hear no reply at first. Instead the outer doors of the enclave swept open, silent as a tomb, inviting a lover's embrace, final as Vahl's command. Then the next set opened, untouched by human hand as the first, revealing the inner courtyard within. The hooded figure of the Avatara of Vahl stood, silhouetted against the enormous caldera of a brazier.

Come.

In any other tongue, in any other mind, it would have been invitation. In Vahl's voice, it was not less than command.

Vatrës did not turn at first. Her lightsaber held before her, out of Gerra's sight but at the ready just in case. She was silent until she heard and felt his presence. "They were foolish to send you," Vatrës but not Vatrës said, voice neither soft nor harsh, neither whisper nor shout, neither taunt nor plea. Merely observation. The shard glowed hot under her sternum. Vahl's presence undeniable, her words now streaming from her avatara. "My most dedicated servant. He who would carry my banner. A lickspittle sycophant would have served their purposes much more effectively."

Only then did she turn, black eyes fixing on the Qhal. "I know your face, and I know your heart. There is none more devoted to my cause. The Six, in their hubris, write their own destruction in fire and in blood."

yet Vahl hath set a stillness in her soul
fear hath no seat, her pulse pays steady toll
she press'd a pyre where dread would lie
her breath kept measure, her eyes bone dry​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

The gates groaned open, outer and inner, and through them strode Gerra. A frown affixed his brow at the word which dared intrude upon his thoughts, but he set his jaw and pushed forward toward the hooded figure before the brazier. The Chosen had tasked him with a grim enterprise. Yet as he drew apace of the hooded figure and she turned around and spoke, doubt occluded his thoughts.

Blackest of eye was she, like two pools of devouring midnight that shone with an inner flame that burned him to look upon. Yet look he did. Whiter than purest ash her hair beneath the hood and her face angled and exotic. And her presence... a roaring inferno in the Force. Gerra's nostrils flared. Well known were the appetites of the Qhan, who ranged from mirth to melancholic rage as a wildfire jumps from tree to tree. And he hid not the heat of his gaze as it roved over her features, this woman he was sent to kill.

"I know you not," he rumbled.

Yet she claimed him as a bannerman and devotee.

"But if you know me, then you know how few can speak to me thus and still draw breath unseared by flame."

One hand rested on his sword hilt, the other reached up to the face of this would-be Avatara and sought to pull down the hood.

"Do you truly think thyself Vahl?" his eyes were narrowed. The brazier behind her smoldered. The scent of incense hung thick in the air.

His hand shifted, reaching out to seek to wrap around her slender throat. The metal of his gauntlet cruel and unfeeling against skin.

"Why should I not crush you here and now?"

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

he stood a tempest, she magma sea
strength writ in thunder, depth denied it lee
pulse kept it's measure, brazier coiled in wait
pride measured distance and Vahl kept the gate
​

To her credit -- or rather to Vahl's -- the Avatara did not flinch, allowing Hasuras Na-Gerra 's gauntleted hand to push back her hood. Her eyes met his in silent reproach, in challenge too, one arched brow lifting as if to mock him. You know not your own beloved goddess when she names you her own?

"I am both she," Vatrës began, not intending to spin a riddle. "And not she. No mortal body may know the full presence of our goddess and live to proclaim it. She dwells within, and in her unfathomable realm, as the prophecy tells."

Again she did not flinch even when Gerra's hand circled her throat. She reached not for his wrist but for her collar, tugging it open to reveal the glow of Vahl's shard just under her collarbone, shining through her alabaster flesh. It burned as though a brand, but never harming the Avatara. Unfathomable black eyes glowed suddenly golden, not of their own but in reflection of the ambient light as fires all around her surged.

"Crush me," Vatrës breathed as if to a lover. "Or sear my breath if you think you can. But know that the fires in this sanctum obey Vahl's will and they answer to her through me."

She allowed a beat, watching his face as fire swelled, formed tendrilee chains, reaching inexorably toward Gerra.

"You have slaughtered thousands in my name," Vahl said moving the Avatara's lips and throat but present there. "And you would slaughter countless more in right. Yet this Avatara, you would destroy not for Me but for the corrupt arrogance of the Six. Confess it, Qhan of Khans: when did they last act in worship of me? In When did they last act in any interest but their own?"

Vatrës' mouth closed and her head dropped back. She might have slumped to the ground if not for the Qhal's grip on her neck. The goddess's presence grew within her aspect, hot fury evidenced by the growing brightness of Vatrës' brand until it looked as if it would burn through her delicate flesh. The goddess's voice erupted from the fires, surrounding them, scalding them. "They seek power and wealth and seek not our home! It is blasphemy! Doest thou lend thy sword to it?"

The flames receded in force and heat but not in proximity to Gerra, and the Avatara seemed to come to, blinking impassively at him.

she bade him name the Six's due
what served to Vahl and counted true
name deeds for Her, not for their fame
strip gilded sermons and speak their name​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Weaving tendrils of fire reached for him, but though their heat coaxed sweat from his pores he did not look toward them, eyes only upon the woman before him. A Vahlan she was, he saw that now. But also… something else. Something more.

The glow of some hideous power lurked beneath her collarbone, making her skin luminescent. A tightness grew in Gerra’s chest. A want. A surge, hot as the fire.

Reaching out, he placed the finger of his other gauntleted hand upon her bare and glowing flesh. Felt the heat beneath his touch.

So much power. Yet after speaking, she slumped in his grasp and the voice no longer seemed to come from her but from then fire behind her.

Gerra ground his teeth.

“Maybe what you say is true, but what is it to me? If you know me, then you know my heart.”

And Gerra was faithless. In his heart of hearts, he did not truly believe in the Vahl or their lost homeworld. That idealistic version of him had been stripped long ago. He lived only for the moment. For the rush of battle, the touch of skin, and the glut of glory and the finer things. All else was but ash to him.

“Let the Chosen do as they please. I am my own fire.”

Gauntleted fingers threaded into her hair, winding white locks tight in a threatening grasp.

“Your follower are fled. I should kill you now, perhaps I will. But I forge my own destiny. I am beholden to none. Not even a goddess.”

His lips curled, “Come, Avatara,” he sought to drag her by the hair toward the interior of the enclave, “Let us see how lavishly you reside.”

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

he laughed at duty, and cups ran red
chose he instead the wine, the bed
scorned he the charge which flame decreed
and crowned his hungers kingly need
​

Vatrës believed that the faithless were to be pitied. They knew nothing of the rapture of obedience, the joy found in service and devotion. Hasuras Na-Gerra knew naught but his own appetites and ego. Vatrës would show compassion, for justice without mercy was as fire without light.

Unfortunately for the Qhan of Khans, his actions shouldered Vatrës off the throne of her own mind, and so it was Vahl -- violent, destructive, pitiless, beautiiful and terrible Vahl -- whose reaction he earned.

The flames circled the wrist of the hand tangled in Her Avatara's hair, his neck. While fire caught at the sleeve and collar of his robes and his hair, Her Avatara whose body has gone limp and catatonic, went unburnt by the would-be immolation.

"Thou faithless cur," Vahl's rage poured from every direction, from every flame, brazier and candle. "Think thou that thy power is of thine own right? My blessings thou hath felt these years and, yea verily, my blessings may be withheld! Thy heart is Mine, Na-Gerra, come what may, you shall serve me and in time understand the errors in thy judgment. A willing Champion I would have, but if thou art unwilling, an unwilling Champion shall I have!"

He seemed to pay no kind, intent was he on ransacking the enclave. He would be disappointed. The shabby exterior was no ruse; the enclave was poor. Its only valuables were some petty cash, a golden bracelet that had once belonged to Vatrës' mother -- her only inheritance -- and a bottle of golden firewine of such a precious vintage as to be priceless, a bottle saved for an occasion so grand that opening it could not be doubted.

As Na-Gerra crossed the threshold into the interior the flames evaporated from him. A reprieve more than a detente. "Thou art within My hall now, boy, and thou may know my hospitality, and hear my generosity. A bargain: cease this barbarism and pledge your sword to Me, and you shall taste the bounty of My hall, in this world and the next."

A clink of glass against glass announced the movement of a bottle, the priceless firewine freeing itself from the rack and sailing through air toward Gerra. It settled in his free hand and he heard Vahl once more. "All that thou hast in thy hands, and much more in kind -- power, money, fame, wine and song, are the boons of My service. And consider: My aspect is no mere being of pleasing face and tapering limb. Thou must feel how her flame feeds thine. Canst thou deny it?"

A weighty pause, the brazoers of the inner sanctuary pulsing steadily instead of their usual flickering. "I would have thy answer and know it true. Accept and celebrate with the finest vintage. Refuse and raise a farewell toast to that which you possess by My grace and favor alone."

Vahl brought forth firewine, sealed and bright
quoth She: "take heat and hear my right:
all that thou hast within thy hands --
and more, besides -- be thine by bands.
choose willing, walk before my flame
yet Champion art thou, by will or shame.
refuse -- and trust that this i do:
what is Mine in thee i shall undo

​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Fire.

Hot and searing.

Fire such as he'd not felt before and a source with power unbridled.

Eventually, after he'd drug her through the wretched hovel of this enclave, the pain forced him to pay it heed at last. And by then it was nearly too late to turn attentions upon the growing fire.

It seared his wrist and set the tips of his hair aflame. His clothing too, burst into sundry light. The eyes of the Vahlan warrior flared wide and he released the witch, stepping back so that he could pat at his hair and his shirt and his wrist. Out damnable flame. Out.

She poured on the fire and Gerra squinted at the heat as she spoke, her voice wrath incarnate.

Could the Chosen have been wrong? But then he would have to believe that Vahl herself walked again. And did he even believe in Vahl to begin with? Gerra raised a hand to shield his eyes, glowering down.

But then the fire died down and a bottle levitated into his hand. Firewine. He eyed it. How apt.

The Vahlan played off the pain she'd dealt him with a sniff of impudence, uncorking the bottle with his bare hands and taking a sip. Its rich taste poured down his throat, cooling and burning all at once, but in a way far more pleasing that what she'd threatened to do to his skin.

He licked his lips and looked from the bottle to her. Her words warmed him now, like the wine. A sweet and delicious draught as surely she knew it. But to this warmth he was far more susceptible and his defenses miniscule.

"I feel it," he rasped, "She is pleasing to look upon. And the power is... unlike anything I've felt before. Your points are well made."

He scowled at his seared wrist, the skin standing bright red from the burn.

"You are far stronger than the Chosen believed. If not an avatar of Vahl, then you stand close enough to empresses to be one."

And Gerra admired power.

"So yes. A toast to thee," he held out the bottle sloshing wine across his hands as he jerked it up, then back to his lips, drinking deeper to wash away the pain she'd inflected. His mind reeled, conflicted by the power she'd exhibited. And as his lips broke the seal of the bottle again he looked at her, as if in search of an answer.

"How then do I deal with the Chosen? They will expect an answer. The Six. Word of your demise."

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

six names in ash, their crimes in line
not blood for trade, but fire's design
go cleanse the rot, make rafters tell
let hidden hoardes confess their sell
​

Somehow Vatrës came to a rest against the stone altar in the sanctuary, her pale features flickering in the firelight. Her eyes opened with some difficulty and much pain her body had experienced ordeals in recent past, ordeals which the Avatara could not conceive in the moment.

Hasuras Na-Gerra came into focus, and this peculiar angle was instantly familiar to her. She had seen it in dreams more times than she could count, but in dreams her scalp had not seared with pain, her throat not ached with bruises. Vatrës knew nothing of the minutes since the courtyard; the last minutes were frustratingly black in her memory, a haze smelling of smoke and something vaguely floral that she remembered of Vahl herself, the very first time she had appeared to Vatrës and every time she came low, into the mortal realm through her Avatara. By necessity brief were these excursions to the mortal sphere, yet able to accomplish astonishing feats.

Something had changed within Gerra. It was a name that Vatrës had never tasted but somehow knew, by Vahl's revelation. She felt her shard burn bright something within it calling out to him, like to like. Tremulous, the Avatara stood. Before she could speak her body went rigid and the whites of her eyes vanished, her eyes fully black, ponderous orbs, and Vahl bade her see, made her know.

The pain was excruciating, like a cluster headache but worse, searing her brain, her very soul. Vatrës might have retched has the goddess not been holding her fast, filling her mind with the knowledge of what had transpired. Tears trickled from unblinking eyes, around slack, unbreathing mouth.

And then the whites of her eyes returned and her mouth closed with a snap. Vatrës swayed on the spot, blinking a few times, and her eyes focused on Gerra as it seeing him for the very first time. "Champion," she breathed, recognition and exhalation at once, voice low as of to a lover. Vatrës' voice was separate and distinct from the goddess's, but now especially so: raspy, as if she had spent time inhaling smoke.

Vatrës rounded the altar so she was standing behind it, opposite Gerra. The age-ravaged mural of Vahl rose behind her. The resemblance between the goddess and her avatara was uncanny. "The Chosen indeed," she mused darkly. "But by whom? And for whose benefit? Certainly not by Our Ladt of the Flame. Certainly not for the benefit of Her people or Her creed."

Vatrës' voice grew quiet, the way an ember turned black, looking almost like it could be handled safely without burning.

It could not.

"Bring me to them," she said. "It is them who will answer, not you. Vahl demands justice and we shall see their corruption burned away by a cleansing fire. I will take their ill-gotten gains and riches and turn them to the work of Vahl, and to reward Her Champion, for Vahl's word is law even into herself."

take down the crowns, unbar the store
what's tainted, claim for work and more
set by a share to feed the way
the rest, his wage for wrath's hard day​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

The gene-warrior regarded this woman as one might look on a particularly venomous breed of snake. For it seemed as though he spoke with not one person, but two.

Gerra was a practitioner of Sith sorcery and of no meager skill. He had read the ancient tomes and knew the deep magic of the Netherworld. And what he saw before him bore every hallmark of a possession by a Sith spirit.

But the Vahlan’s brows drew together darkly, for this might only lend credence to the tale of Vahl. Once a powerful wielder of the Dark Side, a champion of his people, who perished long ago. Perhaps even an incarnation of the Dark Side itself. It was not unheard of. He had no other explanation. And though Gerra did practice sorcery, he was not a man given to wise thoughts of philosophy or pondering the nature of the soul.

He looked between the Avatara and the mural on the wall behind her and his jaw tensed. A resemblance indeed. And power to match. Far more powerful than the Chosen, perhaps even combined.

“Very well,” he rumbled in answer to her, seeing no reason to deny her, “I shall defy their decree and bring you before them. Perhaps you are what you say you are. But… I am loath to smash a vessel so finely wrought.”

The ferocious grin which peeled back his lips would have liquidated the knees of most.

“Come then. To my ship. What shall I call you? Or must you insist on goddess?”

He still did not believe.

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

he kept his doubt like tempered steel at side
a guarded weight no fervor would divide
the task was chosen: bear her to the hall
where Chosen Six would answer to her call
​

"You must not," the Avatara said quickly, something like fear finally coming into her face and voicenat his suggestion that she would have him call her a goddess. "I am a mere aspect of the goddess, Her vessel in this mortal sphere. Our Lady is rightly jealous of Her divine prerogatives, and fiery is Her rebuke to those who would overstep Her." Black eyes settled at his neck where a burn lay like a heated chain had lashed his neck. "As she must have shown you. And as you have seen, when Vahl speaks to you, you will know it." Her eyes went back to his. "I am called Vatrës. Our Lady Vahl names you to me, but if you wish to be known otherwise on our travels, say so."

She straightened and touched her throat experimentally. Her voice wasbatill hoarse. Her other hand clipped her lightsaber back to her belt. "I need a moment to collect my things and leave word for Vahl's faithful."

The arrangements took little time, straightforward as they were. She left a note for the faithful and retreated to her humble quarters to collect some clothes and necessities, which she packed into a dark leather satchel. She straightened her cloak, which had become quite mixed up and disheveled when Hasuras Na-Gerra had seized and dragged her. When she emerged she wore a simple gold bangle at one wrist.

"I am ready," she declared simply when she returned to the altar. She didn't stop, but kept walking to the doors he had dragged her through. "I can hardly think you set much store in a decree of the Six of all you care about are pleasure and treasure. Besides, that which Vahl will bestow on you for your service will dwarf anything you could ever hope to get from their petty clutches."

Each step was a struggle for the Avatara, but she drew on the Force for strength. Their encounter with the goddess Vahl has left her shattered, as it always did, her head pounding, as if cleaved in twain, her veins burning. Vahl's presence always levied a physical toll on Vatrës, and the more direct the more severe the aftereffects. "I need rest," Vatrës told Gerra as they mounted the ramp to his vessel, without preamble. She was reeling and flagging from Vahl's intervention, too much to dress up her need with polite requests, particularly for a man that did not seem to value such courtesies. Although she was hesitant to place herself in a vulnerable position in the Qhan's presence, she would be worse than worthless to anyone until she had recovered. "Is there a spare bunk where I can sleep?"

thus travelled two: his caution like a blade
her presence stern, her sovereignty unswayed
not yet believing, yet he stayed his sword
to face the Six and give her as living word​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"No," rumbled back the Vahlan as the ramp to the vessel lowered automatically at his appraoch.

He cast a sidelong glance at the satchel she took. Such humble wealth for one who claimed to be a goddess. Peculiar.

One who had nothing would promise him wealth beyond measure. He snorted.

The vessel was a long range reconnaissance ship. For one.

“I had not intended to return with survivors,” he said casually, as if speaking of what he might sup on for lunch.

Again he glanced at her as his heavy tread led them deeper into the bowels of his ship and the ramp closed behind them.

“You look ill…” he took a long sip from the bottle of fire wine he still carried, eyes never leaving her, “Vatrës.”

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

he moved with ease that conquerors are taught
a loosened strength that took where other sought
her voice came low, it's edge rough with cost
no will was broken, though much strength was lost
​

Vatrës followed automatically, pausing only to cast a wary glance over her shoulder as the hydraulics lifted the ramp into place. It sealed with the finality of a tomb's door being set in place. Her hand lifted to cover a yawn, and she turned back to follow Hasuras Na-Gerra .

Just the warlord, the priestess, and the goddess both invoked, though only one truly believed.

"Your -- diplomatic approach," Vatrës began, voice wryly grim, "forced an intervention from the goddess Vahl herself, in a physical way. When she visits, you could call it, the power she brings to bear is too much for any mortal body. Ill isn't the right word, exactly, but it is close enough. My head aches, my body burns, and I cannot remember unless she shows me, which you saw. As you no doubt could see that comes with its own consequences."

The Avatara let her eyes wander the ship as they traveled through it. Not quite interested, but vaguely curious. "Do not worry yourself," she said after stifling a yawn with her free hand. "I have ever survived these encounters with Vahl and I expect to do so again. But if I do not, you can deliver my corpse to the heretics and they will never need to know you had a divine intervention."

Vatrës ached to lie down but he had made clear that no such possibility existed. By the time they arrived to the small cockpit, she could barely stand. Without waiting for an invitation, she all but collapsed into the copilot's chair, gathering her bag to herself in a hug against her torso. She was asleep before Gerra had even seated himself, before even fastening her crash webbing.

In dreams she has no conception of the passage of time. She dreamed of Vahl, of a world of ice and fire of lush green and arid desert, of tundra and city, all in their turn. Vatrës knew instinctively it was the homeworld of her people, lost to memory, her destiny to find. She dreamed of the sanctuary, of the towering Qhan dragging the ash-haired priestess like a doll, watching from outside herself, from Vahl's own eyes. Other sensations blossomed and withered, hunger and pain and apprehension and rage and a calm contented quiet and an envy so outraged that the brand at her sternum glowed vivid, furious crimson and she jerked awake with a cry --

The pale mottle of hyperspace reflected on her black eyes, and her raging pulse pounded a dying ache behind them, easing as her pulse normalized. The sleep, however unsettled, had done its work. She was much improved. Even her voice was almost back to it's smooth quality when she spoke; "How long have I been asleep?" Vatrës looked over to the Champion, straightening in her seat. "How long until we arrive?"

so sat they -- watchful, neither taking quarter
her crown was pain, his sword was order
what followed none could feign to call a game
when each had learned tells of others' flame​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"Not long," he rumbled, eyes fixed ahead on the sensor systems, though he made no further explanation.

In truth, she had been asleep for some time. Fitful, it seemed. Both in the way she awoke and in the power he felt writhing within her in the Force. Here was raw strength such as he had rarely felt before.

He cared little for her sufferings. He knew her not and had indeed been sent to slay her. But the power she wielded intrigued him. Nay. It frightened him. Few could be numbered that which made the Qhan uneasy. And so he did not look at her, lest he be forced to meet those pools of endless midnight flame.

"You dreamed," he went on, for he could not help himself. Surely her fitful sleep had not been unaccompanied by the dream world.

Once, they called him Dream Thief. When he had had respect and allies. Until they turned their backs and forsook him, as craven dogs do. He stole futures at the point of a sword. But ever his eyes wandered to the flames, looking upon the futures of what might be and what could have been.

"What did you dream of?"

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

he watched her sleep with caution kept close
as sailors watch storms off sheltered coast
for power clung though Vahl had fled
pressure lingered where flamed feet has tread​

Vatrës was unsatisfied by the answer that the gene-warrior gave. She stood, stetting her bag beside the seat, and then the Avatara began to stretch, working blood into her muscles, and working dormancy and fatigue out.

Gerra made observations and questioned her.

Her first impulse was indignation, to refuse to answer him. But she rejected this. To question the goddess was sacrilege, but Vatrës was as much a mortal as she was an aspect of Vahl. A foot in each world, divine and mortal. It was unclear, still even to Vatrës herself sometimes. It often felt like the Avatara learned something new about the arrangement with every passing day.

She could not blame his curiosity.

Especially when the goddess herself had seemed to indulge him even in blasphemy and violence against her Avatara.

But Vatrës could – and did – find his disgruntled nature irritating, and she answered accordingly.

"I dreamed," she confirmed simply, while rolling her neck. She twisted at the waist back and forth, supple body coming back to itself after her uncomfortable repose. Vatrës let the answer sit for a few moments on its own as if it was all she has to say on the subject. The silence lingered a beat past what was comfortable and then she said: "Of things that were, and things that are and things that may yet come to be. I dreamed of Vahl, and of me."

A beat and she leaned forward, peering at his profile as if she could read on his face the reasons he would not look on her. "I dreamed of you, Hasuras Na-Gerra . Our Lady of the Flame has not gifted me the details but She has shown me that you, Her Champion, are of critical import to Her will."

Another pause. "Not what you wished to hear, I'm sure." She took a breath and then settled back into the copilot's seat. "How fortunate for you that your whims and desires have set your path. Not all mortals are so blessed."

"Mostly," Vatrës went on, "I dreamed of home. Our home, a home for the Vahla. She demands it. So Her people need no longer be scattered to the stars unless it is the life they choose."

She crossed her legs, leaned onto one elbow closest to him across the console that separated them. "There is something I would know, Hasuras Na-Gerra – me, Vatrës, not the goddess. You care not for the goddess, not her commands, neither duty nor destiny nor divine command. Yet when the Six crook their fingers and point, you do not question?"

Deep pools of black watched him, even if he did not wish to look at her.

then she – still wan yet stronger than before –
did press him where his deeds stood as lore
why he will thwart a goddess's demand
yet bow to petty mortals' command?​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Speak not, those who would cast stones, of the desires of the flesh. Who among them would not look if they thought they do so unnoticed as the avatara did uncoil herself and move her shapely form in ways which drew the eye? Cowards. Gerra stared openly, brazen and bold as a bastard. Why hide his appreciation behind veiled glance?

"Hmm," he grunted, as she moved before him, then again as she leaned forward and told him she dreamed of him. The Vahlan's answering smile was wide and broad and shameless. He chuckled, the noise booming, coming from the core of him.

"Fortunate," he repeated her word to her, though she continued on.

She crossed her legs and rested an elbow on the console between them. Gerra's eyes dropped to that arm, then to her face. And those unsettling black eyes.

"Why?" he pursed his lips, then shrugged, "It is not in my nature. They are the Chosen. I had no reason to disbelieve them, or to incur their ire, so I did as they asked. Who would not among my people?" The huge Vahlan reached out, one huge finger resting upon the elbow of the white-haired maiden and tracing up her forearm, "I do not pretend to be some man of reason and philosophy.


I drink, I reave... I love," his fingers encircled her wrist, swallowing it entirely. His hands were rough, calloused from the forge and from years of Sith alchemy. "And I am content to do so. I forge my own destiny. What else in life is there?"

His head tilted to the side, his gaze the smoldering of twin suns, fusion stars hungry, "Or do you think yourself bound to your dreams? What did you dream of me... I wonder."

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

the callous of palms told of forge and strife
a rough, earned proof of unrepentant life
a life of drink, raid, bed, and song
a self-forged road, as pleasant as long
​

Vatrës felt the gene-warrior's eyes on her, appraising -- or admiring, perhaps?

She did not give it away, not consciously. A touch of color at her cheekbones could well have been recovery from her Vahl-induced exhaustion. The gooseflesh that rose in the wake of his roughened finger dragging along her forearm might have been the result of the chill of deep hyperspace. Her tendons went rigid as his hand circled her wrist easily, and she didn't react immediately. Worse to prove herself incapable of withdrawing than to endure his inspection.

"It was the shameful scene in the sanctuary," Vatrës answered his question easily, her voice free though her throat and lips felt tight. "I recalled what Vahl showed me upon coming to. How you blundered into Her sanctum and sought to deface it. How you dragged her loyal aspect by hair and scalp. Yes, I see the kind of man you are. I doubt sincerely whether you would truly serve Her, but it is not for me to question the judgment of the goddess. It is only to see her judgment done."

Black eyes studied him for any reaction. She doubted her would be embarrassed to be reminded of his attempts to deface the Light of Vahl enclave's sanctuary. It was probably not even among the top one hundred worst things he had done. And Vahl was a goddess of darkness and destruction; perhaps she saw it was naught but a cheeky challenge, rather than an affront to her divinity.

"What else is there?" Vatrës echoed, ashen brow arching. "Service, Hasuras Na-Gerra . Devotion. The favor of the goddess, and its rewards. But perhaps the wine and women are sweeter, the song more robust, when they are plundered by violence than when earned." She straightened, finally allowing her wrist to pull from his grasp if he let it. "Fear not. The enemies of Vahl are plentiful. There will be much plunder to heat your blood."

her throat stayed guarded, pride in control
yet body answered before the soul
not to yield, though inside she shook
and observed her wrist with stony look​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

The kind of man he was... yes.

A reaver and a slayer. Well did he know his reputation. Nor did he deny it. He would have dragged her through the enclave's halls and beheaded her in front of her own worshippers, just as the Chosen asked of him, save for her sheer power. And her beauty. No, he would not wish to deface such a vessel. Nor did he know if he even could. She held such vast amounts of energy in the Dark Side that it would take a sure strike indeed to finish her for once and all.

He snorted at her following words, of service and devotion, and her wrist slipped from his grasp.

"You think I must needs resort to plunder for women and wine?" His laughter boomed in the cockpit and he turned away from her as the whorl of hyperspace resolved into the black emptiness of space, save for a single space station. The Vahlan was eight foot tall and fashioned well in the gene-clinic. His hair flowing and his face and musculature more like carved stone. He well knew his worth. "You are an amusing woman, Vatres."

Gerra pointed at the station, "We approach."

The next few moments passed as Gerra made contact with the Station's security and obtained a docking bay. The station was owned by Vahlans. One of many such stations across the galaxy. The Chosen should be gathered here for his answer. He saw several of their frigates docked at the deep space bays.

Descending onto a landing pad, Gerra settled the shuttle easily, then unclipped himself from his chair.

"Come. Your time of judgment is nigh."

The ramp lowered. He expected the Chosen would meet him in the hangar, or see him ushered for private audience. Impossible to say.

Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

one's absence spoke of treason, fear, or flight
it hung like smoke that would not take to light
one fell to flame, not slowly, not with art --
a swift decree that scorched a lying heart
the rest were fear where arrogance once stood
held fast as statues carved from guilty wood​

Vatrës regarded Hasuras Na-Gerra , dark eyes narrowing -- imperceptible when her irises were as black as her pupils, both as black as the vacuum of space. He found her amusing; the feeling was mutual. The man was far too proud of his size and his strength and his beauty; Vatrës wondered idly whether the dark goddess would humble him. Perhaps She viewed the gene-warrior as some perfect expression of Her will in the mortal plane, and thus indugled his hubris. In any event, it would have been a shame to have to mar such a visage. Vatrës was not the only finely wrought vessel present. But Vahl's Avatara knew what she would recommend, if Vahl cared to ask.

She doubted Vahl would care to ask.

The Avatara raised her hood and followed, boots clipping rhythmically behind Gerra, but not keeping time with him. His height made that unlikely.

She let him walk ahead. Better for the Chosen to think him alone, returned with blood on his blade, their cowardice and blasphemy carried out by a better man than they. However dim her view of Gerra's immodest immoderacy, she recognized the moral value of a man who carried out a sentence once passed, a man who didn't pass it off to some lickspittle.

Vatrës paused at the top of the ramp, took a breath, and reached for the Force. She felt six presences at the foot of the ramp. One -- a towering inferno of pride and want, unmistakably Gerra. Five more, of varying degrees of smug. There were others, still, beyond their immediate presence, but these were the ones she was after.

At least, most of them.

She descended, and the man at the center of the five was instantly conflagrated by a pillar of flame. His screams, the smell of burning flesh, fed into Vatrës' power, made her tremble with delight. She took no pleasure in violence for its own sake, but this? Righteous. Vengeful. Well-earned. The others were shocked and horrified in equal measure, yet rooted to the spot -- torn between fear and vengeance.

"I bring you tidings of our goddess, the dark lady," Vatrës said, almost conversational, to all of them and none. "Your assassin has recently stood in her presence, though even he is unsure. For you and your final companion, I will spare no effort to make you believe. As he does." Her chin rose toward the central one, whose screams had turned to rasps. He stumbled to his knees, still immolating, until finally the flames were too much, and he succumbed. Vatrës let him burn and smolder on the deck.

A warning to the others.

"My name is Vatrës. The Avatara of Vahl. The woman you sent Hasuras Na-Gerra to assassinate, like cowards. Vahl considers blasphemy among the lowest of sins," she declared. Smoke began to rise from the living four's robes as her righteous fury all but begged her to release it. They would burn so beautifully.

Yes, Vahl breathed from somewhere in the deepest recesses of Vatrës' mind. The approval of the dark goddess washed over her, almost like a lover's caress. One of the Six fell to his knees, arms outstretched in entreaty. Mercy, he begged. "And yet," she went on, paradoxically cold despite the heat radiating from her. "You compounded your sins by sending Her Own Champion to kill her Avatara. You are not just faithless, but gutless. And now here you are, begging for clemency. Chosen indeed," she sneered.

The beggar erupted in flame, his shrieks like music. She suppressed a shuddering laugh.

The three remaining appeared to break free, thinking themselves free. A devilish grin followed them toward the exit. Vatrës turned her black eyes on Gerra. "It is my gift -- and the goddess' -- to free you from the service of these alleged men. Come, Champion: I hunt."

a hand went up for mercy; mercy failed
for cowardice is blasphemy unveiled
to send another forth to do the stain
then beg as children at justice -- profane!
she gave him doom with neither rage nor haste
and set his end in flames that took no waste​