Athanasios
Transcendent Scholar
Ample robes and a cowl made for an easy way to identify a ne'er do well, as far as the idiotic, self-assumed "heroes" would have it. The very choice of apparel had entered cultural consciousness as a stark signifier of ill intention - a misconception made all the more frustrating to clear up by the insistence of Athanasios' "peers" (a title she could only consider with disdain and disgust in equal measure, lost as they were to their own hedonism) to dress up in a similar garb. Whoever had first taught the Sith to dress up in such a manner, she hoped, had been cast down into the most agonizing depths of the Acheron river.
But needs must, and the dead of Ukatis were yet to be properly tended to. Death in war hardly made for the more... interesting, sort of lingering spirits. Warrior-philosophers were not unheard of, but mere soldiers counted far more numerous in these nights, and theirs was not a particularly interesting purview. They certainly held loved ones, vengeance, or some other reason for fighting, and she treated them as she did most other of the wraiths in need of passage to the lands beyond. Most, but not all. Scholars held a certain position as equals within her mind, and more than one had found some measure of solace in a long conversation with her on the finer points of their chosen field of academia.
The poor were simply buried in graveyards, or otherwise incinerated; she suspected more than one mass grave would need her attention before she was through with that feudal society with delusions of grandeur. Today, however, her steps took her through the family crypt of one House Seiros, its leadership gutted after its patriarch was slain, having sided with the crown loyalists. Finding the new additions was not, to a practitioner of the necromantic arts such as herself, a particularly difficult endeavor. Restless spirits, souls, conscious things... with sufficient concentration, they could all but be heard, and felt. And few places were more silent and peaceful than catacombs.
"I am not a messenger," spoke the Sith to the empty air, as if engaging in a conversation with a presence few could see, indeed. "Nor am I your jailor. You are here - still here, I should say, because whatever remains of you is lost in these halls, in the confines of your own making. Transcendence, I can grant you; but only through resolving what keeps you bound to our plane."
The candle, sitting a top a small copper recipient, was set down soon after, and her head turned in a new direction.
"I will be your guide, but not before I deal with whatever interloper stalks these halls, or seeks me so foolishly."
A challenge, so casually disperse into the dimly-lit crypt... for she knew another was close.