"I believe in Balagoth, second of Sargon, the Dead One. In his shadow, that which is corruptible shall be reclaimed."
Alone in the cockpit, the young Pantoran spent the time transiting through hyperspace as a moment to meditate on the mystery of faith. Unlike his meditations among the Jedi, here, in the dead of space, he could let down the walls that kept contained the miasma of the Dark Side that permeated his Sithspawn form. Revel in the cold and find time alone in which to commune with the gods.
The Sith could never appreciate religion. Only power.
The Jedi couldn't fathom the true practice of religion. They thought of themselves as a
Holy Order, but the Jedi were more about the act of
being Jedi than they were the mysteries of the Force. Closed-minded, they were often intimidated by such mysteries, preferring to cast the Force as something easily classified in shades of black and white.
The Primeval worshipped Sargon in all aspects of glory, the light and the dark, and the many varied shades of color that were in-between.
Secluded to one side of the cockpit section, the blue-skinned boy knelt prostrate on the grated metal floor. Between his hands was the intricate string of prayer beads which had been wrapped around his left wrist. A heavy crystal icon hung at one end, with beads of gem, ore, or bone suspended on the strand. Round and round the religious wheel went in his hands, as the mimicking the spin of the galactic disk. As each bead passed between his thumb and forefinger, it brought the child's devotion to another rote prayer.
"I believe in Halrormalenth, third of Sargon, the Broken Creator. His voice is the evidence of things seen and unseen."
The bead passed through the fingers. The string drawn taut, as a larger piece of bone arrived next at his fingertips.
"The first mystery is the mystery of faith," the boy whispered, head bowed as he uttered,
"I believe in the Primeval, the Host Lord, and the words of the Prophet. I wait for the Reclamation, when the stars shall give up their dead and all things will be re-made."
Three links of chain, followed by a star sapphire.
"Hail Nogras, full of light. Blessed are you among Creation and blessed is the light of your stars. Holy Starmaker, light the way for we who dwell in darkness, now and at the hour of our death." A pause, in which the youngling made a gesture symbolic of genuflecting toward one's gods. Then again.
"Hail Nogras, full of light. Blessed are you among Creation..."
The child paused. He felt a tremor, but not through the Force.
This was physical. The indication that the hyperdrive was going off-line. The ship was reverting back to normal space.
Above where the youngling lay, prostrating himself, the mottled sea of hyperspace shifted. The tunnels of color began muted shades of gray, until there was only pure white. The white separated into strands, revealing a black backdrop. The stands became pearls. Solitary points of light against the familiar darkness of space. Worlds. Moons. Asteroids. All suspended against the heavens.
They had arrived at the Chandrila System.
The boy had sent a message to [member="Théodred Heavenshield"] shortly before the
Equinox had made the jump to lightspeed, including in it the snippet of a distress call that had caused him to investigate what might be happening on the world below.
Doubtless Ser Scruffy would come to the same conclusion that Boo had.
People were in trouble. Someone had to help.
