Matsu Xiangu
The Haruspex
It had been a long time since she’d been on Telti. Her experience on the planet had been brief - just long enough to get blood on her hands, to further progress the machine of the One Sith. It was time she didn’t feel she’d wasted despite the futility of the Emperor’s will. She’d fought with friends, learned, gained power and strength through the inherent suffering of others that the brutal organization brought upon any people it set its eyes on.
But it was all so pointless.
(They said we’ve lost it. Our whole galaxy is immaterial - every animal, plant, insect, fish...things have finished changing, and their world is better for opening its wounds over and over. They want us to know that, accept it, come out. They wanted me to know that their way is the right way. What we used to follow was nothing. But I learned.)
Snapping out of it, she pulled the sleek, black outline of her personal transport in line with the landing pad, trying to focus.
(THEY kept crawling back, her teachers, transformers, pushing her from demiurge to creator in a thousand years of borrowed time that passed sooooo slowly back where she used to call home.)
In this Galaxy’s time, she’d been gone for about a year. Even for a place with a notoriously short memory, a necromancer and mentalist who’d once lent her services to the One Sith was not easily forgotten. She assumed her host had told anyone surrounding him to expect a guest, and she was easily recognizable.
“I don’t think the help likes me,” she said quietly to a man she remembered as notoriously prickly as she was shown in, catching a nasty look from the woman who’d ‘escorted’ her.
But it was all so pointless.
(They said we’ve lost it. Our whole galaxy is immaterial - every animal, plant, insect, fish...things have finished changing, and their world is better for opening its wounds over and over. They want us to know that, accept it, come out. They wanted me to know that their way is the right way. What we used to follow was nothing. But I learned.)
Snapping out of it, she pulled the sleek, black outline of her personal transport in line with the landing pad, trying to focus.
(THEY kept crawling back, her teachers, transformers, pushing her from demiurge to creator in a thousand years of borrowed time that passed sooooo slowly back where she used to call home.)
In this Galaxy’s time, she’d been gone for about a year. Even for a place with a notoriously short memory, a necromancer and mentalist who’d once lent her services to the One Sith was not easily forgotten. She assumed her host had told anyone surrounding him to expect a guest, and she was easily recognizable.
“I don’t think the help likes me,” she said quietly to a man she remembered as notoriously prickly as she was shown in, catching a nasty look from the woman who’d ‘escorted’ her.
[member="Darth Adekos"]