[member="Vehanv Kiva"]
Stones were alive, hell more than alive. They held the collective memories of worlds within them, you just needed to have the knowledge to unlock it. Few held that knowledge these days, the common folk had whispered of Arkon’s power to read off the information right off an item. Touched by the Gods they had called it, psychometry for everyone else who knew what was truly happening. He had never tried to correct them though, the nobility’s curse and blessing was their status in life. A godlike appearance only worked in their favor, as long as you don’t start believing in the facade yourself. Which was more common than you’d think, which was just silly. A sign of weakness if you asked Akron, believing in your own apparitions was the first sign of decline.
Akron had built many temples on Korriban during his reign, some of them were there to hail the power of the Darkside and… others were there for other purposes. Shorn had many temples here these days, most of them had fallen in decline after Arcis’ fall though, nobody had liked the Throne-breaker. A man who broke conventions during his spare time, the Thrones were a metaphor. But a promise was a promise, and Akron held himself to his oaths. For Arcis’ support, he would erect statues and temples to worship the exploits of the Breaker of Thrones, in the meanwhile… some of those temples had secrets built into them.
As the Sith’s hand brushed the charred stone memories filled him, memories of ancient times when the stone was merely sitting amongst its brothers in the grove from which it had been excavated. To the Masons reworking the stone into a new image, more and more memories filled him in a rush of dreams and visions.
Eventually he removed his hand from the stone, leaving some of his blood there. Everything had a cost, Akron understood this better than most people. But as he blinked, regaining his vision in the present he heard something. It was a scream, which repeated itself into infinity, sentences in what seemed to be… Kiffar and yet it was different. Some ancient dialect that hadn’t been spoken for years and years to come, you might ask yourself right now how Akron knew that it was Kiffar. He wasn’t a member of their species, so was it merely plot convenience?
To this the writer would scoff in derision, there was more to this than the simple reader would realize. Akron hailed from the Sith Nobility, his blood was ancient and… well… noble, his mother almost as wise as she was malevolent had deemed her son worthy of an extensive education in almost all necessary fields. Linguistics, Science, Warfare and… other less savory dealings, Akron knew them all.
Such was the elaborate explanation nobody had been looking for.
It seemed the woman, because while the screams were primal in nature they were most definitely feminine in nature, was fairly interested in gaining the Republic’s attention or perhaps she just didn’t know any better. It was a good thing that the mighty Varanin had taken a coffee break and wasn’t perching on a Temple with one of her many sniper rifles, that… would have been fairly awkward. Few other Jedi patrolled the Valley of the Sith these days, with Carn’s departure from power the Order had taken a new direction of discretion and most importantly… caution. It wasn’t wise for fledgling Jedi to run about in a pure Nexus of Darkness.
Even Jedi Masters would have problems not becoming at least partially influenced by it’s cloud, those were the reasons for a lack of oversight in the Valley. Most of the defenses lied in the Blockade in Space, the Republic had put most of its trust in that, it didn’t prevent single infiltration but armies would be vended off that way.
But the writer digresses.
Akron followed the wails of the woman and eventually came across a woman whose skin was decorated with the sand and mud of Korriban’s wasteland or she was a Kiffar. Considering the lines she was spewing, it seemed vigilant to assume it was the later though the first would have been just a tad more amusing. Sadly, we can’t have everything in this cruel cruel world.
‘Lower thy voice, or thoust do wish to inquire the Wrath of the Republicans and their faithful lapdogs, Sister of Shadows?’ his voice deepened as it produced the throaty vocalic expressions that filled the common day Kiffar, trying to bend itself back into the archaic forms that had manifested itself ages ago.
