Ascent | The Primeval

[Blackthorne]

<<A girl must first learn to walk blind before she can see the way,>>

The High Priestess offered quietly, recounting words spoken to her by the Host Lord herself what seemed ages ago. A baleful gaze of gold looked upon her daughter and the dark companion, heavy with her own experiences of overcoming this very challenge. The lilting tone of Pacean seemed to awaken the presence of something within the cave and she felt it there, on the vestiges of her own intangible soul, the pull of an essence she'd once carried before, for as long as she could remember.

<<she will know the path,>> Loxa reached to press three forefingers at the center of Boethiah's chest, <<in here.>>

Weary of the memories that flooded her mind's eye, the Priestess gently withdrew and brushed past [member="Lethia Morow"] with an encouraging hand on the companion's shoulder. A hushed breath later she stepped forth to be swallowed whole by the gloom of the cave.

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

 

[4ND-R0]

[member="Boethiah"] | [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Warok the Defiler"] | [member="Antherion"] | [member="Loxa Visl"]

Once more the voices had called to her. Allara knew better than to ignore them now. She slowly landed her ship near the outskirts of where the gathering was taking place. Yet she was drawn to the area. The presence of other wielders of magick had made her almost gleeful in a way. Long had she been an exile, searching, seeking for belonging. She walked closer, more cautious. Her newly acquired saberstaff hung from her hip as a precaution. Just because the other sorcerers were near did not equate to her being welcome.

She instead walked near for the others to make notice of her presence within the Force, but away enough to not intrude. If there was lesson she recalled concerning the magicks, it was respect to other wielders. Thus, her movements were met to be a gesture of respect to the others there. She was but a learner being called by the spirits to go to where they beckoned. Gold eyes looked around carefully in the landscape of Dantooine. It was not as outspoken as Dathomir, but nature's voice still affected her, especially with the imprint of fresh blood still lingering and crying out in the Force.

She sat down on her knees, lightsaber placed in front her. A gesture of non threat, but yet within the reach if something intended harm to her. She closed her eyes, mediating on the emotions that fueled her. The saber raised up, telekinetically bobbing and encircling the young woman in an almost meditative pattern. In this state she would stay unless acknowledged by the others, or overlooked and let alone to journey elsewhere.

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Her fire burns like a thousand suns.

Joyce halted one step behind the Host Lord, hand instinctively shifting closer to her weapon as her brown eyes flicked left and right. She watched Lethia walk past and into the darkness. Such a creature, adapted to the moist, lightless places of this galaxy. Was that why she had no eyes? Joyce's tall form shifted uncomfortably, thinking about it. Not fear outright, but a discomfort with the uncanny, near human features, twisted and misshapen. But such were the ways of the Primeval: Twisted, strange, almost-vahlan, but not quite.

"Host-Lord, I can supply you with light should you demand it."

It was the first time she had spoken during their travel. Joycelyn's voice was straighfroward, pragmatic and unconcerned with veiling its intricacies. Her accent was peculiar, difficult to place, yet distinctly foreign. The flex of her intonation, the slight alterations of her vowels.

An ember in every heart.

She put forth her left hand and splayed the fingers. A fire, warm in its orange hue, flickering with a lingering impatience, yet strong at the core. Its light cast long shadows, but would suffice to reveal their surroundings.

"Unless you take the darkness' challenge. Then I will follow."

Her head inclined, awaiting the Host-Lord's judgement. Was Joycelyn as subservient as she seemed? Was her service a resignation to lesser station? Or did she simply see selfish purpose in aiding the rise of the Primeval? One may wonder

An ember in every soul

[member="Lethia Morow"] [member="Boethiah"] [member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Boethiah]

Boethiah heeded her mother's judgment.

"Then I will walk blind," she said with a gentle tilt of her head. A single hand brushed against Loxa's arm as she steps forward, now entering in the dark cave where the day's light slowly withered away. Her footsteps echo deep within, and returning back is a low rumble. For once the witch did hesitate, but not out of fear.

"I can... Feel it. Something sinister exists deep inside," she says to the others before continuing onward.

Dreamweaver held close to her hip, the imbued blade humming softly with reverence towards the force energies flowing around them. Boethiah's hand slides around the hilt, gripping it faintly just to feel that flow transfer to her. Awakening a familiarity in her heart and mind, and suddenly the path ahead did not seem so dark, but the unknown remained.

She did not know what lied beyond.

Not yet...

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

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Alone for some time now, Antherion was quite content to remain apart from the others. He was not yet of their congregation, nor was he a close ally of them. He felt the Dark Side keenly, yet in a different way than before. On reflection, all Dark could ever be so long as it was the 'side' was a reflection of the Light. All it would be defined by was the light, it would be a part of the imperfect whole. Here, it was more than the toxicity of flesh-rotting horror, more than the passion that comes from foes crushed underfoot. It was something alive, something complete, something vivacious.

As he stood to leave, he took a deep gulp of air, a lively smile on his face. There was power here. Power to learn, power to share. The Fanged One, the Winged One, the Three-in-One... all these names he heard in the whispers, all the blood spilled in the darkness. It would be his, in the end. Not for the sake of any God, true or false, but for the sake of himself.

He lingered for a moment, listening to the whispers the creature had told him of. Even in the most quiet moment, never was their true silence in this.

| [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Warok the Defiler"] | [member="Boethiah"] |

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

"As you wish." With a nod, Joycelyn clenched her fist and thus quenched the fire that had sprung up in her palm. Her skin felt cold in the absence of fire, but as she touched her midriff, she could feel the transcendent ember within her core. Mother Vahl was with her, wherever she went.

Mother Vahl, watch over me.

Her brown eyes closed and clenched shut as she followed the footsteps in front of her. Three steps behind the Host-Lord, Joyce listened to the hollow echoes of their steps and voices. What had Drethi told her about sensing in the dark? Reach inside, stretch out, feel. Or had she simply made another monologue about her moral superiority? It was difficult to recall. Breathe, feel. Joyce could hear more.

She could hear the creaking of stone under their feet, the stillness of stone, and she could smell the dampness, the stagnation, and the brisk stinging cold. She could not see, no. She heard, she smelled, tasted, felt. Not just tactile sensation, no, something deeper; there was a pull. As though a piece of her wished to delve deeper into the darkness.

Joycelyn stood upon the metaphorical cliff, every step hovering over the chasm. What was at its bottom? How deep would she fall? Faithful does the bantha follow its shepherd.

[member="Loxa Visl"] [member="Lethia Morow"] [member="Boethiah"]