Casting Stones (LAA, LS)

[Zak Dymo]

The shape of a Seinar Systems Star Courier cut a distinctive silhouette against the backdrop of stars.

What was perhaps even more distinctive was the fact that, for the first time, the ship wasn't flying under a false transponder. As the transport drifted into the Kalos System, it was openly transmitting the colors of the Primeval. Inside the shapely vessel, the sole occupant and passenger wasn't certain if he felt naked or proud for that fact. As frequently as he traversed space controlled by Jedi and their allies, he'd grown complacent in putting forth the image of the ship being the Moldy Mynock, a Republic registered transport out of Denon. Or the more neutral Pearl of Yavin out of Lothal.

It wasn't. It was the Equinox, out of Bastion. An Imperial world, enslaved under the rule of the Host Lord.

A world which had, quite recently, celebrated its enlightenment into the ancient of religions with the sacrifice of angels. Jedi, executed before an audience of Force witches and Sith. Because so had the Prophet declared, and so should it be.

So it had been.

Suffice to say, the practice of their religion had not endeared the adherents to the vast majority of their neighbors. Their worship of the Dead One, Balagoth, was premised on change. Dynamic, invasive, violent when it had to be. Such worship invariably drew the believer to the Dark Side of the Force. It was an agent of change, as they were.

The Levantines had so far proven to be a rather neutral relation in the galaxy. They neither outright opposed, nor offered supportive toward, the expansion of the Primeval. This was commendable, for the fact that the Levantine Sanctum was directly south of the territory now under the theocratic rule of the Host Lord. So they were neighbors. And, as such, it would only be polite for the Primeval to act toward in a neighborly fashion.

Rising from off of the cushioned bench in the upper lounge, the azure-hued youth made his way to the front of the cockpit. There was no pilot, instead the chair for a singular operator was vacant. An R3-series astromech was plugged into the side of the bridge, operating the craft through automation made possible by a series of synchronized droid brains. The Equinox wasn't designed to be flown, it was intended to be ridden. To enjoy the ride. Leaning forward over the empty controls, the boy's amber eyes gazed out of the forward viewport to get his first glimpse of his new assignment.

Lakia. The capital of the Levantine Sanctum. Hidden against the clouds of the atmosphere was an orbital platform housing the Astronautical Academy.

As assignments went, he could have arguably done far worse than enrollment in a Levantine school. He'd have preferred to wait until the Imperial Academy on Bastion had been properly restructured with a course catalog that properly addressed Primeval doctrine... but he hadn't been consulted on that point. Nor did he expect to be. His roll in all of this was as expected. That is, he did what he was told. And if that meant being a light unto the dark places...

Reaching up a hand, the young Pantoran pulled a religious chain out from under his shirt. His thumb caressed the stone set in the suspended icon, as he silently mouthed a prayer.

His supplications continued while the ship journeyed on, even when they had arrived in the air space around Oswaft Station and the R3 unit had turned over control to the port control officers who directed traffic in and out of the flight paths surrounding the station. One by one, the boy passed a bead on the chain through his thumb and finger. Each representing something different. A prayer to Balagoth. A meditation on Halrormalenth. A supplication to Nogras.

The last bead passed through his hand as the landing struts touched down against the deck of the docking bay into which the Star Courier had been berthed.

Which, he hoped the Bleeding Sun was flipping the bill for that. If the port fees were coming out of his winnings from the race on Ravelin, he was going to be slightly miffed by that. Would he be able to do anything about it? Of course not. But he'd tithed with the winnings of course, and then donated the expected amount to an orphanage on Mirial, and understood that the remainder ought to be used to advance the progress of the faith...

...but that new turbothruster for the swoop was not going to buy itself...

He supposed he'd pray about it. Well, he'd definitely pray about it. And whatever the Prophet willed would be done for it so... it was what it was.

The gods and the Prophet answered prayers. And sometimes the answer was 'no'.

Other times, the answer was 'go to school'. Such as now.

Sliding down the ladder which connected the upper and lower sections of the rear 'bulb' of the Star Courier, the blue-skinned youth hit the refresher and then popped the aft hatch.

Here's one small step for Primeval, one giant leap for student loans...

As the purple-haired boy's boot landed onto the deck of the docking bay, his amber eyes explored the surroundings as he tried to orient himself and get his bearings.

He needed to confirm his enrollment or report in with admissions, and there was something about a uniform. Which, he supposed he'd need to get fitted for one of those as well.

Gods, he hoped it wasn't blue...

 

[Zak Dymo]

It was blue.

Of course it was.

Holding up his arm, the Pantoran's amber eyes gazed with thinly veiled contempt for the navy fabric which was made even more pronounced by the boy's skin tone. The silver stitching on the shoulders wasn't horrible, but the broad, solid green striping on the sleeve didn't help to bring any of this together. With the bold, yellow tattoos on his face and the golden eyes, this was a color coordination disaster. "-tt-" the boy uttered, a click of his tongue betraying his contempt for the uniform already. And he wasn't even wearing the whole thing yet.

Standing on an elevated platform, the azure skinned youth was draped in fabric and material that was being measured and hemmed to his slight frame. With aliens coming to the Academy from across the different factions and sectors of the galaxy, nothing was really off-the-rack. It made the way that the uniform fit at least seem right. The shape of the uniform was decent enough. It was at least tailored well.

A little too well. These trousers were way too tight for the boy's taste. He wouldn't be practicing Teras Kasi in these, not unless he wanted to split the back of the seat.

Reaching up, the seamstress puled the boy's arm back down by his side as she continued her labors at fitting the uniform to him. The boy glanced down at the top of the woman's head, before raising his head up to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Holy kark... this was a whole lot of blue going on.

At the same time, it was strange to see himself in a uniform of any kind. The Primeval had a uniform armor for combat, but they didn't exactly dress in an organized fashion. Even the armor wasn't exactly compulsory, though it was well equipped. The cohesiveness and unity that was to be found in the ranks of the Host Lord did not lie in any material or physical form. It was in the beliefs they shared.

As the seamstress began the finishing touches on the suit, the boy idly wondered what to expect next, when he went to register for his courses.