Ember to Ash
The world had a name, a history, a people all its own with countless stories and legends that they had passed down for generations. Yet, Uriel had made no effort to remember what it was called, nor did he look into what it might be named after it was eventually brought into compliance. It didn't matter, he didn't care, it would be unshackled from the Empire in a generation or two at most, then either freed or taken by something darker, only to be taken again in the next cycle. It was inevitable, it was endless, it was the will of the universe. He was not there to investigate the strength of its orbital defenses, nor to surmise the might of its planetary army, his purpose was to find out if the planet had anything interesting about it. Namely, if there were any force-cults either within the local culture, or as some sort of specialized corps of their government. So far he'd found absolutely nothing.
An old man, a Twi'lek who proclaimed he'd been Guardian of the Whills in another life, was all that Uriel had discovered combing through the remote villages that dotted the windswept plains of the central continent. The man had sensed him, tried to reason with him, and now he was dead. The Twi'lek lay in a growing pool of his own blood, a trickle of crimson rolling down his lips and over his cerulean skin, droplets falling into the greater body of ichor. Uriel's knife glistened under the twin moons as he stood on the outskirts of the looking somewhere far, far away, as his knife hand remained entirely still.
He glanced down at the corpse, the knife above it, and silently reversed the blade in his grasp, then slid it into its sheath at his side. A simple, wicked tool, the last token he carried of a life long gone. Its utility was what made him keep it, Uriel certainly he'd shed sentimentality a long time ago, but sometimes he did wonder.
The cold began to roll in as the night grew darker, and he moved on.
Varos Ren
An old man, a Twi'lek who proclaimed he'd been Guardian of the Whills in another life, was all that Uriel had discovered combing through the remote villages that dotted the windswept plains of the central continent. The man had sensed him, tried to reason with him, and now he was dead. The Twi'lek lay in a growing pool of his own blood, a trickle of crimson rolling down his lips and over his cerulean skin, droplets falling into the greater body of ichor. Uriel's knife glistened under the twin moons as he stood on the outskirts of the looking somewhere far, far away, as his knife hand remained entirely still.
He glanced down at the corpse, the knife above it, and silently reversed the blade in his grasp, then slid it into its sheath at his side. A simple, wicked tool, the last token he carried of a life long gone. Its utility was what made him keep it, Uriel certainly he'd shed sentimentality a long time ago, but sometimes he did wonder.
The cold began to roll in as the night grew darker, and he moved on.
Varos Ren