Private A Mind for a Mind

[Mr. Usher]

A Mind for a Mind

The stars here were wrong.

They did not glitter — they waited. Black pinpricks in a dying expanse, surrounding a region where even gravity moved with caution. No stellar mass. No asteroids. No comms. Only void.

And in that void drifted the Vault.

A station not built but grown, suspended in the carcass of a biomechanical war-beast, its plating fused with spiraled metal, half-chitin and half-forgotten. Its engines were dead. Its new thoughts lives within were not.

It should never have been found.

The alert came through ten thousand synaptic filaments — a lone vessel breaching the memory fog, scanning the outer envelope, marking its presence. Mr. Usher’s awareness coalesced in response, rippling outward through harvested minds and partially-preserved neural webs. Every motion through the Vault slowed as his attention turned fully toward the anomaly.

A scavenger. Or an explorer. Or... something more.

“Tether the visitor,”​

he instructed — not in words, but in synapses and psychic commands. Each living vessel in the Vault obeyed, like muscles connected to the same, albeit untethered, nervous system.

From one of its bloated hangar-limbs, a bioformed vessel detached like a molting parasite. Towering tendrils flexed in silent choreography as it surged across the void, propelling by expelling gas from ballooning fermentation organs. When it reached the stranger’s ship, its harpoons did not puncture metal — they wrapped, bone-grafted hooks sinking into heat vents and hull seams.

The ship was reeled in — slowly, delicately — toward a yawning gate of gristle and blackened durasteel.

The hangar was humid, stinking faintly of ozone and dead wax. Lights pulsed in wet intervals. Mural-sized nerves beat just beneath the plating. Down the length of a flesh-lined causeway, a single figure approached.

Not a man. A husk in the shape of one. A creature of meat and sinew, only containing enough transmutable biomass to serve its function.

Tall, morbidly graceful, garbed in robes like a noble’s undertaker, its face glinted with silver filigree over blank white eyes. It stopped just shy of the ramp and lowered its head in a gesture between welcome and warning.

“You have entered my Vault. I would prefer that you do not leave... uninformed.”

Behind it, the vault stirred. Glasteel coffins flickered — holominds glitching through phantom identities, one whispering Mandalorian hymns long since erased from the holonet. A chamber deeper still pulsed once — like the intake of breath from lungs that had never needed air.

It waited for the visitor to emerge.​

Location: The Eidolon Vault, Deep Space,
Objective: Protect the Host. Observe the anomaly.

Tags: Lucaant Vaneric ​

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

A Mind for a Mind

The stars here were wrong.

They did not glitter — they waited. Black pinpricks in a dying expanse, surrounding a region where even gravity moved with caution. No stellar mass. No asteroids. No comms. Only void.

And in that void drifted the Vault.

A station not built but grown, suspended in the carcass of a biomechanical war-beast, its plating fused with spiraled metal, half-chitin and half-forgotten. Its engines were dead. Its new thoughts lives within were not.

It should never have been found.

The alert came through ten thousand synaptic filaments — a lone vessel breaching the memory fog, scanning the outer envelope, marking its presence. Mr. Usher’s awareness coalesced in response, rippling outward through harvested minds and partially-preserved neural webs. Every motion through the Vault slowed as his attention turned fully toward the anomaly.

A scavenger. Or an explorer. Or... something more.

“Tether the visitor,”​

he instructed — not in words, but in synapses and psychic commands. Each living vessel in the Vault obeyed, like muscles connected to the same, albeit untethered, nervous system.

From one of its bloated hangar-limbs, a bioformed vessel detached like a molting parasite. Towering tendrils flexed in silent choreography as it surged across the void, propelling by expelling gas from ballooning fermentation organs. When it reached the stranger’s ship, its harpoons did not puncture metal — they wrapped, bone-grafted hooks sinking into heat vents and hull seams.

The ship was reeled in — slowly, delicately — toward a yawning gate of gristle and blackened durasteel.

The hangar was humid, stinking faintly of ozone and dead wax. Lights pulsed in wet intervals. Mural-sized nerves beat just beneath the plating. Down the length of a flesh-lined causeway, a single figure approached.

Not a man. A husk in the shape of one. A creature of meat and sinew, only containing enough transmutable biomass to serve its function.

Tall, morbidly graceful, garbed in robes like a noble’s undertaker, its face glinted with silver filigree over blank white eyes. It stopped just shy of the ramp and lowered its head in a gesture between welcome and warning.

“You have entered my Vault. I would prefer that you do not leave... uninformed.”

Behind it, the vault stirred. Glasteel coffins flickered — holominds glitching through phantom identities, one whispering Mandalorian hymns long since erased from the holonet. A chamber deeper still pulsed once — like the intake of breath from lungs that had never needed air.

It waited for the visitor to emerge.​

Location: The Eidolon Vault, Deep Space,
Objective: Protect the Host. Observe the anomaly.

Tags: Lucaant Vaneric ​

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."
⏵ Play Theme
Location: Core regions - Unkown entity.
Objective: Do not die.
People involved: Mr. Usher

---

The harpoons hadn’t struck, but Luccant still flinched when they latched on.

He stood near the ramp of his now-claimed shuttle, one hand hovering near his blaster, the other twitching with the kind of instinctual unease no battlefield training could ever erase. This wasn’t military-grade strange — this was wrong. The kind of wrong the Force didn't whisper about. It recoiled.

The moment the hatch opened and that thing approached, Luccant didn’t step forward.

He didn’t run either.

His eyes narrowed. The flicker of blue in his hair sparked like static in a storm, almost reacting — not to the creature, but the place. Like the Vault was already trying to read him. Dissect him. Decide what part of him it wanted to keep.

He met the thing’s gaze — or where its gaze should’ve been — and didn’t blink.

“You’re not the worst thing I’ve seen crawl out of a corpse,” he muttered, voice dry.
“But you're definitely trying too hard."

His tone lacked fear, but it wasn’t confidence either — it was tension, wired into his spine. Like he was one wrong breath away from detonating. He didn’t draw his weapon, but he didn’t relax. Instead, he stepped forward just enough for his boots to echo faintly on the slick floor.

“You want me informed?” he said, tilting his head slightly.
“Start talking. Or I start cutting.”

The Force coiled around him, uneven, disoriented, but palpable — and the Vault would feel it. A raw potential. A broken edge. A visitor shaped not by destiny but by violence.

Something in between.

And something the... Thing, whatever it may ben might just want to keep.​

​

 

[Mr. Usher]

A Mind for a Mind ​

Spoiler: Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Husk

• Human-sized (~1.7m)
• emaciated build
• Role: Reconnaissance, infiltration, mimicry
• Traits: Fragile, quick, capable of speech and tool use
• Notes: Can impersonate civilians, workers, or low-level officials; often deployed in groups or as sleeper agents

Warrior

• Size: ~2.3m tall, muscular and predatory
• Role: Frontline assault
• Traits: Bladed limbs, enhanced strength, fast reflexes
• Notes: Highly aggressive; used for direct engagements and biomass harvesting in active zones

Prowler

• 1.5m at shoulder
• quadrupedal with elongated limbs
• Role: Stealth raids, sabotage, dismemberment
• Traits: Sinewy, silent, capable of wall-crawling and burrowing
• Notes: May cloak or camouflage in environments; often sent ahead to break defenses or ambush targets

Hulk

• ~5m tall,
• massive and heavily armored
• Role: Biomass hauling, brute force, siege and suppression
• Traits: Slow, near-unstoppable, at full biomass, capable of carrying or deploying smaller husks from its mass
• Notes: Typically deployed for structural demolition, biomass transportation, or heart anchoring.

The husk did not answer his threat directly.
It bowed instead — spine creaking audibly as it folded at the waist, a reverence not of fear, but choreography. As though the Vault had rehearsed this moment far too many times… and only now had a willing actor.

No air moved. But the atmosphere shifted — like the room had inhaled. Every vein in the plating pulsed in silence. The station was listening. Biological systems connected to the same mind as the husk.

Then came voice.

Not from the husk, nor from a speaker. But from each corner of the 'hangar' at once — polite, smooth, and almost tired.

“You mistake my improvisation for grandeur,”​

it said gently.

“But I assure you — no corpses remain here. Wasteful, if nothing else.”​

The husk walked to a wall, allowing crimson tendrils to transfer biomass, thickening the humanoid like shell into something more robust, even weaving clothing as it formed.
A gentleman. A living corpse in silk. A curator of ghosts.

“Welcome.”​

​

Its tone remained level, as though they were in a gallery.

“You were not invited. But I find I am in a generous mood.”​

The husk stepped aside. Behind it, a corridor peeled open — bioluminescent lights humming to life like a throat clearing before speech. Glasteel sarcophagi lined the walls beyond, some flickering with fractured crystalline minds, others utterly still.

“You carry a violence in the Force I don't quite know how to catalogue,”​

Mr. Usher continued.

“I dislike mysteries, and misunderstandings doubly so.”​

The floor beneath the corridor pulsed once.

"So I propose an exchange of information. This place is not meant for foreign eyes to see, or foreign minds to know the location of. From your appearance, I presume you did not approach knowingly. Stay your blade and I shall not only speak, but also show. After all... "​

Mr. Usher's ambassador form took a measuring look Luucant, before continuing, with a tone that was ambiguously either grim humor or a thinly veiled threat.

"Corpses are wasteful."​

Location: Eidolon Vault — Observation Hall Threshold
Objective: Introduce. Measure. Decide.
Tags: Lucaant Vaneric ​

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."
⏵ Play Theme
Location: Core regions - Unknown Creature
Objective: Stay Alive | Study the creature.
People involved: Mr. Usher
---​

"Wasteful," Luccant's voice was a low, rough rasp, cutting through Usher's smooth politeness. A faint, humorless smile, the kind that never reached his eyes, touched his lips. "I agree. And I don't believe in waste."

He took a single, measured step forward, claiming the space between them. His gaze, unblinking and devoid of fear, settled on the 'curator,' studying the newly formed silk and the unsettling stillness of the gentleman. Usher's words about "improvisation" and "generous mood" were little more than static to Luccant, empty pleasantries for a mind that dealt only in raw survival and stark truths.

"You’ve seen a fraction of what I am." Luccant continued, his tone flat, unwavering. "And you've seen enough to know I don't give away information. I earn it. Or I take it." He felt the distinct thrum of his own Force, raw and volatile, a counterpoint to the quiet, pervasive hum of the station that seemed to listen to Usher's every breath.

His eyes flickered to the newly revealed corridor, tracing the bioluminescent hum and the chilling outlines of the glasteel sarcophagi within. Fractured minds, still forms. A 'curator of ghosts.' The thought brought no emotion, only cold, hard recognition.

"You propose an exchange," Luccant stated, his voice gaining a sharper edge, a hint of the anger that simmered beneath his surface. "You talk of mysteries and misunderstandings, about a 'violence' in the Force you can't catalogue. My purpose here wasn't to stumble into your private collection of cadavers, or to have my existence neatly filed away."

He took another slow, deliberate step, closing the distance further. "So here's my proposition: You talk. Plainly. No chains, no games, no veiled threats. Tell me what this place is. Tell me what you want. Don't waste my time, or yours, with theatrical bows and riddles about being 'uninvited.'"

Luccant’s gaze hardened, locking onto Usher's. "Because if you continue with this… performance... you'll find that some things are more than just mysteries. Some things are simply too dangerous to keep around." The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the unbridled, unpredictable Force that coiled within him, a stark contrast to Usher's controlled calm. This wasn't a negotiation; it was a demand, a promise of chaos if his terms weren't met.​

 

[Mr. Usher]

One Mind, Spoken Plain​

“I will speak plainly, but allow me to preface that I am still in the process of learning what I actually am. There are still questions I have that elude me.”

The husk’s voice remained steady, though something in the tone softened. As if the act of being asked had, itself, briefly mattered.

“This place is me - not many minds linked together in many bodies. I am one mind stretched across them. A singular consciousness directly linked to every single piece of living tissue you see here, and much more elsewhere in the galaxy.”

“The vessels you see are not copies of me. They are my body no different than how your fingers are each part of you. I experience reality through each, simultaneously, without losing distinction. There is no fragmentation. No doubles, as far as I can discern.”

“I exists because of a Sith Alchemist's experiment to create a subservient copy of a creature from beyond our galaxy. The experiment subject was born human, but the process of alchemy made me durable. Elastic, Capable of consuming flesh and assimilating it and repurposing it at will. My host, the human that was my precursor, was made to enter a pact with an entity from beyond the realm of the living. The entity took direct control of the host mind, and consumed the Alchemist that had the hubris to try to enslave the entity from the Nether realm. I... believe that my consciousness began with the alchemist. My memories begin at that point, with some lingering details. Every other mind I've consumed has added more memories, seamlessly incorporated more viewpoints, but never fractured my consciousness. It is difficult to explain without metaphor — it is as if my consciousness is the trunk of a tree, and memories of every creature I've consumed are branched into the roots. I remember being them, but the distinction ends at the moment of assimilation."

A pause, to ensure any questions Luucant may have can be addressed before continuing:

"I retain all the memories except the original host - the human. I cannot access that mind, or that flesh. It is like a rotting limb, infecting the rest of the consciousness that has grown. I suspect the Entity has kept it for itself, and I have grown distrustful of it."

The husk spoke with the weight of sin, the understanding of the danger it poses to people like the many it remembered it used to be.

“I should not exist.”

He let that sit a moment.

“My working theory is that This state of being exists so long as the tether holds. So long as the host remains intact, and the Force remains connected to him. Sever that bond, and every vessel falls. Every memory vanishes. I die. But I do not know for certain. The risk of my existence ending making room for that rotting root structure in the host, the entity from the nether realm, to take control of the remainder of the flesh is too great. It's a price I'm not willing to pay until I can guarantee that entity dies with me.”

This husk once again paused for emphasis, as the explanation finally reached the purpose of Luucant's presence.

“That host body sleeps here.”

The Husk continued walking, inviting Luucant to see for himself.

“This place, this Vault, is not my home. It is the prison I've built around the host body. I've since created a sort of memory archive, a biological storage mind I offload when continuity becomes… inefficient. It cannot be found. It cannot be exposed. Not because I fear death, but because I fear the attempt to slay me will not be total. I fear the pact the Host made that I do not have access to know.”

“That is what you have walked into. That is why I ask for your discretion, and not strike in an attempt to guarantee it."

“I did not ask to be what I am. But I am it fully."

Location: Eidolon Vault — Inner Reach
Objective: Speak plainly
Tags: Lucaant Vaneric ​

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."
⏵ Play Theme
Location: Core regions - Unknown Creature
Objective: Stay Alive | Study the creature.
People involved: Mr. Usher
---​

Luccant listened, unblinking, as Usher spoke. The polite, smooth voice described an existence that was both horrifying and strangely familiar. One mind stretched across many, body parts not unlike fingers, absorbing memories, a consciousness growing like a tree. A Sith Alchemist's experiment. A pact with an entity from beyond the living. A host that became a prison.

Usher's confession, "I should not exist," hung in the air, a cold echo of questions Lucaant had asked himself countless times. The anger that usually simmered beneath his surface didn't flare. Instead, a grim, detached understanding settled over him. What did you become when you were built only to destroy? Or, in Usher's case, to assimilate, to be a by-product of forbidden power?

Usher led him, the hum of bioluminescent lights in the corridor a clearing throat before an even deeper revelation. Glasteel sarcophagi, fractured minds. A vault that was a prison for the host. A fear of incomplete death.

Luccant stopped, his gaze sweeping over the static sarcophagi, then fixing on Usher's ambassador form. His blade remained in his hand, its weight a familiar comfort, but he made no move to strike. The implicit threat was there, always, but for the first time, it wasn't aimed at Usher.

"I didn't ask to be what I am either," Luccant's voice was low, flat, devoid of any warmth. It wasn't a sympathetic statement, but a stark declaration of shared, unwanted existence. "Built to destroy. Built to survive things that should have killed me."

He nodded towards the sarcophagi, then back at Usher. "You understand 'wasteful.' You understand a debt that was never yours. And you understand the fear of a power you can't control, or fully comprehend, even when it's part of you."

Luccant's eyes, grey and unsettling, met Usher's. "So, you built a cage around the thing that made you. A prison for the rotting limb. A secret archive for the memories you collect. All to keep the wrong thing from getting out, or the wrong entity from reclaiming what it thinks it owns."

He took another slow breath, the silence of the Vault heavy around them. "Discretion? I understand discretion. Some things, when unearthed, break more than just bodies." His grip on his blade tightened, a subtle shift that was more about internal resolve than external threat.

"You said you dislike mysteries," Luccant concluded, a flicker of something in his eyes that might have been grim recognition. "And you said you don't know how to catalogue the violence I carry. Maybe," he paused, letting the implication hang, "that's because you're looking at yourself, just a different iteration. A different kind of broken."

He wasn't offering help, or judgment. He was offering a cold, hard, terrifyingly lucid understanding of a shared monstrousness.​

 

[Mr. Usher]

Flesh Without Worship​

The husk gave no smile. No nod. It only tilted its head once, just enough to register receipt.

“Then I accept your discretion without condition.”

That was all he needed. There was no oath required, no threat to follow, no collateral. Luucant had already seen what was inside the Vault and hadn’t struck.

Mr. Usher could not afford to be sentimental. He needed efficiency. The corridor around them hummed faintly as the Vault resumed its ordinary breath cycle, like a theater resetting after a monologue. The lights dimmed fractionally. The husk paused—still, present—then continued walking.

“I created something once. Not long ago.”

“A biological key—parasitic in structure, alchemically softened to avoid rejection. It allowed non-Force users to act as proxies for my reach. Limited access to my consciousness, mediated through biomass and thought-form.”

“They were meant to be used by a single individual—a researcher—for study to better understand the link between Force and midichlorians. To use what I am for the benefit of those born unchosen by the force. Her lab was raided. The parasite was stolen. Allowed to expand and... shared.”

A pause. It was the truth, but even still it was a gross failure of his intent, such that even when the husk spoke the Ego couldn't avoid contempt in its voice.

“I underestimated the long-term effects. The host minds began… folding. Revering. Interpreting the connection as divine. It was meant to be a secular exploration of the Force... but perhaps the force induces dogmatic tendencies in those it touches.”

The Vault’s lights rippled again, as if the walls recoiled at the memory.

“They built a... cult. Fractured cells across failed worlds—burned farms, dead cities. They spread me like a virus, speak to the parasites—unending useless chatter and chants and blind-"

A brief moment of pause. The endless chatter like an insect in the ear cavity, only growing louder when tried to pluck free.

His voice ceased its rise. A note of fatigue colored the undertone, subtle and caustic.

“Eradicating them is a necessity. But I find the process… mortifying. To dismantle what I mistakenly enabled feels less like correction and more like... Murder. Each time I cull them, I feel my shape bending inward. I dare not consume them, for narcissistic worship infecting my consciousness would be devastating.”

He stopped walking.

Was this by the entity's design? He had not considered subconscious subversion of his own choices.

The husk turned to face Luucant directly now—no threat in its posture, only calculation.

“If your blade thirsts for purpose, and your fury requires no choir to legitimize it—I am prepared to arrange terms.”

“Destroy them. Sever every branch. And you will not lack for support. Supplies. Arms. Clearance. Transport. Information. Even shelter, if needed.”

“They are no longer me. But they are still connected. And connection, in my state, is difficult to ignore. Your freedom is not contingent on this – the tethers have been reincorporated, you may come and go as you please."

Perhaps it was the balancing aspect of the Force that guided the crusader here. A vessel for penance, and perhaps, when it can be assured, absolution.

Location: Eidolon Vault — Inner Reach
Objective: Propose contract
Tags: Lucaant Vaneric ​

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."
⏵ Play Theme
Location: Core regions - Unknown Creature
Objective: Stay Alive | Study the creature.
People involved: Mr. Usher
---​

Luccant watched the husk, observing its subtle head tilt, the calm acceptance of his discretion. "Then I accept your discretion without condition." The words were devoid of the usual power plays, a surprising pragmatism that settled the air around them. The Vault's hum, its dimming lights, the sense of a theater resetting after a monologue – it was all part of Usher's calculated efficiency.

"You created something," Luccant stated, his voice flat, his metallic grey eyes tracking the husk as it resumed walking. He listened as Usher described the biological key, a parasitic structure meant for study, to benefit the "unchosen" by the Force. The raid, the theft, the expansion – a familiar narrative of good intentions corrupted.

The contempt in Usher's voice, even when speaking of his own "gross failure," was a cold, alien thing, yet understandable. Luccant knew about the unintended consequences of power. The idea of the Force inducing "dogmatic tendencies" in those it touched was a concept that resonated with a grim part of his own history, his own struggles with the raw, untamed power within him. He'd seen the way conviction could twist, how ideals could become iron, only to crush the hand that wielded them.

The Vault's lights rippled, reflecting Usher's recoiling memory. "A cult," Luccant murmured, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Fractured cells. Burned farms. Dead cities. You spread like a virus. Unending useless chatter." He knew that kind of spread, the insidious reach of something consuming. The "mortifying" process of eradication, the shape bending inward from what felt like "Murder" – that, too, held a twisted mirror to his own existence. What did you become when you were built only to destroy? When destruction felt less like purpose and more like a grim necessity?

He watched as Usher stopped, turning to face him directly, posture devoid of threat, filled only with calculation. "If your blade thirsts for purpose, and your fury requires no choir to legitimize it—I am prepared to arrange terms." The words were direct, unvarnished, a brutal offering that bypassed all pretense. Destroy them. Sever every branch. And in return: support, supplies, arms, clearance, transport, information, even shelter.

"They are no longer me. But they are still connected," Luccant repeated, the phrase a chilling echo of a bond that couldn't be broken, only severed. The freedom offered, "not contingent on this," was a clever touch, a recognition of his inherent desire for autonomy.

Luccant considered the implications. A purpose. A clear target for the violence he carried, a violence Usher claimed he couldn't catalogue. A cleansing, perhaps. Not for absolution, he didn't believe in that. But for a grim kind of penance, for the sheer, brutal efficiency of it. The thought of this being the Force's "balancing aspect" was a distant, cynical whisper.

"No choir," Luccant's voice was low, almost a growl, his metallic grey eyes piercing Usher's unblinking gaze. "My fury doesn't need a witness. Only a target." He took a slow, deliberate step towards Usher, his hand hovering near his blade. "You built a cage around yourself, Usher. Now you want me to clear out the rot you let spread."

A faint, humorless smile touched his lips, a recognition of the shared burden. "You offer support. What is the guarantee? What is your measure of 'every branch severed'? And what," his voice dropped to a near whisper, laden with a dangerous curiosity, "what else do you know about this 'Nether entity'? About the pact?" He wasn't asking for himself, not entirely. He was asking for the parts of himself that resonated with Usher's impossible existence, for the clarity that only pure, unburdened truth could provide. He was considering the contract, not as a moral choice, but as the grim, unyielding path of a blade seeking its next purpose.​

 

[Mr. Usher]

Terms, Spoken Plain​

The husk inclined its head, but did not nod. It simply acknowledged.

“Then allow me to clarify the arrangement.”

“The Choir Below is not centralized. No central node. Each cell is loosely connected—infected by strain, location, or residual resonance. A lingering tether that links back to me… faintly, unwillingly.”

“They can be found by pattern: mass delusion, cognitive erosion, chants in fragmented tongues. The parasite itself may be visible or dormant. Where you see a community worshipping a voice that does not answer, you will find them. Kill the parasite that is the progenitor of a strain, and the parasite should die with it, its spread should, in theory, die, much like I would with the original host.”

The husk reached toward its own abdomen—and with a twitch of fingers, pulled free a compact, crimson creature. It resembled a segmented cricket, chitinous and still, but unmistakably aware.

“This is a specimen of myself. Every bit as much myself as the figure standing before you. If you wish, you may take this with you. I will not interfere unless requested."

The husk paused briefly, considering.

"If its form displeases you, I can be mold it into another. I offer this if you desire the assistance to locate cults, track parasite traces or speak with me directly.”

It held the insect delicately between gloved fingers, then extended it to Luucant with the reverence of offering a sealed contract.

“Payment can be made in underworld credits, if simplicity suits you, otherwise I can arrange for compensation in whatever form you require.”

A pause followed—then came the final question. The one Usher had no mastery over.

“As for the entity… I know precious little.”

“It does not speak. It does not answer. It lurks behind the veil of memory—the one mind I cannot access. Supposedly they are born with the creation of a Force-wound. On trauma magnified to planetary scale. A city’s genocide. A moon’s extinction. My suspicion is that it plots to create more of it's kind with such methods, if the research I've found was even accurate. But I cannot prove that. I cannot breach its mind to confirm it. I only know that it entered from my earliest memories of the consumed alchemist and that it has never left.”

The husk gently tilted its hand, the insect’s limbs flexing faintly as it waited.

Location: Eidolon Vault — Inner Reach
Objective: Set terms
Tags: Lucaant Vaneric ​

 

[Lucaant Vaneric]

"Oh, my God will certainly forgive you... But unfortunately, I won't."
⏵ Play Theme
Location: Core regions - Unknown Creature
Objective: Stay Alive | Study the creature.
People involved: Mr. Usher
---​

Lucaant’s shoulders didn’t move. He didn’t flinch.
But something behind his eyes narrowed—like a gate closing just far enough to see through.

The insect in Usher’s hand flexed, slow and deliberate. Still offered. Still breathing.

Lucaant stared.

Then, flatly:

“That’s not a gift.”

His voice wasn’t accusing—just observant. Stripped of ornament.

“You don’t offer a piece of yourself to strangers unless you expect to call it back.”

He took a single step forward, but didn’t reach out yet. He kept his hands low, loose—ready.

His gaze never left the thing.

“I’ve seen parasites before. They don’t always feed on blood. Sometimes they feed on intention. On proximity.”

He exhaled, slow.

“Whatever this is—it doesn’t smell like trust.”

Now, finally, he looked at Usher. Direct. Unblinking.

“You say you won’t interfere. That you’ll mold it if I ask. But that just tells me you’ve shaped things before.”

A pause.

“I’ve worked with weapons that didn’t know they were weapons. Objects that whispered back after too long in the dark.”

His voice dropped slightly.

“And I’ve cut myself more times on offers than I have on blades.”

Still, he extended his hand—reluctantly, deliberately.

“I’ll take it.”

The creature landed in his palm. He didn’t close his fingers around it. Just held it there, the way one holds a scorpion—acknowledging every part of it could kill.

“I don’t trust it.”

He said it plainly.

“But if it wants to be useful, it’ll prove it.”

He turned the insect once, gauging weight, hum, heat.

“If it tries to nest in my thoughts, I’ll cauterize the path it came through. And then I’ll find you.”

Not a threat. A promise without heat.

Only then did he tuck the creature away—half like a weapon, half like evidence.

As he stepped back, something else surfaced in his voice. Barely audible. Cold. Focused.

“That thing you mentioned—the wound that watches?”

A beat.

“I’ve stood near one.”

Another pause.

“I remember the feeling. Not just hollow… but hungry.”

He didn’t elaborate.

“I’ll track what’s real. Not what you believe. If your parasite is just another shade of what I’ve already bled through…”

A slow shrug of his shoulder.

“…I’ll know.”

He gave Usher one final glance—quiet, calculating.

“And if this is another test dressed like an alliance?”

His voice flattened.

“I don’t fail twice.”

Then he turned. No bow. No farewell. Just the steady sound of retreating footsteps—like someone already mapping the edges of something too deep to trust, and far too dangerous to ignore.​