Ascent | The Primeval

[Pravus Zambrano]

The book, bound in flesh and entrapping the distinct expression of pain, clapped shut. His gangling fingers, wretched and impossibly elongated in the low light, hugged the binding. Massive orbs looked out from below an enlarged brow as impatience brewed. His free hand, bearing the electrum ring of little importance, snaked out from the folds of his embellished robes. And as as it approached the mans face, sitting unconscious in the chair, a loud noise rung out.

SNAP.​

​

Nothing happened. Impatience transformed into something more useful. Anger.

SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.​

​

Nothing, once more. Having no other options, he did the only thing that made sense. Reeling to his right, his hand lashed out, striking the backhand against the face of his 'prisoner.' Immediately, he felt apologetic. But sacrifice was required. The man was awake, sniffling and unbound.

"Ugh..." The prisoner reached up to wipe some snot from his upper lip. Pravus did everything he could to hide his disgust. The hands of the prisoner moved down from his nose to his pants, to wipe the grime, before reaching at the old bloody bandage on his neck.

"Oh, don't touch that!" Pravus reached forward and slapped his hand. "Darron, you're always meddling!" Pravus carried the disappointment of a caring father, burdened with the weight of discipline.

"Where...where am I? Is this Maena? What are we doing here?"

"Well. A bit of research. Nothing that concerns you...not really." When Darron moved to talk, Pravus snapped his fingers and watched as Darron was silenced with a momentary spasm. The Sorceror in training lifted the book to his lips, concealing the cheshire smile. I can't believe that worked. When the convulsions stopped and white knuckles were no longer gripping the arms of seat, Darron looked up to the tall Epicanthix with eyes filled with fear.

"What did you do to...to me?" Defiance turned to sadness as cheeks were suddenly slick with tears.

"Me?" Pravus held a hand to his chest, proclaiming his innocence. "My dear sweet child. I was trying to help you and you decided to be selfish. You thought you could just...take yourself away from me?!?" He ticked his tongue. "Not on my watch."

"I remember now...I'll just do it again. First chance I get."

The lighthearted nature of the sorceror changed as he knelt, meeting the prisoners eyes at level. "Do it again. I'll fix your soul to a rock and cast you into the deepest ocean of Kamino. I'll find your wife and fix her soul to your body. And I will make her do my bidding until the end of time."

The realization of the situation washed over Darron's face as Pravus turned his cold expression over into something warm. "Help me with my work. And I will release you. Besides..." He stood up, hugging his book to his breast. "It's going to be so much fun!" He snapped his fingers and the man convulsed and shuddered.

"Come now, Darron. I just heard word from the Host Lord and all those who have gathered. We have an encampment, villagers and raiders...oh my!"

As Darron stood, he limped behind the tall figure who could be heard chuckling all the way to the exit ramp.

[member="Darth Carnifex"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Antherion"] | [member="Satia"] | [member="Lady Death"] | [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Warok the Defiler"] | [member="Nick Imura"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Cady"]

 

[Lethia Morow]

Having neither the means nor motivation to go slaughter a group that posed no threat to her personal safety, and no desire whatsoever to engage in menial labor, the monstrous woman let out a bored, raspy yawn and cast her Sight out towards the remainder of the gathering.

There was the cripple, a pretty young thing with a soul black as pitch and empty as a desert; her lips would’ve curled up in a snarl if she still had lips, but as that wasn’t the case, a snarl all on its own would suffice. Something about him just unsettled the ghoulish girl – and that took some doing.

There was the tall, imposing thing – but it seemed otherwise occupied, likely with whatever minion it had sent to deal with the slaughter in its stead. As much as Lethia would like to cut it open and see what rot seeped from its soul (in a metaphorical sense – probably), she doubted it would provide her with any stimulating conversation.

Either wary of or bored with her other options, Lethia’s attention quickly snapped to the Host Lord. Boethiah had wandered off by herself, moving with a purpose that surprised Lethia – she’d not known Boethiah for long, but she had the impression that the Host Lord was a bit of an airhead.

Curiosity piqued, the repulsive maiden slithered closer to the Primeval’s alleged messiah, making no attempt at stealth. The Kath Hounds would notice her either way, and their barking would alert their mistress to Lethia’s presence.

Crouching near Boethiah, Lethia somehow managed to glare at the Kath Hounds, then spoke in a voice that sounded like she’d just gargled glass.

"P͞la͞nnin͠g͢ s̨o̵m̢eth̸ing̡, ̛ơ' ͜L͠o̶r̢d of t҉he̡ ̴Ho̧s͝t?͠"

---

[member="Boethiah"]
[member="Antherion"]
[member="Darth Carnifex"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion had little motivation or desire to join in on the wanton slaughter of helpless bystanders. Not, to say, that he took no joy in the arts of cruelty, but rather he merely felt that it was insignificant. All disciples of the dark drew power from conflict, but to draw from something so petty would be more than useless. It would demean him. He was frail, but he no longer needed such low sustenance. The priestess seemed to walk apart from the others to get her own council, and he saw little reason to turn her against him by brashly intruding, as the loping, hissing creature may very well be doing. Or maybe it was going to take its supper with the Kath Hounds, and would be slinking around the woman's ankles and crooning for scraps. Neither were his business.

Instead, he crossed his legs in the grassy field where he stood and seated himself, centering himself. Closing his eyes, he severed away his senses, dwelling in solely internal spirit. He would, for now, meditate and take stock of the presences around him.

As the corrupt fragment of pure power pulsed within him, he did his best to clear his mind. If he was to rise above its influence, he would need discipline above all else. Focus on the things around him.

The tortured monster, broken by the galaxy's cruelties and reforged by her own stubborn, animal willpower. The sorcerer, a flickering purple fire in the Force, a light keening with the sheer will of its madness. The God-King, arrogant and wreathed in the heat of power. And the messiah, three-in-one, a walking trinity.

These were the people who would become the tools or sculptors of the shape of his destiny. He smiled softly at the power that might arise yet, in him and the kingdoms that opened up before him. The galaxy was an endless horizon line that was his to break.

| [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Pravus Zambrano"] | [member="Darth Carnifex"] | [member="Lady Death"] | [member="Boethiah"] |

 

[Isar]

The smell of decay and wet fur suddenly filled the air around @Antherion.

Warok stood directly behind the Sith.

Two paws reached out and sought to settle on his shoulders, to knead the muscles there in gentle, circular motions.

"Shh. The whispers. They speak if you listen. Listen."

Wind rustled through the grass around them.

 

[Pravus Zambrano]

Bony fingers flipped through the pages under the high sun. Every once in a while, those pale fingers traced the tip of his coarse tongue, before proceeding once more through the parchment. "Ahh, here we are."

Slow lumbering foot steps had taken him to this village of the raiders. In his wake, tree limbs were broken and the forest floor desheveled with his awkward steps. It was the best he could do to keep up with the slow pace of his new man servant.

"Darron, Darron!" The living corpse looked back. "I need your help. Come over here."

He had to abide and Pravus knew it. As he approached, Pravus pulled a quill from the decorative pauldron. Leaning forward, he stabbed his prisoner across the shoulder and injected what ink he needed. "Good good, still suitable viscosity. Another note for the pages!" His fingers rattled against the leather binding of the book excitedly. "Tell me about the day, Darron. What date is it? What's the weather like? How do you feel?"

Following a long moan, Darron acquiesced to the request after a finger snapping roused convulsion. "I don't know the date. The weather is dreadful. I wish I was dead."

"You wish you were dead...yes yes, dreadful. Good, good." Pravus scribbled away, writing notes anxiously. "Okay, see that raider over there, relieving himself against the tree? Go strangle him. Really..." He lifted the hand holding the quill and formed a power ballad fist. "Stick it to him!" With an approving nod, he gestured for Darron to be on his way.

~~~​

​

Pravus scratched the cromagnum brow, pushing sweat down his sharp cheeks. Before him stood Darron with a knife sticking out of his abdomen. His left hand extended upwards with the throat of a struggling raider clamped between fingers.

"Is...is that tender?" Pravus looked down at the rusted handle, moving with every breath Darron took. "It looks tender." He blinked steadily before shaking himself back to purpose. With the height difference, even with Darron holding this man high off the ground, he still stood at eye level with the massive Zambrano. "Enough about us...tell me raider, how are you today?"

The raider shook his head, the arteries in his eyes turning a deep red. "Okay okay, I see our time is limited today. Tell me..." He opened his book and motioned towards Darron with a backwards thumb. "Scale of 1 - 10, how strong is this guy?"

The raider shook his head, blabbering out inaudible syllables. "Hmm, hmm. Yes, 8 out of 10 is something. I appreciate your candidness." He turned to Darron. "Break his neck, please."

Pravus turned to head back towards the obscurity of the forest as Darron approached, his steps growing more and more quiet with every passing moment. "What should I do with the knife?"

"Leave it." He waved, dismissively. "It looks good on you. Really brings out the deadness in your eyes."

[member="Darth Carnifex"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Antherion"] | [member="Satia"] | [member="Lady Death"] | [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Warok the Defiler"] | [member="Nick Imura"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Cady"]​

 

[Boethiah]

Boethiah turns around to face [member="Lethia Morow"].

However, it was not before her kath hounds had already started snarling at the grotesque being. "My, you're an ugly one!" The young woman exclaims. "I am about to explore the nearby caverns, broken-face. You may accompany me, should you wish." Despite her choice words the witch appeared unoffended by Lethia's appearance, and soon returned her gaze to [member="Loxa Visl"].

The larger of the two kath hounds sniffed Lethia, its warm breath pressing against the ghoul's skin. The large beast had canines the size of small knives. Yet it reeled back upon silent command, Boethiah projecting the force to pacify the aggressive beast. It takes two steps back before laying down into the dusty soil. "He doesn't like you," she alerts Lethia. "Thinks you smell funny."

Perhaps when this was all well and done, Lethia would be in dire need of a bath.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion was the type to love massages, except for the fact that on principle, in most cases, letting someone get within arm's reach that could even inconvenience him was like having Iknayids dumped over him. The only masseuse he might ever hire was a droid on a closed network, for that exact purpose, kept in a secure place so that it might never be reprogrammed, and even then with thorough and redundant restraints.

In other words, the situation was very unwelcome. And the feeling of a feral ball of compacted scruff and nightmares fondling his back was violating in a way words could not express.

Yet... at the same time, he felt many things from this unassuming creature. Knowledge. Power. Lethality. The Mange.

"Tell me... how do I listen to the whispers? What do the whispers say to us?"

| [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Pravus Zambrano"] | [member="Darth Carnifex"] | [member="Lady Death"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Warok the Defiler"] |

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

It was a magical sound: The mirth of the crowd as its leader spurred their passionate souls to blood-thirst and zealous hatred. Joycelyn did not find herself above it, quite on the contrary. She too felt the swelling pride and growing dichotomy between the us and them. This was an experience, a feeling she had grown quite fond of. She was, after all, a servant of Vahl. And even in these backwater cults could she see the fire of her goddess blossoming up through sentient minds as they devoted their power to something greater than themselves.

Was this truly the rise of a new Primeval?

It called to it so many creatures. From the waddling Ewok; chattering and shedding his fur, to the walking necrosis; defying and warping the principles of life and death as they were known. And in the group, her eyes rested first on one figure as it shed its cloak: Father. Mixed feelings welled up inside her. Anger, respect, reverence, hate, and a greed only a child could feel for its parent's attention. No, she needed it not. She had the allmother, the goddess of cinder and flame; Vahl and her chosen gave her the guidance she required. No God King could make up for it. Yet, she kept his name.

Eyes then rested on the speaker; one who's soul kept the power of the great and ancient things. Her words, enchanting in its simplicity. The one who wielded the Primeval did not need sweet words; only loyalty and a cause. The cause was one thing, the only thing that mattered: War. The fire of war would carve out their land once more. Together they could drive out the sickness, the confusion, the weakness that plagued this galaxy.

Joycelyn felt the fire, the drive to kill, but her eye caught the party moving off to the side. A more important mission? Books were never her greatest suite, but knowledge was her purpose in this place. She sought to amass power, not just execute it. So, without half an attempt at quietness, she splintered off and fell into trailing the Messiah ( [member="Boethiah"] ), the grand witch ( [member="Loxa Visl"] ), and the necrotic abomination ( [member="Lethia Morow"] ).

 

[Poe]

​Hitting the handbrake on the speeder, I slowed the machine to a purring stop. Swinging off the bike, I retrieved my hilt from my sash while staring at the gathering villagers. Upon seeing me, the woman gathered up the children and the men their weapons. A group of men with their blasters and rifles pointed to the ground walked out to meet me, and I to them. One man yelled for me to halt, and I continued forward. Another man repeated what the first said, and yet I still marched on.

​Gauging the proper distance between them and myself, I pulled back the left sleeve on my robe; exposing the wrist hilt sleeping restlessly on my wrist. Roaming my eyes from each man gathered before me, already basking in their deaths, I growled flashing my fangs. I could taste the beautiful smell of fear washing off them. Holding my hilt away from body, I strung the activation stud dropping the red tendril of the lightwhip beside me. The men glanced at the exotic weapon, then as they lifted their weapons; I activated the wrist lightsaber bringing out the shoto length blade raising it in a defensive posture. Judgment day was upon them.

 

[Darth Rage]

Time. Time was as unforgiving a master as death itself. As the eons rolled by Audroti slept, awaiting the opportune moment for him to rise again, but the day he does. The day he awakens to reclaim his crystal throne he discovers his powers have waned. His mind a shell. He has forgotten much and those that served him before abandoned their lord now. His race almost extinct and as far as he has learned he may be the last, but this matters little. For Audroti's plan had worked... Somewhat..

Through hate filled eyes he glared at the backwater world below. He would ravage it. Glass it. Shake it to its foundations. Why? Because Rage was his very being. It echoed through his soul. Only hunger matched the Rage. A hunger for power and through power immortality. Something he had given his very heart for, but alas it was not enough. For he still aged.. He still grew weak.. But, now he felt a tug. A calling of sorts. The caves of Dantooine held many secrets or at least during Audroti's time they were secret.

Perhaps now, now no longer. Still whether they were secrets before or are now, Rage knew. He knew what awaited in the caves below, what beckoned to his rock of a heart. It's brothers. These ones. They are different. They give off a special call. One foreign to Rage. One that seemed familiar, yet so different. Blood dripped from the cockpit seat. The Sith scowled again. He wiped the gore from his frame and only ended up smearing it. The vessel was not his. No, it belonged to another. Another no longer. Irrelevant. His mind wandered. Below. Below he would find the answers he sought. The key to ever lasting life.

 

[Isar]

"They say many things," replied the warlock.

"Spirits in the grass, in the water. Spirits of land and sky."

His paws came away from the human's back and made a series of surprisingly intricate motions for such chubby fingers.

"Listen to the deep whispers and you will hear the call of the Ancient Ones."

Warok mumbled a string of words in a pidgin of ewokese, dathomiri and massassi.

Birds stopped singing. Insects ceased their noise. The wind died. The grass beneath their feet browned and withered, as if the very life had been sucked away. By contrast, the necromancer brimmed with the energies of the Fanged One.

A lone crow flapped down from above, alighting in front of the pair. It hopped forward, quirking its head at [member="Antherion"]. Its eyes glowed green.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion heard snippets of languages he understood intermingled with what sounded like meaningless gibberish -- the unmistakable chirp-like noises of a primitive's language and a sibilant sort of witch-tongue. He felt the gestures trace along his back. He had mistaken them for some sort of childish touching fixation, but now realized that they very well could be some sort of spell being cast -- perhaps even on him.

And then, the Force drew inwards towards the scraggly, patch-furred thing. It was as though taking a breath and holding it, except this was the nature and connection of things being drawn inwards and held in place. A power he had in some capacity, but not this quickly, this easily, this naturally. This unassuming being was a clear adept, powerful at warping the energies of nature.

Now, Antherion held little belief in 'natural spirits.' The intelligences of some beings lingered beyond death, at peace or in conflict with the Force, but these were not things that would occur naturally. To think this would be to look at faces forming in rippling water and think this indicative of a person. His skepticism lent him caution and misgiving, yet he gazed unblinkingly into the eyes of the crow, expanding his own senses and searching for what the dark would reveal.

| [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Pravus Zambrano"] | [member="Darth Carnifex"] | [member="Lady Death"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Warok the Defiler"] |

 

[Lethia Morow]

Lethia didn’t mind the insults. Quite the contrary, in fact; although she couldn’t see it for herself, she took pride in her grotesque appearance and mutated anatomy. Her jaw could unhinge like a serpent’s to swallow prey. Her grey skin, tough and leathery, provided defense against the desert sand and the clawing of her meals when she pinned them down. She had been broken, but she’d put herself back together through sheer force of will, and that was something to be proud of.

Lethia wasn’t even bothered by the comment about her stench, although why Kath Hounds were so troubled by the smell of blood and meat did puzzle her. But the snarling? That amused her. That wasn’t anger or hate, no. That was fear. A desperate attempt by a duo of oversized pups to make the scary thing go away.

As the hounds backed off, Lethia let out a harsh rasp that was probably meant to be a laugh, and then looked back up at Boethiah. Caving had become a common practice for Lethia in her years alone in the desert, for practical reasons more than anything else; she was more likely to find water the deeper down she went, and if she could find an underground lake, preferably with a population of fish, she could relax for a few days. Beyond simply having experience with the practice, tagging along with Boethiah would be something for her to do besides sitting beneath a tree.

"I ͜thi̴n҉k ͢I ̵s̸ha̡l͢l҉ ͝ýo̷u̧ ̀a͏cc̡ơm̴pa͏ny y̶ơu ̴th͢en, Ḩos͟t̛ Lo͜rd͘."

---

[member="Boethiah"]
[member="Loxa Visl"]
[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Boethiah]

Without further delay, the young witch marched into the ramp. "Come, we will be taken to the caves." She announces to those behind her.

Already the engines fired to life, giving little time to consider choices but instead run up the ramp before it closes. The caverns were only but a short journey away, and none of them would spend too much time in the small vessel before they find their feet back onto Dantooine soil. In fact, if they were to walk it would have only taken them a couple of hours to arrive at the entrance. Boethiah had spent the last many years walking...

She walked on many worlds, and took from them what knowledge they would give. She found that through the force if you listen carefully, even the worlds spoke. Although their tongue old and words difficult to understand, she learned a great many things from them. Now Boethiah takes that knowledge with her wherever she goes, to do as she must in the name of the Three and the One.

At long last she can witness yet another familiar path, to reconnect with the lives that lie inside her... Idle but certainly not dormant.

[member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Joycelyn Zambrano"] | [member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Isar]

The darkness gave way before Antherion's senses, like a gelatinous substance. The crow's neck twitched, eyes brightening. Something bubbled beneath its skin. The creature let out a squawk, then abruptly exploded in a spray of black feathers. Absent breeze, they fell swiftly to the ground. The plumage touched grass and melted into the sod.

No trace of the crow remained, if it had ever even truly existed.

The wind returned suddenly, along with the chirping of the birds and insects.

"Now you listen," whispered Warok's voice in Antherion's ear, or was it his mind?

Giggling to himself, the diminutive ursine skipped away on squat little legs.

[member="Antherion"]

 

[Lethia Morow]

Lethia didn’t run so much as slither up the ramp of Boethiah’s ship, letting out a raspy sigh of relief due to being sheltered from the sun’s rays. Keratin claws clicked against the metal hull of the dropship as the monstrous young woman scanned the interior for anything familiar, anything comfortable. She probably wouldn’t be aboard for long, but still. It would be nice to know for later.

While never giving her the most literal representation of the world, Force Sight was still useful in its way; for up above Lethia’s head was, to her sight, a narrow system of tunnels in the hull of the ship, trickling sand upon the ground beneath it. The ventilation system, in all likelihood – but to Lethia, it was a place to rest, strikingly similar to the burrows within which she once found relief from the desert sun.

Clawed fingers wrapped around the ventilation grate (to the young woman’s vision, a tangled mess of thick, dead roots), and pulled, the durasteel giving way with startling ease. Ignoring the obvious hazard of jagged, sharp metal now lining the entrance to her chosen place of respite, Lethia made her way up and inside with a Force assisted hop, skip and jump. Once she’d made herself comfortable, the monstrous thing positively purred with satisfaction.

Nice and cozy, just how she liked it.

---

[member="Boethiah"]
[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]
[member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Darth Rage]

[SIZE=10.5pt]Audroti sat in the cockpit surrounded by filth. He typed the location of the caves into the autopilot's systems then stood to leave. He couldn't stand the gore soaked room any longer. He removed his ancient robes that were now covered in blood and threw them down a trash compactor. He made his way through the cramped metallic halls. The soft pitter patter of his feet resounding through the ship as they hit the ceramic flooring. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.5pt]Rage entered the showers and watched as the water rolled the filth right off of him. He studied the flow of pink water as it all coalesced at the drain and seemed to disappear. Having gotten as clean as he was going to be Audroti exited the showers and made his way to the former owners cabin. The door before him opened with a swoosh and admitted the Sith inside. He found that the man was only slightly taller than himself, so his clothes were a little baggy. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.5pt]Rage put on blue dungarees, and a black t-shirt. The faint red glow of his heart could be seen beneath the thin fabric and Rage searched for a jacket to cover it with. He found a long brown duster and adorned it aswell. He buttoned it up tight, so as not to reveal the glow. Then a monotonous voice sounded over the intercom.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.5pt]"We will soon be reaching the destination. Please prepare for landing,"[/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.5pt]The ship shook violently as it breached the stratosphere, then began to level out as it made it through the atmosphere. It circled round the network of caves then gently began to set down. Landing gears extended and Rage could hear the soft hiss as they did so. The ship hit the ground with a slight thump. The gangplank descended with the grinding of gears and Rage looked out at the rolling plains of Dantooine. A slight wind swept through the shuttle and Rage's duster waved lightly in response. He exited the shuttle and saw the caves just ahead of him.[/SIZE]

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Without a word of protest, but with a cautious eye on the creeping figure with her raspy voice and twisted humanoid features, Joycelyn did follow the Host Lord. She halted for a moment, one foot on the ramp as her eyes surveyed the ship. Vahla, particularly those who did much for the Migrant Fleet, had a keen understanding of ship technology. It was, after all, necessary. Joycelyn was no great mechanic, but with a glance she could gather the general purpose the vehicle was designed for and probably make an educated guess to its origin.

She stepped on board, ducking down to make sure she did not hit her head on the way in - Necessary or not. Literally ducking into ships had become a habit as many crafts were designed for beings of a slightly lesser height. Engines fired to life with a familiar rumble, and the tall vahlacanthix moved to hold fast until the motion stabilised. Land-approximate travel was always less stable than spacefaring.

Her eyes narrowed in a confused curiosity as @Lethia lept up into the ventilation shaft, and judging by the banging, scraping, and final sight of relief, made herself comfortable. "Odd creature." She mumbled to herself as she looked to the Host Lord, the hounds that surrounded her, and the great witch that accompanied them. In the collective company, Joycelyn, despite her physical prowess and great pride, did feel small.

Her free, left hand ventured to the side of her neck, touching the row of parallel scars: Her "lessons". The ribbed sensation brought her focus; Vahl was with her.

[member="Boethiah"] @Loxa Vizl

 

[Boethiah]

Already the ship began its low descent, four metal legs sprung forth from its underbody and pressed into grass and dirt beneath. Leaving creases where it skid a short distance, digging into soft soil and dropping the ramp for passengers to depart. An audible hiss escaped the hydraulics and the cooling systems steamed from the rear where the engine had powered down.

"Come," Boethiah addressed those who came with her. Unfortunately this meant [member="Lethia Morow"] would depart the comfort of her scrap metal nest. The young witch pressed on, leaving the shelter of the ship behind and mustered on ahead towards a visible, cavernous entrance built into a small cliff within the valley. Large brith flew overhead, the majestic creatures betraying any sense of gravity or nature. Releasing a low hum which would be heard kilometers away, likely calling out to others of their kind in the distance.

Boethiah walked up to the cave's entrance, staring into the dark within. Unlike her predecessor--an Umbaran--she did not possess the natural lowlight vision which would allow her to stare into the darkness and see light. Instead she was blind, as blind as Lethia but without the means to see through the force.

This weighed heavily on the young woman's mind, as she stood idly in thought.

I should have brought a flashlight.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]

 

[Lethia Morow]

Just when she was getting comfortable.

Typical.

With an annoyed rasp and a few garbled words of complaint, Lethia slithered from her oh-so-comfortable resting spot and took her place at Boethiah's side. Claws clicked against the ground, a nervous tic of Lethia's that she could never quite get rid of.

A short walk beneath the Force-Accursed sun later, and once more she was within shelter, plunging headlong into the darkness with the sort of ease and confidence that only came fro-

Wait, why wasn't anyone else beside her?

Oh, right.

Most people couldn't see in the dark.

Well, that was awkward.

With a sort of shrieking, gurgling noise that might've been a nervous chuckle, Lethia turned on her heels to face the mouth of the cave.

"I̷f a̢ny̡ o҉f you ̛req̧u̴ire҉ ̵gui͝d͘ance͟,̡ ́I ̵would͝ ͞be ̀mor͜e͜ ́th͘aņ ͞happ̵y̶ ̛to ͞le͝ad͠ ̡t͠h́e͠ ̶w͢ay̴."

---

[member="Boethiah"]
[member="Loxa Visl"]
[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]