Public Beneath the Dirt

[Amos]

"Loyalty earned in battle outlasts any oath sworn in a throne room."
-Darth Maglus​

Alrdaig IV - Outter Atmosphere
Shinma

Amos' face remained a placid mask as they went hurtling through the upper reaches of the atmosphere.

Fire gripped the edges of their ship, turning the hue of metal around the canopy to a deep red. The sky around them burned, clouds falling away even as the rain fell in droves. Scattered droplets cast over the hull of their vessel, a loud hiss echoing out even as they fell from the sky. Their ship sailed further and further down towards the service of the planet, never budging from it's path.

Beneath them the lands lay a deep and verdant green, only the mountains ahead sitting somewhat bared. Long ago stripped for their resources by elements now gone.

Upon the hillside Amos could make out the barest shape, a small structure of steel and duracrete. Ancient and overgrown, it stood upon the mountain as a remnant of a thousand years gone by. An Empire long gone had built this structure, forgotten in ages past and left behind by battles fought in ages hardly recorded within the histories. That was why they were here, why they had come to this backwater world.

A memory of a remnant.

Alarms would blare upon the control system of this world, but neither Amos nor his companion would care.

"There." The Kiffari said, reaching out to point towards a section of the mountainside near the building nearly overrun. Within the barest span of earth, there was a space devoid of foliage. It would save them a hike, if only a small one.

 

[Tameon Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Pristine forest. Picturesque countryside. Morning mist pouring between trees, as ephemeral as they were emerald; petrified wood, agate, and yellow and black with maggots and flies; jade mosses and lichen, brightened by sunshine, beyond the darkest marshes. The entire world was a gemstone; glittering green one moment—only to be broken the next.

If there was a poem in there somewhere then it was lost to time, bereft of a singular figure who traversed this verdant woodland. He had a purpose in mind, yet his gait was aimless. Brush crunched beneath his feet, shoulders brushed past branches, each and every step in one direction and the next. Tree canopy over head, then the welkin, sunlight beating down on the crown.

Boundless. Ships sailed, white as snow, drifting across the blue sea that mirrored this green earth. Clouds crawled across the sky, only to become grey ash, as ashen eyes watched them. Their embers were long lost, extinguished like a moth to a flame. Distinguished otherwise: draconic irises; golden, crimson—fit for a Sith Knight.

Rain. He smelled it first. Or did he hear it? Feel it? He closed his eyes at that moment, standing behind a towering sentry proudly proclaiming itself a tree within a sea of green. “A storm is coming…” He whispered to nobody in particular as a breeze tickled his features. Hair rippled, silver as moonlight on a dark night, though his heart was firelight. “...My lord…”

When he opened his eyes, Tameon glimpsed an object in the distance, honest as his fists. It was a pinprick at first, like droplets, burning bright, but by the time he recognized its bursts there was fire in the sky. And a ship comes with it.

Straightening the collar of his black leather jacket, the son of Sylverian stood still as a statue, quite like the wooden sentinels that flanked him. Birds flew, flapping wings frantically between trees, and critters scurried beneath, and alarms blared, but Tameon Sylverian did not care.

Standing not far from a clearing, the Black Knight licked rain from his lips, closed and opened his eyes, and gazed upon the vessel that was nearing the emerald amid scarlet and sable. Perhaps their visit was born in darkness, like his. And perhaps my life is a fable.

Amos

 

[Shinma]

Alrdaig IV - Forests & Morning Rain

The ship Amos and Shinma rode violently shook. Shinma sat at the controls with face pointed toward the transparisteel viewport before the two Sith. Alarms blared around the pair. Huttese words flooded the air from the flight controls. A pop echoed out from behind Amos as an electrical panel blew some fuses.

To the eyes of Tameon Sylverian , the ship Amos and Shinma rode on would appear old and busted. It obviously carried the rust and dents of decades of abuse - maybe even a century - with the ship clearly on its last legs.

Shinma guided the ship toward the clearing near the ancient ruins of interest. The ship lurched forth and made its final approach until it came to a rough landing.

THUD!

The ship hissed. Shinma's body shook from the sudden deceleration. Alarms continued to beep around the two Sith as the old junker of a ship powered down. Despite the ship being old, the clumsy landing still betrayed Shinma in revealing the Sith's pedestrian skills in piloting.

"We'll need to acquire a real pilot if we're to make more trips to these remote planets," Shinma told Amos.

Shinma then stood up and began to make way to the landing ramp - which slowly lowered and extended itself to the ground.

"Remind me what we came here for," Shinma asked of Amos.

 

[Amos]

Alrdaig IV - Forests & Morning Rain
Shinma | Tameon Sylverian

Amos grunted in response to his companion. The last pilot he'd 'acquired' had been turned into piles of scrap after an outburst of rage. An consequence of which being that Hedda had refused to supply him another.

Perhaps they would simply have to take someone who could do it for them.

The pieces he had since collected pointed their way here. Long ago this place had created some sort of contraption for the Empire, a walker he'd been told. Great numbers of the things had been made here. But it was not the factory that interested them, rather what lay deep beneath it. "There's a vault beneath the facility."

The words came as they stepped out into the rain. Pelting droplets sweeping down from the sky as they began to make their way through the forest and towards the distant foundry.

"It holds the remnants of some Imperial Cult." Inquisitors, they had been called, though Amos had already forgotten that detail. They had apparently been a group of Jedi hunters, tasked with tracing the whereabouts of the light and wiping it out in a time when Sith dominated the galaxy. The vault contained some of what they had looted from their casualties.

Apparently the factory had been some sort of cover.

As they walked further through the forest, the facility ahead came slowly into view. Steel overgrown with vines and trees, slowly beginning to be reclaimed by the mountainside.

 

[Tameon Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC (Recurring)

What began as a dot, little more than a rock high in the sky the size of an eye, rocked its way out from the clouds and became a flame to light the rain. The vessel all but roared and trembled, curving and careening toward the land. Wind ripped reminiscent of a hurricane. It was as if the cosmos had coughed out this ship from the stars to choke the clouds as it arced its way down to become a stone’s throw away.

Branches cracked, but not from the ship—from him. He walked across the sticks and rocks and watched the ship as it dropped. It came toward him, or seemed to, as it soared forth toward that space devoid of foliage. He followed, quiet as snow, but it was rain that fell upon the ground and gave him silence. He had no need of the Force to make no noise as he reached a low ledge.

Beneath his feet, beyond the steep hill of dirt and tree, there that rock had come to greet the earth. From this distance, he couldn’t spy finer details amid the droplets that veiled the scene, but the ship appeared to be busted and beaten. A rust bucket. Though, he wasn’t one to judge it. Instead, he decided it was time to get on with it.

Down the mud hill, out from behind the trees, hilt tucked away beneath his attire for the moment, fingertips having no need to ignite fire that instant. He reached the ship, curving a lone finger across its cold hull, but sensed no presence within it. That was his key to get in for some exploring. Yet something else caught his attention with a different story to tell. Footprints. It was a good hint.

And more. He sensed a presence in the Force. Perhaps it's my sister. He joked. Or the ghost of an inquisitor. So Tameon Sylverian took those lone fingers to pull silver strands of hair back that had matted to his face by the rain and, as the dragon would dare, he walked onward and followed the fire in his veins—come hell or high water.

Amos
Shinma