Eidolon Stirs

[Isar]

Frigid wastes and frozen mountains kept sleeping horrors beneath the surface. Long they had slumbered, carefully preserved in cold's spindly-fingered clutch. Above them, the ground rustled with living thing blissfully unaware of what lay beneath.

Snow crunched under cloth-wrapped feet as an ewok shuffled off a shuttle and onto the surface of Ziost. A native of Endor, these chill climes afflicted him little. And not for the first time did he trudge up the path to the palatial residence of the planet's ruler.

Whispers plagued him on the causeway. Voices on the wind. He shivered. Gauntleted paws clenched reflexively. Mumbles and murmurs of vile urges. Savage imagery pushed against his senses. Foreign sensations made familiar once again. They pushed him, prodded him.

He left them behind at the gates, but he could hear them clamoring to be let in.

"All in my head. Only in my head. Alone."

He shook himself to be rid of the snow, nodded to one of the Primeval guards, and strode to meet his three o'clock.

[member="Vaulkhar"] | [member="Elijah Rekali"]

 

[Hira Mitsae]

[member="Warok the Defiler"] | [member="Vaulkhar"]

Elijah stepped out of the transport. The snow crunched under the pressure of his boots, crunch, crunch, crunch - it was like pretty music, an ostinato playing persistently in the background of the scene. Perhaps it was an omen of what was to come, the oversoul itself whispering to him with each and every step... how curious. The cold did not touch him at all. His trusted beskar'gam protected him from most environmental hazards: a body glove insulated him and internal temperature regulators doing the rest. It was a strange day to walk beside a Sith Lord Ewok, to meet with a dignitary of the Primeval, a Warlord.

But the Primeval was in chaos, these days. The Host Lord was dead, her legions in shambles and every Warlord was fighting on his own. Vaulkhar would have no help from the others, they were far too busy holding onto their own little, petty worlds.

No, today was the day.

His hand went to the holstered revolver. Beskar finish around the grip... perfect weight to break a skull, just perfect. Eli brushed the grip, gingerly, carefully, one of the few little rituals he attended to right before a battle was to come. The Ewok and the Mandalorian had seen enough battle together to know their combined strengths and weaknesses. This would be a glorious thing.

 

[Isar]

"A bow drawn too early weakens arm and aim."

Warok glanced sidelong at Rekali's trigger-happy fingers, which were a hand-span or two higher than his own head. Fuzzy brown ears that poked out just above his traditional headdress twitched wildly.

"Or so my people say."

Eyes black as tar pits returned to the frozen interior of the palace. They were admitted through more gates by guards whose size and species varied from terrifying to nightmarishly gargantuan. A consequence of the Primeval's recruitment goals no doubt. So long as the sleeping spirits stayed behind, Warok cared little for what lay ahead. A young humanoid whose winding words carried from a forked tongue and lay whispering kisses on all the right ears, or so he had been told. Those who cared little for the newborn serpent walked to their own deaths. More poisonous than adults, and far more unpredictable were men such as [member=Vaulkhar]. Warok wondered if he would even deign to show for this contest. This kaggath of wills, as the Sith might call it.

A reason for Warok to hire reliable and unscrupulous backup.

"What words do your wisemen speak?"

[member="Elijah Rekali"]

 

[Hira Mitsae]

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

Internal speakers fizzled and finally sounded, more static or so it seemed. In reality it was Elijah having a good laugh at the question posed by his Ewok companion.

"When an enemy is down... shoot him four more times, to ensure his complete cooperation." the digitalized print of his voice left a lot to interpretation. Difficult to gauge emotion, depth and tone when the voice was filtered through numerous channels before being broadcasted on the external audio feeds. But such was the way of the Mandalorians - or at least some of them, their armor was their life, their life their armor.

Few situations called for leaving that armor behind.

"As you might suspect my people have little use for spiritual inclinations or wisdom sayings."

That wasn't completely true. The Mandalorians of old had been highly spiritual. The Manda had ruled supreme, but those were the old days. Before the decline of galactic civilization, before the Gulag plague had swept through the Galaxy and caused general uphevel throughout known society. Some might still hold to the old ways, but few of them had the respect of the warriors, even fewer were still heard in the halls of the Alors.

But Eli's hand left the grip of the revolver, for now. It had simply been a little ritual of his - for luck in the coming battle.