First Reply Black Stars of Which the Hydian Sings

[Ives]

----vibes: non-action/low power levels; mystery themes; going heavy on the "yes, and..."; horror vibes ?? can it be done ??

Telos IV
It's late into the night, but something draws interest toward a local sanctuary on New Citadel Station, maintained by a handful Disciples of the Whills. Their followers among the local community gather there regularly to listen to the Disciple's interpretation of the Force's will. To those who peer beneath the surface, a sense of unease permeates the place. It's unclear if that feeling reflects a deeper truth about the sanctuary, or merely results from an overactive imagination.
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Ives wiped the sweat from his brows with the hem of his sleeve. He'd lost track of how long he'd knelt under the artificial night sky, tending to the sanctuary gardens. He came to work at night, for one because it was the only time he had off after his shifts on Telos' surface, and for two because he could work alone. Spending twelve hours in cramped tunnels with several dozen miners made him crave these moments of silence after his shifts.

The work on the patch of candlewicks he was tending to was nearly finished. Only a couple red markers still remained, reminders about where he hadn't pulled the weeds yet, and a few more flower stems still needed trimming. Ten minutes, perhaps a few more, until he'd be done for the day and finally free to fall into his bed in the cramped space of his apartment. The soreness in his muscles had already begun to set in, and he felt the gentle gravity of exhaustion pull him toward sleep.

"Out this late, hm?"

Ives started at the sudden sound. His knife hand slipped, cutting too deep into the stalk of a candlewick. The flower's glowing petals grew faint then went out, like someone had snuffed out the small flames within. He hadn't heard anyone approach. Must have missed the footsteps from the exhaustion he felt.

"Ah, do forgive my intrusion," the man—Elder Yohlandis—spoke again. "These gardens welcome everyone. I did not mean to startle you," his voice was kindly, soothing almost. He stood there smiling, arms crossed and hidden in the folds of the red robes he wore.

Ives shuffled around to meet the Elder face to face. He tossed the broken stem onto the dirt path, and set the knife back into its sheath.

"It's fine," Ives replied. "I simply didn't expect anyone out this late."

"Neither did I," Elder Yohlandis smiled. There was something about that smile that had rubbed Ives wrong ever since he'd met the man. But the Elder had been a good soul, leading the small community that regularly gathered at the sanctuary with wisdom and grace.

"I saw you working at this late hour while I walked the gardens and simply wished to ask if there was anything you might need?" The Elder asked.

"No, I'm fine," Ives replied. "I'm almost finished. I'll be out of your hair shortly."

The Elder's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, as though some of the tension in it had faded away.

"Splendid. I won't interfer with your labour, then. May the Force guide your path," the Elder nodded, then departed. His footsteps sounded on the dirt path, growing fainter, until he disappeared into the sanctuary.

Ives felt a release of tension as he breathed out. His heart beat louder in his chest. He noted that he still held on to the knife's grip. He hadn't let go the entire time they'd talked.

 

[Darth Solipsis]

Ives
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Telos IV
Sanctuary of the Whills
Beneath the Artificial Sky




The air became dense, not from heat or pressure, but from awareness. A wrongness, quiet and yawning, seeped deep into the sanctuary gardens like mist curling along an old stone grave. The glow of the candlewick blossoms dimmed, not extinguishing, but hesitant as an unseen breeze came through, as though they too were holding their breath.

There were no footsteps, no cry of wildlife from the sanctuary's domed ceiling. Only a voice, low and close, unplaced but potent.

"So much care… for such delicate roots."

The voice was dry and aged. Neither threatening nor kind. Not echoing from above, but rather near. From the periphery, where the dirt path vanished behind climbing ivy and trellised stone, a figure emerged, not from a doorway or bend in the trail, but as if he'd always been there, simply waiting to be noticed. A man, cloaked black fabric dark and dull, like aged ash with a cowl draped low to conceal his face.

Only silence.. and presence.

He did not approach Ives directly, but wandered the edge of the candlewick garden with slow, measured steps, almost reverent in their pacing. Yet the plants closest to his path seemed to shrink, their glowing petals curling inward.

"Night tends to the most honest parts of the soul," he said softly, almost to himself. "Fatigue strips away the mask of the day. And what's left behind... is real."

He stopped beside an untouched bed of earth, kneeling down with a slow creak of fabric. A gloved hand reached out, not to tear or take, but to feel the soil. His fingertips hovered just above the surface, trembling slightly, as if in silent communion with the Force around them.

"Can you feel it in the air?"

His hood turned slightly, acknowledging Ives, though his gaze remained obscured in shadow. The male scoffed under his breath.

"All I sense is the smell of rot... carefully perfumed with prayer."

He didn't rise. He remained still, a quiet silhouette among the flowers, as if content to simply be there. An audience of one, his purpose unspoken, his body.. moving as if it was weak and injured.

"Tend your work. I will not hinder it, . I've come only to observe."

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