Flesh Premonition

[Vulthoom]

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F L E S H P R E M O N I T I O N ​

Uribin - Nagath, The Inverted Spire, Hall of The Scryer...​

Darth Balzul waded through the crimson pool, his fingertips trailing across it's surface with each slow and steady stride. Every now and then, as his hips cut through the liquid, droplets would rise form the pool and orbit the tall being's extremities. Yellow spires of glass jut from the finely hewn walls, illuminating the oval shaped room. Huge emaciated forms of a golden metal lined the room's perimeter as pillars of seemingly unwilling support; their faces were twisted with torment, the reflection of the red pool upon their visage made their anguish almost tangible.

Between the golden effigies, feminine figures draped in loose, revealing black robes stood with their arms outstretched. Their bare skin showing the ridges of a Pau'an and the red ceremonial paint that decorated every inch of exposed flesh in the room. Their eyes were obscured by large golden plates with wisps of flowing red cloth dancing about their heads as if unaffected by gravity. Their lips parted in unison as their Ur, Darth Balzul, slowly rose from the pool with each step forward- a vile chorus drowned out the sound of disturbed liquid...

Small pools formed around the Sith Lord's bare feet as the fluids of the ceremonial bath rushed from his skin in a bout with gravity. Three females approached, on either side of Balzul they carried a bright red garb which they wrapped his form in delicately. Each subject bowed her head as she handed over the garments, then took a single step back into a deep bow. The one standing before Ur-Vulthoom placed a mask similar to her own upon his head, then carefully draped loose cloth from his shoulders atop the large horns protruding from the mask. As she finished, she trailed her hands down the rough surface of his face plate, when her fingertips touched his skin a wide grin spread across the formerly neutral face. Her hands trembled as they retracted and she quickly swung back into a formal bow.

"He is here," his utterance caused the horrid melody to cease immediately.

"Yes," the female nearly hissed before a sigh trembled from her lips. "Darth Il, he arrived not long ago- I have escorted him to the appointed chamber of sacrifice. Also, my Ur, the slave has been prepared and placed within the altar... The Human male has been stripped of the Force and conditioned in accordance with your specificates. He has been broken, for you, my Ur." She stretched an arm toward the massive archway behind her as she spoke.

"Your motion pleases me." Darth Balzul marched past his servant and through the great archway, which opened up into a chamber of seven doors. He stepped with ease through the halls of the Spire, his long red robes gliding across the polished floors behind him in a serpentine fashion. He could almost hear the screams of the Sith they had bound and broken, though the slave stood silently before their guest, the radioactive yellow of his eyes darting around in every direction... A terrible anticipation splayed upon the slave's face.

It was on this night that the flesh of the unwilling would speak of the future, and the words that would come were sure to carry the weight of change...

[member="Sintel Kay"]​

 

[Ras'kala'han]

URIBIN || HALL OF THE SCRYER​

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In his leafing through maps and long examinations of holographic globes in the dark seclusion of his chambers, and his leafing through yellowed manuscripts from centuries gone by, Il happened on an interesting tidbit of history: the first capital city of Uribin, long before the damnation, before the scourging, was built with the stars in mind - apparently, its founder spent forty days wandering aimless in the wilderness, marking constellations seen by only her naked eye, before scoring a single stone with her lightsaber and naming it the place where her great temple would be built. It was, of course, by no coincidence that it rested on the planet's uppermost magnetic pole. The cornerstone of Sith architecture had never been its striking, sloping angles, nor its audacious imposition of will over the landscape, but always auspicious geometry.

That great city, of course, was now nothing but dust, ground so that not even one stone stands on another. Yet beneath its ruins, in perfect alignment with the stars that no longer hang in the sky, bereft of all but its own direction, there is the spire, the tower of the nameless reaching downwards above a lake of acid. And at the center of the spire, there is the last vision of what the Galaxy might once have looked like for the depraved, exiled people. The chamber, approached by seven hallways, consisted of a simple, yet elegant altar in the center of three concentric, circular depressions in the ground. The whole of the chamber was dark and polished, giving the appearance that all those in it were gliding on the night sky itself, the whole of it lit with insistent, floating motes - stars, stars in the world set right. The world as it should be - and the world as they might have it, a hope that Darth Il recently felt stirring within him, one he had for a long time forbade himself from feeling.

"Follow, my lord." said one of the stewards, robed in the gauzy, ceremonial accouterments so typical of the nobility's toys. In a largely featureless, red-lit chamber, his forehead was anointed with a touch of oil by the blue-skinned alien, and a censer used to purify the air around him. Such were the customs that held sway, even here at the heart of his power, one of many things beyond his control. He saw no point, yet had no desire to take from these people what little control they had - everything had already been taken for them.

Bound at the center, broken, silent, was the Sith. This, he had handpicked for Balzul. It was not a choice he made likely - what misery pervaded the city calcified it, intertwined it, such that removing one element set off a cascade of chain reactions, and he needed to use a delicate touch. In this case, the man was brash, hated, embroiled in scandal - once powerful, yet with a clear heir in position, so no vacuum would erupt. He would not be missed, and his disappearance would go unmarked by curiosity: such was common, that was the way it was in Nagath, the Dark Jewel of Uribin: when weakness fell over a Lord, they would be spirited by assassins to the pleasure halls of their hosts, where they would be made use of - subject to the last cruelties before the mood for death overtook their captors. The assumption that he suffered exquisitely would give satisfaction to the rivals of this human, a being that once had a name and future, but no longer.

And the assumption would be correct. "Where is the Ur?"

"He is readying himself, my lord. He asks that you await him here."

"Very well. Leave me, then." Then, when the cleric found the black-robed, skeletal alien awaiting him, he raised his finger towards the man, speaking in rasping whisper. "I have provided the best stock of sacrifice you, or anyone, could ask for - and I am putting faith in you that the rumors you have cultivated all about yourself are true. For your sake, they best be so. We have but one question that we need answer.

"Is there a way out?"

[member="Vulthoom"]​

 

[Vulthoom]

The parting of the great black doors let a flood of red light cast it's eerie glow upon the Ur, a resounding clap echoed throughout the chamber and the sound caused the beings standing silently between each door to stir. They took a single step forward and raised their curled fingers toward the domed ceiling. Darth Balzul strode in confidently and stopped abruptly beside the lanky Givin. The slave upon the altar struggled to get a glimpse of the Sith Lord, the bindings were so tight that any movement caused the stone to dig into his flesh. His heavy breathing and grunts of pain brought a smirk to the Ancient's exposed lips.

"Rest your suspicions and doubts, for the flesh sings- it sings for you, my lord." His words were poison, beings lesser than Il might even say they were intoxicating- the other Pau'an in the room promptly covered the sides of their heads with open hands and sank back into the shadows of the perimeter. Black wisps of smoke rose from the small fissures in the Ur's mask, he still did not yet face Darth Il, but instead still faced the soon-to-be source of his oracular proclamations.

"The flesh has shown me much, guided my hand in such a manner... That I stand here, as lord of these halls... This spire..." The lord's words trailed off to bared teeth and a look of disgust. "These halls of oppression, a pitiful existence."

Finally, slowly, his head turned to address his important guest directly, his tone changed almost entirely, "Darth Il, you have my utmost gratitude- this specimen is truly a gift." His head tilted ever so slightly.

The question proposed by the Givin caused Balzul's lips to retract into a jarringly wide grin.

"That remains to be seen," he took a step towards the altar and motioned for his cohort to follow, "let us find out..."

His muscles tensed as he struggled against the brutal bindings, the viciousness of his eyes accented the bulging vein in his forehead. With one swift motion, those viscous eyes split horizontally. A scream, a terrible scream of torment blared. His lenses rose slowly from the gelatinous substance that now poured over the slaves face. They hovered before the cleric, orbiting his clawed fingertips as he poked and prodded at the gravity defying spheres. A chill of excitement ran down the Ur's spine when he revealed the dagger of ancient Sith design.

There was a small smear of liquid along the blade, presumably from where it sliced through the corneas of the sacrifice, that caught the chamber's light in such a way that it reflected directly into the black ocular pits of the Givin.

"Share my sight, as I defile this wretched being- share my mind, as I rive the muscle and split the bone- share my understanding, as I recite the premonitions of this flesh."

He plunged his dagger into the sternum, split the bone with a loud pop, rived the flesh, tore the heart, and opened the bloodied tome of prophecy.

The screaming and wailing was drowned from reality as the strange powers of the prophet began to incite a vision within Darth Il's mind. The heart hovered above the Ur with three final beats, the lungs flayed and opened to reveal the eight blackened stains of corruption and disease, the intestine slid from it's visceral home to hang freely and expose the rapidly growing tumors upon it's length- each organ quivered as the haruspex traced his claws across their surface.

"Her name is Ruin and she brings that which you desire," the monotonous voice of the Ur broke the visions and revealed him to be standing atop the altar, the organs rotating slowly in a circuit around Darth Balzul. The dagger dropped to the ground but made no noise.

All was silent.

"What did you see?"

[member="Sintel Kay"]​

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Darth Il had drawn closer to their victim as the ritual proceeded, his lightsaber ready in his sleeve at a moment's notice - he seldom had trafficked with this one before his rise, yet now it seemed not three days could go by without him being faced with the creature, always masked, always bearing its fangs - and he had no trust in him. He gazed into the flesh, watch it rupture, listen to the acoustic perfection of the chamber fill the air with screams to excess, each echo seamlessly building on each other, yet caught no glimpse of any mysteries as taloned fingers plumbed the depths of the unlucky once-Sith's innards.

Then, a flash of light blinded him for a moment - a deft maneuver of the dagger - and Il stumbled briefly backwards, ready to summon his blade to his hand, perception sharpened for a strike in his moment of vulnerability, fully on guard for treachery. Yet no treachery, only a velvet-voiced invitation to share his sight. There was no need for invitation however, as unbidden, the Sith's mind was flooded with a sea of images. Stock still, the organs unfolded around him at the Ur's telekinetic bidding, and he pressed his thin lips together while letting the waves of foresight come into clarity.

"What did you see?" For a few seconds, he was silent.

Inhaling, the Lord summoned his composure, brushing off his robes with clawed hands. "Many things, Lord Balzul. A dark messenger, a child of the Force. A world caught in the tides of space, doomed by its crashing waves... we could look for a hundred years and never find what we're looking for, but if we only wait it will come straight to us.

"Though more than that, I saw a confirmation. Of my suspicions. Of our place in this world and the other. There is going to be a great change upon us soon, perhaps greater than the one that the fools who damned us here faced. And we won't make their mistakes.

"Their Galaxy is about to be put to the test. By us. And we will be the ones to judge its worth - do you understand?"

[member="Vulthoom"]​

 

[Vulthoom]

The metallic, plated boots made not a sound when they shifted from the altar to the floor at the bounce of the masked Sith. His slender, platinized hands disappeared beneath his dusty, red robes as they clasped one another before his midsection.

"As if the words were my own," he responded in a hushed voice. His typical grin was absent as he contemplated the meaning of this peculiar revelation. He felt anxious, the opportunity to expand his power was undeniable, but the cost of his paradise to the whims of fate was an inevitability that would come to a fetid fruition. The Ur's lips parted with a slow sigh of satisfaction, his grin returned.

He inhaled deeply and let his hands fall slowly to his sides, his palms faced forward to reveal a set of strange spheres embedded into his palms. They appeared to resemble eyes, darting back and forth, stopping for only a fraction of a second as the pupils retract and expand on various places within the chamber. They did not appear to be organic, but held a fine aesthetic somewhere between technological and mystical.

"I haven't betrayed your expectations, Lord Il?" His fingers bent, one by one to stow the Eyes and return to one another beneath his robes. The Ur bowed his head respectfully toward the other Sith Lord.

[member="Sintel Kay"]​

 

[Ras'kala'han]

"No - you exceeded them." The Givin touched the clasp of his cloak, keeping straight. His empty eyes betrayed none of his curiosity; the clan of Cegoroth-Ur-Ic was full of mysticism and secrecy, and they kept their cards close to their chest. Not even his keen sight could tell which parts of their strange custom were simply ceremony and pomp, and which fueled their famous sorceries, and this was doubtlessly by their design. They were a mystery, an unknown element, and even in absence of this seeming loyalty, he would do whatever was necessary to keep them close.

Variables. All was equations, and variables, and as the unknowns disappeared one by one, eventually only a single possibility would remain. Now, the resolution seemed to come closer each day, in leaps and bounds. "We must prepare, immediately, and as a whole. Every clan, every city-state will need to cooperate, pushed forward by one will. I have been willing to lead by suggestion, but Uribin must be of one purpose. Otherwise, the coming battles are certain to destroy us.

"Those that don't answer to us directly must surrender immediately or be killed and replaced with those who will. Radical elements must be purged with extreme prejudice. This will be a silent coup, the first shots of the new age of conflict for our people.

"Consider this a reward for your augury, and a sign of our singular purpose." Gesturing beckoningly, a humanoid figure - one of his aides, adorned in concealing, black wrappings, a Shadow Assassin - stepped out of the shadows, presenting the Ur with a polished, ornate box. Flicking open the hinge, the supplicant Sith would, on one bent knee, present to the Pau'an a single, silvery ingot of cortosis - reclaimed from the melted down war-shield of their victim, pried from his estate along with him. "What form would you wish it rendered into, to best serve you in ending life?"

[member="Vulthoom"]​

 

[Vulthoom]

The sight of the elongated ingot elated the Pau'an, as was evident by the Ur's ever growing grin. His fingers clacked against one another as an object seemed to sink from the dark abyss above them. It was long and somber with jagged protrusion flanged from it's crown and deep crimson leather wrapped crudely around the end of it's shaft. The Ur laid his hand flat in front of his midsection, the wicked mace settled to rest within his grasp.

"This, this is Wraith's Maul," he said enthusiastically, suddenly growing more animated now in the presence of his beloved. He fingers danced across the weapon's haft until they tapped melodically upon the blackened metal.

"She is ancient, even more so than myself. There's no truth in her origin, but it is said that she was wrenched free of the festering gut of a vile Sith from a past long since forgotten," the Ur's fingers ceased suddenly and the weapon shifted upright. He clasped his claws around the leather wrapped shaft and slowly lowered the weapon.

"This gift, this wonderful gift you offer me... It will return this weapon to it's dreadful glory."

[member="Darth Il"]​