PROPHET MOTIVE
Location — Voss-Ka, Voss
Objective — Objective one: Implied Odds
Tags —
Drego Ruus
//
Darth Strosius
Naamino Zuukamano
Paraphernalia — Battle Armour, Lightsabers
Prelude . . .
Ashla, Bogan, the Weave. . . all names--views of a single entity weaving the threads of fate into elaborate tapestries. Some depicting the past, whereas others painted vivid futures of both prosperity and
doom. Their song written, but unsung, with only time to unravel its meaning.
Or... not? For a scarce number of individuals were blessed with a gift, or a curse, to glimpse at these prophetic embroideries before its colours bled the landscape and skies. These
gifted force-users were akin to scattered stars on a clear night--far apart and separated in all but their torment. Night and day, premonitions of the future flooded their rest and sanity, until one could do naught but drown in the abyss of future past.
Whilst some met their demise in the endless sea, others adapted, forged their tradition and identity from what others saw as scars or bad omens. They stood vigil as the tapestry was woven, as the sheet of music was refined, awaiting their destinies with unspoken acceptance.
The Voss. A name, a culture, that had appeared countless times in the archives, with comments as divisive as their reputation. A handful of Jedi declared these mystics corrupted, authoritarian,
no better than their Sith counterparts. Whereas others voiced praise on their understanding of
visions, and the techniques that shadowed their pursuit. And though the Force wove a single tapestry--a single future, a single truth--its interpreters were spun of a plethora of views and opinions. The truth a distant illusion beneath shadowed words.
Time passed akin to a blur, Isobel could no longer recall how long it had been since her first plea to the mystics--She had begged them to teach her their ways, to ease the burden that taunted her dreams, to aid her in accepting the gift she had carried since her youth. Yet they had turned her backs on her. Even when she attempted bringing them gifts, when she ventured into the
Nightmare Lands and battled its tormented souls, they remained
silent. Were her wounds not proof enough of her mettle? To keep fighting even when the bandages jammed her hands, her blood.
The holocrons spoke truth, the mystics would not accept one feigning their ways, dismissing their view of the Force--or lack thereof. Until fate itself accepted her call for guidance, until two mystics stood over her bedroll on a misty morn. Their silence spoke, their eyes glittering with a thousand answers, most of all,
acceptance.
The Force had willed it.
Present . . .
The cold was but a distant idea, a thought that could be dismissed, even as her body shivered as she waded in the waters of the
Shrine of Healing. The quieted sound of its ripples, of that faint movement within its currents, was meant to stabilise her--to centre her thoughts on the mind and soul. Only through inner peace would one be the traveller in the void, only through their serenity would their lantern shine a light upon what is to come.
Through this acceptance, one would embrace fate itself. For no matter how desperate one may be to outrun their destiny. It would endure.
With controlled breaths and an empty mind, the blank canvas unfolded in countless subjects, yet each a part of the same tale. Her eye was drawn first to a white raven, and its focus distorted the painting... Withered flowers began to bloom across the cloth. Her premonitions provided only a fleeting glimpse, and before she might tie the two events to one another, a sudden rumbling stirred the waters and tore her from her trance. The Force rippled with an overwhelming hollowness, as if its rot was devouring its core with each second.
The dark side.
The planet had felt balanced before, yet one side now pulled its weight down significantly in the seconds--
or hours, if not days--Isobel had been meditating. Even an act so simple as breathing the air felt burdened under the rot the dark side left in its wake. She hastily pushed herself upright and reached for the white-and-gold armour she was miraculously gifted weeks prior. Were the Voss to explain this 'blessing', they would call it
fate. And in all her time with these peculiar mystics, she knew one thing: fate was not to be questioned; it simply was. Still, the sliver of doubt resonated among the rumbling of the temple, an unspoken query of why
Lysander von Ascania
had done all of this for her.... and how he had acquired these materials and designs.
Before she knew it she traversing the worn paths of the grasslands toward the clouds of ash and smoke in the south-east...
Voss-Ka was under attack.
The speeder-bike came to a halt at the tree-line near the
Tower of Prophecy. Her Force signature remained unconcealed, a likely second indication that she was near. And yet, it was not that which troubled her. It was the sight her mask's binoculars revealed: unconscious Voss, handled like nothing more than sacks of flour by these
monsters. And though she would not lower herself to feelings of rage, something still stirred within her heart... A restless impulse that so often forced her hand toward recklessness. A childish trait, one that refused to be silenced.
Isobel stepped from the tree line, her hand subconsciously resting on the aurodium-lined dual sabers holstered at her sides. Her breaths came sharp and quick, modulated through the rebreather within her mask, as she gazed upon the towering, armoured figures ahead. A few steps closer--a fair distance still between them--she called out toward them, her voice frail but loud enough to note.
"They shall not grant you their secrets, unless destiny demands it." A flawed interpretation of the ambiguity the Voss lived in, yet it was all her mind could conjure up.
"What I mean to-... Let them go, please." Did she truly say that?
Ronhar Tane
(Opposition)
