Of Gods and Heathens [Primeval]

[Blackthorne]

Dantooine
Primeval Landing Site from Ascent
Heart of the Encampment
High Preistess' Tent

In the days to follow their descent upon the planet, Primeval forces had nearly doubled. Reports back from her fellow Priests had spoken of growing numbers - those returning from the shadows who had deemed the Primeval lost. Loxa had bidden her time after the rebirth of the Host Lord, raising the young girl called Boethiah as her daughter and teaching her the ways of their people. She was older now, almost a young lady grown, and soon coming ready to take up the mantle once again.

I want to see the Book, she'd say.

<< When a girl is ready, the Book will appear. >>

It had not yet appeared, but Loxa knew it would not be much longer before the time came. They needed to be ready. Their people would flock to her, much as they were now, but in countless droves, and then their enemies would be upon them. Those she had seen in a vision.

<< This planet will not be home to the Gods will, >> said the High Priestess in the waning light of the afternoon sun before a congregation of loyal zealots, lilting Pacean speaking out over the din of chatter, << This one has seen the future of this place, one where the Primeval is not welcome... >> golden eyes filled with the light of the center fire passed over each face in attendance. Defiance was evident in those faces, a desire to prove the futures wrong. She stemmed this by quietly raising a hand and impressing silence upon those before her, << The future is known. Dantooine will not be a place of the Gods will ... but a place of their fury against the non-believers. The Gods demand recognition, >>

She reached for the flames, fingers scaling their heat and grasping it for her own. When she lifted her hand it was with blackened fingertips encapsulating the seething roar of a miniaturized sun, << our return will be known by the enemies who would seek us out. On this world we will leave our mark, our curse to those who dare deny the will of the Gods. >>

<< Let us bring in this night with fire and blood. >>

 

[4ND-R0]

[member="Loxa Visl"]

Allara had felt more confident at being in the circle of the Primeval cultists. Yet, she had yet to feel welcome. She had felt some considered her an outsider to the cause because she worshipped Dathomiri spirits instead of the Primeval pantheon, or that she was merely a youngster with no knowledge of what it meant to be among this group. As such, she kept to the fringes of the fire in dying light of afternoon. Close enough to retain the warmth of the flame, but far away as to not call attention to herself. She looked over the new item to her magick artifacts. An athame made of Malraas bone and a vornskr leather cord handle. It was a dagger like item, meant to dice herbs for remedies, open wounds for blood offerings, or merely a defensive weapon. It was also said to be a focusing utensil for magick.

As the High Priestess looked over the crowd, Allara shrank back a little. The older woman was of great magick, not unlike the spirit she faced back on Dathomir. She also felt a pang of embarrassment. While versed some in the language of the Nightsisters, she could not speak it to the level the Priestess spoke fluidly. Allara's own magick, while improved, was varied. She was becoming better at interpretation of force oraculations, and could manifest a greenish variant of lightning from her fingertips. But the knowledge was a lifelong pursuit, and she hopes to learn more under the guidance of the Elders gathered here on Dantooine.

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Primeval had become a bit of an oddity for the young man known as The Slave. Their customs, their culture, everything about them seemed oddly confused yet refined, and when he assumed he understood them they seemed to uncover another secret, a new habit he hadn’t seen, a history yet unexplored that let him peer deeper into the proverbial rabbit hole. It had become a game to him, learning about their gods and their magnificent goals, and with every word he learned he would form another question; and in this he found himself where he did tonight.

Amongst the low rumble of the active crowd, The Slave sat on a small crate he finessed from a quartermaster who wasn’t watching. He didn’t know what it was filled with, nor did he care, he simply wanted somewhere to sit. In his hand he held a small cigarette that burned low in the afternoon sun, letting it burn bright before tossing it aside and moving to stand. With a quick brush of his tunic, he was off; off to socialize, find sustenance, or perhaps to find knowledge.

Something he was drastically interested in was what these Primeval spoke of as their ‘witchcraft’... Just what was it? Imperia, Val, and Bestia all gave him a plethora of information on what it meant to be Sith, but it didn’t mean anything to him. He wasn’t Sith, he was simply The Slave, and it gave him as much interest as yesterday’s bread. He needed to expand what he considered his purpose, expand what he knew, and see what this new group of people could do for him.

Weaseling his way through the crowds, he found his way towards the tent just as [member="Loxa Visl"] was stepping away, the rest of the people in the vicinity off to attend to their various duties for the coming festivities. He offered her a wide grin, extending his hand to her just as he had come accustomed to since his freedom;
“A pleasure, Miss. Please, could I ask you some questions?” he said, motioning to her tent with his free hand as he spoke in as professional of a tone he could manage.

[member="Loxa Visl"] │ [member="Allara Ven"]

 

[Boethiah]

Boethiah could be found towards the outlying portion of the zealous crowd, studying scripture gifted to her by her mother.

Reading always pained the young Witch, for she knew not the strange symbols and texts that proved foreign to her Dathomiri eyes. Yet inside her rests an entity who did, and Boethiah summoned that spirit forth; harnessing her power and latent knowledge to consume the lessons in writing. Every now and then she looked up to the others, examining their posture and actions with curious intent. Her eyes having a soft blue glow.

Finally more had arrived, and Boethiah offered the ancient knowledge back to the priest accompanying her. She stands and walks over to her mother, "what will you have me do?" She eagerly asks.

It wouldn't be the first time she had accompanied the elder witch and performed tasks in her various rituals, and as always Boethiah found herself eager to serve in a more spiritual capacity. Ever since her rebirth, she hungers to grow closer to her Gods and learn the secrets of the galaxy; of her existence and reality. What would she discover here on Dantooine? A world more familiar now than many others, but a world forsaken in arrogance.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Allara Ven"] | [member="The Slave"]

 

[NightSister]

A N G E L O F S M A L L D E A T H​

​

Black robes cloaked Aria's frame as low-set sunlight cast its subtle glow on her. She was silent and watchful, eyes fixed on the priestess speaking of the future in the foreign chime of Pacean. The language was one Aria had picked up a few phrases on in her time with the Primeval - she made out Gods, and believers, and blood - but the majority of the Zabrak's speech reached Aria only by the grace of the translators nearby the witch. Of course, she was certain that the words lost their magnitude in Basic; so she made a note to herself to study Pacean when she got the chance.

There existed a future where the Primeval was unwelcome on Dantooine, [member="Loxa Visl"] said - that was the future she'd seen. Aria didn't know who it was that would supposedly be attempting to keep the Primeval out, but she barely needed to; even nameless, they were automatically her enemies. The idea was one she was instantly prepared to help prevent, but the witch silenced the crowd to speak again. Leaving their mark on the planet for those that came to take it from them - it was second-best, but it would do equally as well as far as Aria was concerned. Of course she would help the Primeval in their endeavours whatever they were - the promise of fire and blood, however, just served to add a level of willingness she was only slightly hesitant to admit to.

Amber eyes darkened a shade as Aria watched the high priestess intently, and she was ready as soon as the crowd broke up. Her gaze locked onto the forest that bordered the encampment, and she started, at once, to move.

- [member="The Slave"] - [member="Boethiah"] - [member="Allara Ven"] -​

 

[Lethia Morow]

Fire, as a means of killing, didn't appeal to Lethia.

It lacked intimacy. It lacked art. It was cruel, and nothing beautiful came of that cruelty; just a charred husk. And while her brothers and sisters had the right to worship in whatever manner they chose, Lethia would not be partaking in such a base practice.

No, she intended to send her sacrifices off with a bit more flair, a bit more style.

Fingers dipped in ink, the monstrous young woman traced jet black runes in a circle upon a bed of stone. Each sigil, although meaningless to anyone but Lethia, served as a token of praise towards the Three and the One. While all four of the Gods were given worship, special care was paid towards Balagoth and Halrormalenth - the two with which Lethia hoped to curry the most favor.

Once the altar itself had been prepared, Lethia moved on to her tools. Out-dated and unhygienic in the extreme, the maiden's craft-kit consisted of shears, scalpels, knives and needles, all designed to disrupt the flesh and make it more malleable. Of course, she wasn't working on a client today - but her tools could murder just as well as they could maim. Although Lethia took good care of her instruments, they could always be sharper, more precise, more wicked. And so for the next hour she did exactly that, sharpening and shining the tools of her trade until they were in pristine condition. And, just to make sure...

Lethia pressed the blade of her favorite knife against the tip of her tongue, and - yes. Blood coated her tongue and filled her mouth, then dribbled from the corners of her lips. Lethia purred and smiled down at the now bloodied blade. Sharp as a razor.

Everything was ready - except the prisoners, but that wasn't her concern. They would be brought out when the time was right.

---

[member="Loxa Visl"]
[member="Aria Vale"]
[member="Boethiah"]
[member="The Slave"]
[member="Allara Ven"]

 

[4ND-R0]

[member="Boethiah"] | [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Aria Vale"] | [member="The Slave"] | [member="Loxa Visl"]

With the High Priestess's finishing words, Allara teetered away from the crowd, moving in the fringes. She had almost knocked into another girl before stopping quickly. The voices of the Force were practically screaming at the presence of the other young woman: the High Priestess’s daughter Boethiah. Almost immediately, the witch dropped to her knees before the daughter, fearing she had caused something egregious to the ones hosting Allara.

“Your Excellency. Forgive me. I had not been looking ahead.” She said.

Fear had been a feeling Allara had not sensed in a while. Yet, it was nonetheless a facet of the Dark she served so willingly. The voices of the Spirits told Allara keep still until the Prophet of the Gods instilled some sort of response. That she did, as she did not want to upset either her or any of the other cultists. In addition, old fears arose in her. That such a small action could just as well cast she back into the life of an exile. She only prayed to the Force that, in very least, the others were forgiving of such a small incident.

 

[Connor Harrison]

Joon had heard of monsters from her old Master. Ones that hid in the Outer Rim of the galaxy, in the darkness, and were beyond the Force. They existed to serve a higher ground... blah blah blah.

While the clone couldn't admit to understand this "greater God", for being a clone she didn't know what or who a God was, but their seemed to be a primal calling to these beings.

A primal urge she always had without limitations, and a desire to use that to gain.

Violence. Bloodlust. Death.

It spurred her on more than the Force did, or the Dark Side did. Joon had come to the planet at the right time, and stood towards the rear of the crowd, moving slowly through to glimpse the elders who looked like her in dress, the black and tan leather and fur-lined robe. Her amber eyes danced warmly with the fire, her black and white streaked hair pulled tight and her Imperial colour painted on her face.

She was here for more than any Empire could offer her - she was here to unleash her primal side with others who would understand and help.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Allara Ven"] | [member=Boethiah] | [member="Aria Vale"] | [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="The Slave"]

 

[Ras'kala'han]

The Parable of the Masked Man​

From the Testimony on the First Prophet​

Although their holiness, the First Prophet, was sustained in whole by the power of the divine Three and One, their follower, the First Scribe of the Prophets, was not so lucky. As they rested in the ashes of a village they had burned, the bones of the heathen who had rejected the truth scattered around them in the shapes of the divine runes, the Scribe inclined on her back, sweat slicking her forehead, breathing heavily.

"Oh mighty Prophet," said she in a voice like sand against a stone, faint and rasping, "Although I would gladly march into a black hole if you told me that such was the will of the gods, I now cannot. I am too thirsty to sing hymns to the Three and One. I am too weary to lift my hands in praise of them. Does Balagoth (Praise the Maw) now call my name? Am I to now be reborn?"

"No." Said the First Prophet, not turning towards her. Their armor was like a tower of obsidian, and their voice like the rumble of thunder. Their hands were like great outstretched wings, and stained with blood for they had crushed the skulls of many who refused to believe truth, yet anointed their self with the blood and viscera, to honor what small part of the heathen that Halrormalenth (Praise the Tongue) had made perfect. "I have seen your death. It comes after much more suffering, and is slow, and violent, accompanied by a choir of screaming."

At this, the Scribe smiled with simple joy, to know that she would receive such an honored fate. "Then your holiness, I ask that you go to the village well and draw me some water, so I may continue to fight."

The First Prophet to this said nothing, but the Scribe could hear their footfalls growing further away, like thunder. As the Prophet would never lie to their scribe, nor ever speak wrongly, she awaited them with dutiful, silent patience. Even now, it is said amongst the priests in the halls of the temples and the crusaders in the beating hearts of their warships that if all had such faith as she the first companion, the Great Becoming might already be fulfilled.

(It is for this reason that we pray 'Halrormalenth, Praise the Tongue, we supplicate ourselves and ask to hear the story of She the First," for what Halrormalenth -- Praise the Tongue -- speaks must always become true.)

As the Prophet drew near the well, there was a man waiting, with a bowl and ladle by the well. The bowl was full of water, clean and sparkling and cold. It reflected perfectly the light of the planet's five, intensely burning suns. His face was covered by a black, lacquered mask that betrayed no feature or species.

"Who are you? Do you believe in the Three and One? If not, will you join me in my crusade as repentance, or be sent to the Praised Maw for remaking?"

"I do not need to believe," said he, "For as the suns above do not demand my belief, nor the sands beneath below, the Praised Three and One, the Light, the Tongue, and the Maw that proceed from the Source are evident in all things that are and are not."

The Prophet was taken aback by the wisdom of this stranger, for they were gifted by the gods with a deafening whisper of Nogras's (Praise the Light) truth, and thus could discern any lie, yet this man spoke with firmest belief. It was then they knew that they stood before someone of great holiness.

"Blessed One, I require water, that I might lift up my servant to follow me until her appointed death arrives."

"First, you must answer my questions, my Prophet. I now wear a mask. Have I a face beneath this mask? You do not know what I am called. Have I a name of my own, and a form of my own? Is the power that comes from me my own?"

"Of this, there is no doubt."

"There will be people who will tell you otherwise. That because they see not my face, my true face is facelessness. Because they know not my name, my true name is namelessness. Promise me that you will see these lies, and I will show you my face in all its glory."

"I so swear."

The man then peeled away his mask and stood straight where once he had seemed bent, withered, and old. Beneath the mask was SARGON (Praise the Source), the known unknown, the nothing that is, the substance that is not, and the sky turned black in the eyes of Their Holiness the First Prophet, and substance in all its glory became the void in all its glory.

In accordance with the holy teachings, the Prophet reached out with their hand and plucked SARGON's head from its shoulders, killing it instantly. Taking the clear water and throwing it out into the sands, the Prophet spent an hour whispering the most secret of our players and blessings into the earth, that they might carry beneath the surface of the world and consecrate it for long after they had left.

When they returned to their Scribe, who was yet conscious, they found her with a trail of dried froth from her mouth, and a fly landing on and off her eye. She groaned mightily, but her face was yet smiling as she had been when she left. The Prophet took SARGON's head and squeezed it above her open mouth, feeding her of the blood of the gods.

"Sargon is dead. Sargon is not. Praise the Source." said the Second Prophet.

"Sargon is alive. Sargon is. Praise the Source."

Both yet arose and went their separate ways, in perfect love and trust, to speak the words of fire to the heavens and shatter the army of the unbelievers, and both knew that they had seen the lies in the truth and the truth in the lies, and had spoken rightly. Thanks be to SARGON, praise the Source, for he lives and is dead, and is and is not. Those who claim the Force have no face see not beneath your mask, those who see not the mask beneath your face are as foolish as they. Thank you, for teaching us wisdom.

Antherion closed the book, regarding it curiously, as the willowy man waited on the edge of the encampment, reading by torchlight, dressed in a loose-fitting shirt of shimmersilk, a Qixoni Crystal glittering darkly on his index finger. He watched the people move back and forth, waiting for the ceremonies to begin.There, the truth would lie.

| [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Joon"] | [member="Aria Vale"] | [member="The Slave"] | [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Allara Ven"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] |

 

[Blackthorne]

Orders dispersed amidst the crowds as the High Priestess made to leave the main tent. For a great feast they would need great bounty; sustenance found within the nearby forest and hillsides. She tasked her Apprentice, [member="Auswyn Nothrael"], with leading the hunting parties. The Dantooine Plains Turkey had proven its value thus far; tonight it would centerpiece the meal and there were a lot of mouths to feed.

Finally more had arrived, and Boethiah offered the ancient knowledge back to the priest accompanying her. She stands and walks over to her mother, "what will you have me do?" She eagerly asks.

To her daughter she offered a faint smile, smoothing a hand over the young woman's black hair as a nearby Matri translated the girl's question. << The prisoners must be prepared, [member="Boethiah"], bring them forth and cleanse them for the rituals. >> Golden eyes watched her go, leaving the figure of the Host Lord Reborn to tender the next commands, she did not see the young [member="Allara Ven"]'s mishap with her daughter. Loxa implored her warriors to dismantle the settlement and use the materials to construct the main pyre. Idle hands were to be tasked with harvest for both the feast and the flames - not a single tree would remain standing by the night's end. All would be sacrificed in the name of divine rage.

Weaseling his way through the crowds, he found his way towards the tent just as Loxa Visl was stepping away, the rest of the people in the vicinity off to attend to their various duties for the coming festivities. He offered her a wide grin, extending his hand to her just as he had come accustomed to since his freedom;
“A pleasure, Miss. Please, could I ask you some questions?” he said, motioning to her tent with his free hand as he spoke in as professional of a tone he could manage.

[member="The Slave"]'s approach was met at the point of several weapons. Warriors, Matris, fellow Priests moved to intercept the one not known within the circle, causing the Sha'Matri to pause and observe. She looked the man over from where she stood, leaning to a Matri at her side who translated his words over a hushed tone. Loxa's gaze did not break from him and remained with faint curiosity of the stranger.

<< Gre'asanto. >> Loxa responded gently, motioning for her retinue to stand down. A subtle nod to the same Matri at her side sent the woman forward.

"This is Sha'Matri," she intoned to the man, Pacean accent heavy on her words, "High Priestess of the Primeval, the One Who Sees the Way, Shadow Mother of the Host Lord Reborn, not Miss. You must offer your palm in greeting, and bow."

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave expected some sort of response, but he hardly expected to be caught even before he could move to meet her. With his path intercepted, weapons of various lengths and otherwise varying levels of bladework committed to each, he had no other choice but to stop where he stood. Both hands raised slowly, he listened to them speak in the language he failed to understand.

A slightly careless manner, he rubbed a knuckle against his cheek before resting a finger against the side of one of the spears gently pushing it aside as the Sha’Matri gave the command to stand down. As each stepped away, the alabaster stranger turned his attention to the translator with a nod of a greeting. Her words were heavy, an obvious anger given off in his approach method, but an anger that was misplaced. Mostly because he didn’t care for it.

“This is the Sha’Matri,”, she said. There was his first lesson, he thought.

“High Priestess of the Primeval -” One.

“- the One Who Sees the Way -” Two.

“- Shadow Mother of the Host Lord Reborn, not Miss.”, Three. Three extra titles he’d have to remember. At this point, he couldn’t help but prefer Miss but refrained from a misplaced quip that would only end with a gut wound he didn’t care to deal with.

“You must offer your palm in greeting, and bow.”

The Slave gave her a small nod, making his movements slow and predictable before stopping near this Sha’Matri. With a pale hand extended, he lowered his torso and averted his gaze; what he assumed they wanted from him. Still, pleasantries could only show him so much, so he spoke in his position;

“Sha’Matri, I’m a man with no name. I’m looking for guidance, and what… What The Primeval is.”, his words were almost hesitant, but carried just enough confidence to not betray his presentation of himself. He maintained his low position, waiting for a sign that he was good to stand upright once more.

│ [member="Loxa Visl"] │ [member="Antherion"] │ [member="Joon"] │ [member="Allara Ven"] │ [member="Lethia Morow"] │ [member="Aria Vale"] │ [member="Boethiah"] │

 

[Blackthorne]

Though they were surrounded by activity and the din of the Primeval caravan in this small area near the central tent the air felt quite still and sound arrived muffled. Loxa Visl remained silent through the exchange, watching with eyes accustomed to nuance of the body. This man before her held little in the way of fear and seemed ... bored, or perhaps unruffled by the fanfair. Taking these things in stride with quiet humility would afford him a great deal of stock where the Sha'Matri was concerned.

It was her own way, after all, to make a stumble part of the dance.

A single hand reached out to hover over the one proffered, skin pulling past the edges of her own robes to reveal deeply set scars from her own days as a former Slave. Loxa knew not of this man's history, but very little of the past mattered in the circumstances of the now. As he spoke her translator echoed and shortly after the Priestess drew her fingertips across his palm; a sign of welcome, of approval.

<< Nindol uss zhah malla ulu thalra nat nesst xuil nau-kaas. >> She withdrew her own hand and gently motioned for him to stand.

"Sha'Matri says she is honored to meet a Man with No Name," said the Matri.

<< Ulu zhaun vel'bol udos ph'morfethen m'zilt draeval. >>

"She says to know what we are takes much time."

<< Natha nesst xuil nau kaas z'klaen tlu yor'in ulu kyorl vel'bol shlubnaut tlu keffal. >>

"A man must be willing to see what cannot be seen."

<< Ulu nym'uer vel'bol zhah venorik lu'alus. >>

"To hear what is silent and gone."

<< Ulu screa l'enaster lu'zhaun l'neantak nindel chu whol udossa jal. >>

"To know the untruths and seek the void that comes for us all."

Loxa paused, expression held in one of faint expectation - the very same a mother might hold after explaining the consequences of an action yet performed to a child. What he was seeking did not come without these things.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Her touch drew out a soft tingle of his nerves, oddly forcing his hand closed just as she let go. It forced him to glance up to her, now realizing how dominating of a presence she held amongst these people. From his position now, he could see it himself… How beyond repute she seemed to him; if anything it reminded him of forlorn masters that were little more than fleeting memories, if not withering corpses.

With her motion to stand, he did so, bringing himself to full stance just slightly over the Sha’Matri herself. He watched her expressions carefully, the way her eyes stayed on him to the micro expression of her lips as she formed each word. They spoke essays of who she was… A dominating personality that gave little in the way of error. She knew who she was, who she needed to be, and what her place in this galaxy was.

All things he envied.

As they translated each sentence back, he offered a careful nod, never breaking eye contact until they finished. With the final word, he offered the translator his attention for a hesitant second before reminding himself he should be speaking to the woman herself. If not for respect, for the sake of keeping her opinion of him somewhat decent.

His words were careful, each pronounced with a slow and special attention that gave obvious his intention to be noble in the face of such a grand figure. A tone so cold, each word could have been mistaken for that of a ghost’s.

“Would you be willing to teach me?”, he said.

The Slave was smart considering the lack of education he had, and second only to pleasure he sought knowledge in every aspect he could. Not for scholarly sake alone, he was desperate in search of power, to maintain what he was and what he wanted. Perhaps selfish in itself, knowing a life of only possession made him more of a material persona than he cared to realize, let alone admit.

│ [member="Loxa Visl"] │

 

[Boethiah]

Boethiah listened well to her mother speak, and when she rose to depart from her grass that is when one @Alara Ven bumped into her.

The young witch nearly stumbled over, raising the attention of several zealots and prophets who sat in silence; awaiting the woman's reaction. "Oh..." She looks over to Alara, almost stunned really. "It is no matter. We all must walk blind before we see... Or so mother says," her placid expressions caused the tense nature of those around her to drop as priests and warriors returned to their previous tasks.

With her full attention now on Alara, the words Loxa had spoke already left her mind. "Who are you?" The curious messiah asks.

She had been painting her face as usual, unfinished script dotting her skin in wet ink.

Normally it would have been the pair of kath hounds greeting her, but Boethiah left them behind to guard her ship.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Aria Vale"] | [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="Antherion"] | [member="The Slave"]

 

[Logan]

-----

 

[4ND-R0]

| [member="Boethiah"] |


Allara almost collapsed from sheer release of tension she had previously felt. The Host Lord apparently had no qualms with her by any means. Standing up slowly, she gave a polite bow. Despite her madness, the little Jedi girl she once was occasionally crawled to the surface of her psyche. When the Dark Messiah pressed a question to her, Allara was dutiful to respond.

“Allara, Excellency. Allara Ven.” She began, “Wayward daughter of Dathomir, and witch of the night magicks. I am new to this.... Gathering. But the voices of the Spirits coaxed me here. They have always drawn me to where my destiny lies. I wish to serve the Primeval well, in turn to further my studies of the Magicks the Jedi and Sith have otherwise denied me.”

She figured she would be transparent with the young woman. This girl before her was, after all, the Primeval’s God in human flesh, or so she had come to understand. The curious thing that struck Allara about the fellow young witch was the painted symbols across her person. Not uncommon, but still a practice she had not seen beforehand. She bowed once more.

“I once again offer my apologies, or if so have brought offense to you. If there is anything I may do to make it up, you need only ask, your Excellence.”

 

[Connor Harrison]

Joon walked forward to as close to the front as possible, noting the two figures - [member="Allara Ven"] and [member="Boethiah"] – in conversation.

She looked out to the main area, where another stood - [member="Lethia Morow"] – and noted her tools. She liked the various implements and bloodied blade.

Her eyes danced from left to right, from person to person. She was confused, unaware and out of her comfort zone.

”What’s going on here,” she called up to the girl.

She glanced around.

”Who are you heretics?”

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Aria Vale"] | [member="Lethia Morow"] | [member="The Slave"] | [member="Antherion"]

 

[Blackthorne]

"HET HET HET AAOOOOHHH!"

The great tent of the Sha'Matri suddenly crumpled behind them as Skarsovi warriors unwound the ties holding it taught. Around them a frenzied sort of energy grew as bodies moved hither-tither, quickly and efficiently taking down the encampment piece by piece. Each item would be transplanted for new purpose, to be used as the skeleton of the tribute pyre. Loxa remained unmoved by the activity, her own attention firmly on the man who so wished to learn.

Nikoma, the translator spoke his query back to the Sha'Matri who considered him one last time before giving a slow nod. A simple gesture that seemed to be understood by Nikoma spoke what would occur next without any words at all. Silent, Loxa turned and made way towards the center of the encampment.

"The Sha'Matri will teach those who know the price of knowledge," said Nikoma, eyeing [member="The Slave"] and motioning for him to follow, "and are willing to pay it, just as we all have. Time will tell how much a Man with No Name is willing to sacrifice."


At the epicenter of the frenzy numerous firepits filled the air with the roar of their flames and the acrid scent of burning spice. Witches were returning from the various harvest groups carrying woven baskets filled with wild roots, herbs and produce. Loxa made her way to one of the fires where a woman sat grinding dried blue flowers into a fine powder. She leaned to run her fingers through the basin, collecting a pinch of the powder to gently waft beneath her hose.

Udos ph'l'impera dalharen. L'tiuin'iona d'elggor slyannen feithin whol l'eantak.​

​

"We are the imperfect children. The dust of dying stars seeking for the void," Nikoma echoed.​

​

Loxa turned to the fire, threw the powder into the flames and they belched forth a violent burst of blue light.​

​

Ulu yutsu ulu Sargon, Falduna tlu ulu l'Sovi. Whol udos ph'tupora lu'quin udos el.​

​

"To return to Sargon, Praise be to the Source. For we are living and yet we die."​

​

"Praise the Source," echoed those around them, moving and not. The fire crackled blue, persisting.​

​

Loxa's golden eyes stared at the Slave, seeming to blink with reflections of flames and yet not blinking at all.​

​

Falduna l'Ssussun nindel atattra l'phreng ulu belbau udossa l'yorn ulu kyorl vel'drav udos ph'naut'kyn, ulu zhaun l'aster wun l'ulnar.​

​

"Praise the Light who shattered the realm to give us the power to see when we are blind, to know the truth in the lie."​

​

Blue-tipped fingers silently indicated the stone basin and its cerulean contents. Nikoma approached first, kneeling at the basin side and lowering her head over the rim. The attending witch bowed forward and blue into the powder, stirring it up under the other's nose. Nikoma inhaled deeply before bowing back, turning the white of her single eye skywards with a shiver. She uttered a prayer then and slowly got back to her feet.

Loxa looked to the Slave and indicated the same.

 

[NightSister]

R A I S E H E L L​

​

She'd long stopped bothering to hide how much fun it was.

At her command, an oak tree fell forwards a few metres from the Dark Jedi's frame, and the land cracked beneath its weight. Barely concealing a grin, Aria looked as the forest crowded with the Primeval in their dozens; everyone, it seemed, enjoyed tearing woods down as much as she was starting to.

She had to admit, she took some joy in destruction even on a smaller scale. Not enough to ever cause it needlessly, even to seek out reasons to tear things down, but there truly was some satisfaction to be found in making something end, watching as something collapsed, unrepairable. And this was for the sake of the Primeval, and the unearthly sense of darkness that she'd come to link with the Primeval only heightened her sense of cheer. This was to help spread that darkness, help hinder those who'd come to try and damper it.

Yes, today would be fun indeed.

"Move," she ordered, one hand busily gesturing people out of the way and the other occupied with keeping the wood airborne as she floated it into an area with more space, closer to the encampment. Their landing camp didn't hardly look like a landing camp anymore, and that was fine - now hordes tore down the structures, set to work building pyres where there was space. Alright, that would be her cue.

Her saber shot to life, and she dropped her telekinetic hold on the trunk, setting it on the ground. Then she looked at it curiously. She supposed she should slice off the branches. Or something. How did one build a pyre?

"Here," she called towards the nearest apparently unoccupied figure she could see, "help me with this." She gestured the taller woman over.

​

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]​

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Building pyres is something of a Vahlan tradition. Not to mention a popular passtime on Panatha, albeit for much different reasons.

Building a pyre was, however, not Joycelyn's original intent on the scene. The large woman, clad in light, but functional armour and carrying the weapons of a regime long lost, was obviously there for security first and foremost. However, given the chance to build a fire was something she perceived as a sacred duty. Mother Vahl was, after all, the mother of fire.

With a sharp movement, the dark-haired vahlacanthix jogged over. With her long, bouncing strides, it did not take long for her to cross the distance. She looked at the woman who had called her over: A petite brunette, clearly marked by the amber eyes of the dark side, proud in posture. Joycelyn herself stood at least two heads taller. Her frame was muscular, though not bulky; eyes were a light brown, yet to show the true touch of the dark side, though her peoples were strong in its ways.

"I suggest we clear this space first."

She gestured to the area around them, packed with old leaves, dry grass, and what have you. It was not a space for a pyre, not yet.

"Then we remove the brances and move them to their separate pile before dividing the trees into sections."

She looked at Aria for interjections or objections, before reaching a hand out and snatching a bypassing worker by the collar. His stride halted with a yelp and hands tightened around the equipment in his hands, but his focus swiftly turned to the service of the two forceful beings before him.

"Miss- ?"

Joycelyn's tone indicated a question of Aria's identity. In the wide web of the Primeval's budding and growth, it was as difficult as it was important to gather the identities of one's fellows.

[member="Aria Vale"]