Of Gods and Heathens [Primeval]

[Ras'kala'han]

At the exact moment, Antherion was sitting in a tent, a rather simple and undignified place for one such as him, clad in an outfit far outside his norm -- eschewing the draping, heavy fabrics of the aristocratic robes he normally favored, he wore a light tunic colored a dull, dried-blood crimson more appropriate for going among ascetics and crusaders. They were, in fact, his nightclothes, though even if anyone else noticed, he doubted they would care. After all, this was a collection of holy men, of profane monks and fallen priests, of scholars of obscene things and historians of atrocities. They had come here to peer into higher mysteries, not to worry about the window dressing they festooned their vessels of rotting meat with between infinities spent adrift the ether.

Cross-legged, he was atop a stiff cot, with a datapad resting beside him, a few heavy texts bound in the flesh of various animals (and one, apparently, in the skin removed by the flagellation of a repentant cleric of Balagoth, but it looked like bantha hide wrapped around several layers of melodrama). Some, he supposed, were out there amongst the people, asking questions, making divine supplications and seeking inspiration.

That was never his way. He would have his texts, and the comfortable distance of history, of a time before the Galaxy went utterly mad as a starting point, and only then work his way up close to these mysterious, sacrifice-happy beings. Apparently, there would be live beings to play with.

He picked up a scroll he had left lying open and examined a rather stylized anatomical chart.

"Suspend over pot half filled with boiling water with noose, loosely tied... incision along femoral artery with 'Tooth of Sargon,' while calling out to the Three --" He pressed his lips into a tight grin. These people had more ways to carve flesh from bone than most butchers, and their cookbook of cannibalism was remarkably thorough. Tonight was going to be a fun diversion, at worst, if his mind was expanded no further.

He needed, however, a 'brother or sister of the fold' to bless the dagger. He picked up the simple blade he had procured, an old antique he kept around mostly as an art piece, but he had made sure to order his droid buff and sharpen it. Setting out from his tent, the cyborg searched for someone to grant the prayer that he needed. If you want to do something, best to do it right.

| [member="Boethiah"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="The Slave"] |

 

[Darth Empyrean]

A soft breeze brushed past the congregation of cultists, forcing a few straggling hairs haphazardly falling into The Slave’s face. He wasn’t one to be hesitant to such offerings, and judging by the azure powder he could easily assume this was some sort of intoxicant. Although he didn’t know a prayer, nor did he have even the faintest idea of what they’d want him to say, he took his place with his face near the basin.

Powder filled the air, atomizing into his nostrils with a sharp inhale. It was raw, a burning sensation that ran through his sinuses with little reprieve. Not even the crudest of spices he’s had the unpleasant experience of trying had such a painful reaction; yet almost as quick as it set the nerves of his nose on fire, it subsided in the next moment, replaced by a slow, almost pulsing sensation of numbness.

The conventional quietness of his perspective grew distorted almost instantly, replaced by a vibrant and ever evolving reality that changed how he read time itself. Every glance of his eye seemed to drag colors across his vision, his focus brought to a mere crawl as he brought his gaze back to the Sha’Matri. Her skinned rolled with carefully designed geometric patterns, moving from the subtle hints of her aged lips towards her neck and disappearing behind her robes. Despite their artistic and always moving presence, they carried with them a plethora of knowledge; each a sacred shape a memory he had long forgot, some he would he would never remember.

His muscles built up their own fire despite the numbness he felt, each twitching in unpredictable intervals. He didn’t know it, but even with his focus brought to the head witch, his head was cocked and seized slightly, while his neck forced him to fight it to maintain a straight glance. Eyelids fell low on his eyes as his fine motor function fell into an abyss of bodily functions no longer under his control, his language following suit as he realized he was unable to speak as he had before. Muscles moved in his jaw, yet nothing would come; he no longer even felt his breath leave his body.

In the metaphysical, the usually contained aura around him grew far more wild and turbulent. A mixture of power and untrained control, the force surged in time with The Slave’s heart. A conscious force that reached out and dragged invisible fingers on all those around it, forcing a small, yet subtle, storm to begin in area they stood. Soft whispers grew in the ears of those nearby, thoughts misplaced and eerie chants spoken in the back of minds as this would-be Sith twitched in his kneeled position.

It was a darkness that incorporated itself into the very being of who he was, but was something else entirely. It did not hold a semblance of respect for the living as The Slave did, not did it believe in the sanctity of life. It clawed at the skin of what it sought, greed pressed into the wind as gold hammered into armor. What it sought, it pulled at in a slow and painful manner, something so cruel and eldritch it left little more than a chill up the spine of who it touched.

And it touched everything.

Not because it was curious, nor was it immature. It simply touched everything it wanted.

And it wanted all.

│ [member="Loxa Visl"] │

 

[Poe]

​Standing in the back from where the gathered where finalizing their preparations, the female cyborg watched the festivities with fascination. She had never witnessed a display from organics, using the Force in a way to enact a ritual of sacrifice. Perhaps there were organics worthy of not being assimilated into more glorifying by-products. Her left eye tracked the motions, and she tried to mirror them in a manner of more understanding. She knew she could never fulfill such a ritual through the Force, there was barely enough of her former body to call deep into the well of the Force; but what she could do was enough to make a difference in a pinch.

​She crouched down, picking at the moist grass feeling somewhat complete; which to her meant something. With only forty percent of her former body infused into this mechanical shell, she was limited in the Force. But she didn't care, she was a technomancer and all she required from the Force was just enough to enact her dark side prowess upon the machines, tech, droids, and other associated mechanical devices to make her smile inwardly.

​Even now, she found herself smiling. Had her quest finally brought her to a place where she could fit in, or even make a difference? She harbored hatred for the Sith, for reasons she was still trying to piece together since her memories had been robbed from her; but her heart told her to hate them. She hated the Jedi, too, but they were far less of an evil to those Sith; or was she just trying to justify this through a inviable and unproven thesis based with no concrete data to study. Well, the Jedi would hate her on their own thesis of her dark side nature.

​She rubbed a wet grass blade between her mechanical fingers, feeling more anger rise from being robbed of flesh interaction. Why couldn't she remember? Why couldn't she recollect what caused this transformation from organic to cyborg? So many questions, not enough collective memories to seek answers. Tossing the blade of grass down, she stood up to continue to watch this ritual. The Sith would pay, each one ripped from their flesh and assimilated into one of her creations, technobeasts. Then they will know the true meaning of worshipping an entity with the true power of domination.

 

[Boethiah]

"The Gods will have tasks for you," Boethiah assures Allara.

And indeed they had tasks for everyone; some less transparently so than others. Boethiah herself often pondered on the whys and whats of her faith, but never once did she question it. To be faithful is to believe, even when your beliefs are challenged. It would never be so easily understood--the Gods and their ways, so certainly she would have patience until the answers became clear.

"Oh, now I remember..." The task her mother gave her came clearly again. "If you wish to help, then follow me." The witch did not wait to see if Allara actually followed, already she walked off towards the rim of their gathering where the amount of people grew thin.

Where she found herself standing now was a small area outside of the encampment where they kept prisoners.

A few men and women who stood defiantly against the Gods and refused to see past their ignorant ways.

Prisoners to be sacrificed.

[member="Allara Ven"]

 

[Lord Ajihad]

A solitary speeder could be barely seen tearing through the serene night a ways away from where the Primeval were preparing their purge. The figure riding the device was cloaked in a set of discreet gray robes, complete with a half-balaclava protecting him from the frigid winter air. One trying to detect the presence of the force in this man would fail to do so, though perhaps there was more to him than met the eye...​

​

To the east, fires raged as the Primeval shepherded the locals into the ever-gaping maw of Balagoth. The dim glow would reveal a quick glimpse of the man's eyes. They were a deep brown, though filled with a knowing sorrow as if though the person they belonged to had seen far too much of the cruelties of the galaxy. Yet, his countenance carried a sense of suppressed malice deep beneath the surface. Indeed, this one had seen the wrongs of the galaxy because he was one himself.​

​

The companionless man would continue ahead, pushing the stolen speeder bike to its limits. This was a man with a purpose, a purpose that wouldn't be interrupted by even the razing of a planet. He was on Dantooine looking for someone, someone figured by most to be dead. However, the shrouded figure knew better than to adhere to popular belief. The person whom he was looking for was rather elusive, but he was quite sure this was the place to find him. If not here, he was not sure where else he could look.​

​

He eventually pushed forward until he reached a forlorn gate. Beside it was what looked to be a small shrine almost totally consumed by the surrounding shrubbery. A gloved hand would brush the weeds aside, revealing an assortment of items left by mourning passerby over the years. He saw a variety of trinkets; items valuable to a certain person or family but without any real commercial value. There were several articles of cheap jewelry, rusted from constant exposure to the ever-taxing elements. Inside small wooden boxes were faded pictures of random people, the images damp and moldy from the moisture that had penetrated the weathered containers. One image in particular caught his eye, a faded black-and-white photograph of a man who looked to be in his early thirties. A man the trespasser had seen before. Yes, he was most definitely in the right place. However, the question remained: was he there at the right time?​

​

As he stood up to leave, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Kneeling down, he examined a twisted piece of metal someone had left beside the makeshift shrine, half-covered in dirt. He brushed away the debris, surprised to find that this item hadn't rusted despite its metallic properties. He truly had no idea what it was, but he could feel a slight bit of the force radiating outwards from it. He gingerly picked the strange object up, deciding to examine it more thoroughly later. He placed it in the speeder's leather bags, turning his attention back to the twisted iron gate. This was without a doubt his destination. The barrier in front of him swung open easily, its hinges broken long ago. The Sith Lord Ajihad began approaching the looming estate, wondering just what he would find within its forgotten halls.​

​

[member="Zaiden James-Greyson"]​

 

[Zaiden Dean]

Zaiden was midst his own. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was alive and no longer driven to be something more than he is. At one point he was the singular being holding potential to drop the entirety of the Lords of the Fringe, he was known as the one who basically decimated Talooran single handedly, he fought Masters, Knights, any number of opponents all at once. He had been sought by some of the greatest Force hunters, bounty hunters, assassins, and the like.

Yet... He had ended up dead. Deserving of it as well.

He had no idea what Ashin had done to him either, but in his time as a spirit bound to a lugnut by Damien, she had ravished much of his power, and made him accept the light in a manner he never had before. Since however, he knew in his truest of senses, that whom he was held no merit for the living.

Now after longer than a decade away, Zaiden had returned to the Greyson Estates on Dantooine. He was single handedly cleaning the place up, returning the massive building nearby to its ancient glory. He was told by Feenarah that this land, and home, had been in their family for several generations. He would be damned if the place became a molding carcass simply because he was lazy.

Cocking a head to the side, he listened to the distance, while in reality his honed skills in sensing abnormalities in the Force picked up two things. One, someone was coming toward his home, and two, the person seemingly held zero Force presence. A wave of the hand sent the small ball of light, projecting much like a small sun, that hovered nearby, from existence.

Any that came were welcome, up until they meant harm upon he or his belongings.

Yet that did not mean he needed to be seen by any arrivals. Much the return to a power only he knew so well, as a lover long kept from their other, Zaiden vanished from sight. No droid, sensor, organic, or Force user had ever actually seen through his Force Cloak. No, the Stealth Specialist had for a vast time bent a Bent Light master. This form was a rarity, and it was his.

As if he had never been there, Zaiden was gone.

[member="Lord Ajihad"]

 

[Lord Ajihad]

A gloved hand would slowly push the front door open, the form of Lord Ajihad silently darting through the gap like a shadow. He casually looked around the main entrance, impressed by the rustic extravagance of the manor. After an initial glance around, the assassin noticed something was off. Things were beginning to look tidier, as if someone had recently been there. Scattered objects had been placed back on their shelves, overturned furniture restored and moved back to their rightful positions. Yet, the Sith Lord had yet to encounter any proof of life besides some dust mites.​

​

​

He stepped forward to a small table, gently lifting a gilded cup that had been recently dusted. Closing his eyes, the Demon's Fist would invoke his god-given ability of Psychometry to feel the object's memories. There were just brief flashes to be found. Raiders accidentally kicking it to the side, saving it from being pillaged like so many other valuables in the estate. A rat pawing it around, obviously searching for some forgotten morsel in the cobwebbed corner of the room. He then saw a man matching the picture he saw outside, identical the image he had seen with Damien. The man picked up the cup, caring for it as if it were his own. He cleaned it off, setting it in a spot where it seemed to belong at the edge of the hand-crafted table.​

​

Zaiden.​

​

He set the cup back down, turning again to gaze upon the hall with new eyes. He was here, no doubt. Hiding? Maybe. But it would be of no use for Ajihad to sit there and wait for the man to reveal himself. The assassin had other matters to attend to as well. He spoke aloud, his foreign accent resonating off the towering walls. "You have quite the estate. Perhaps in a degree of disrepair, though only to be expected when its owner had been deceased for some time now."​

​

[member="Zaiden James-Greyson"]​

 

[Zaiden Dean]

Zaiden arched a brow as the man spoke to him. He knew Zaiden was here.. How? A quick calculation began. No foot prints would lead to him, or reveal him. He had not touched more than anything necessary to clean since he first arrived... The cup. Why had he held the cup for so long..? Zaiden dropped the Force Cloak with a grin om his face, arms folded against his chest, while he leaned against the wall nearby.

"How do you know of me? Who are you? Why are you here?" Zaiden paused in his questions, "Also, where did you learn psychometry?" He knew of the skill, though jad never a chance to learn it. Ok that was a lie. There had been a chance, but Zaiden knew it was out of his ability range.

Why try if you know its impossible?

Thinking back on that time, the Bent Light Master felt a certain nostalgia. It was before his truest of dissents. When he was still at his best, yet not so evil he wished death on everything and everyone. There had been a Master of oddities, powers most had no chance to learn elsewhere. The man explained what he did to read objects, a crazy warping of telepathy really. Zaiden simply didnt understand it. Couldnt.

[member="Lord Ajihad"]

 

[NightSister]

F R I C T I O N​

"Aria," came her upbeat reply, eyes going to the part-Vahla almost towering over her. "And yourself?"

She studied the space at the other woman's instruction, quickly mapping out in her mind how best to clear it. It had surprised her even that Joycelyn had some idea of what to do - and the Vahlacanthix seemed confident enough in her words that Aria wasn't about to question them. She'd have asked how it was that the woman knew about building pyres, but there was a task at hand; small talk would come later.

Joycelyn persuaded a passerby to hand over his equipment, and Aria took one at her indication; at once she got to work alongside the other woman removing the layer of dead undergrowth that inconvenienced the land. It would've been more than possible to clear the area with the force, but there was something rather rewarding about doing it herself. Perhaps the physical effort of sweeping the leaves up was more than she cared for - it would be worth it in the end, would it not?

The leaves quickly formed a large pile, and Aria quickly sent flame into its centre, letting the heap ignite. The faintly acrid smell of smoke hit the air as the leaves blackened and crinkled, and the pile shrank as its contents became ash.

"Right," she said with satisfaction, "The tree now."

​

- [member="Joycelyn Zambrano"] -​

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Aria

Joycelyn noted the name, and the chirping way it was spoken. Such upbeat attitude was not the most common among sullen worshippers of death and destruction. Her attitude was certainly a refreshing break from the nervous, the void-minds, the angsty, and the pretentiously bloodthirsty.

"Joyce." No more was needed.

Manual labour was a highly underestimated endeavour among those gifted with a proficiency in the Force, even among her own kind... kinds. She had not achieved her physical strength through applying telekinesis to every and another task. If anything, she believed her physical strength to be an edge she had over other force-users. She was not afraid to get into the grit, get her hands dirty. This work too, made her hands quite dirty. It would make for a beautiful pyre.

"Great. We are going to need to de-branch it, then split it into bits about this long".

She indicated with her hands the approximate length of the logs. In her experience, the length made them easier to stack. She sounded confident, but this was all dependent on the knowledge she had gathered from building pyres for the goddess Vahl. Most of the work she had done for the Ember was henchmanry, not leading the pyre-building. Still, she believed she could make this a good pyre.

"Do you have a sabre?"

Some would cry blasphemy, but Joycelyn was the practical sort. She plucked a cylinder from the back of her hip and fingered the activation button. The plasmic blade would certainly make short work of branches.

[member="Aria Vale"]

 

[NightSister]

D A R K N E C E S S I T I E S​

​

"Of course."

She called her own lightsaber to her hand at the same time that Joyce did, quickly pressing the button to activate it and watching with mild satisfaction as the bloodred blade ignited. Contented, she walked back up to the trunk that was to be their pyre - an instant later her sabre swung down and the first branch was sliced neatly, promptly separating from its starting point and falling gently onto the ground.

Joyce on the opposite side, Aria repeated the motion until one side of the tree was bare; hardly surprisingly, the part-Vahla had completed her half a few moments before her. With her foot, she nudged the branches into their own pile, and then she eyed the trunk again, mentally measuring the length Joyce had indicated before she swiftly got back to work.

Between the two of them it took minutes to have the tree cut up and ready to be made a pyre - it was mostly fortunate that one of them knew what to do, of course. It wasn't unlikely that Aria would've set the campsite on fire by now otherwise.

"Excellent, that's that - so we just stack the logs up?"

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]​

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Joycelyn's blade was not red. Rather, it was a bright, sickly green colour. It was given to her by the Sword of Vahl, Sena Lassiter, who despised the stereotypical red sabre of darksiders. Joyce herself rather enjoyed the tradition. Though, she had to admit that there were certain benefits of wielding a blade with a more ambiguous colouration. No matter her colour preference, she wielded it with a brutal efficiency and quickness. Each fell swoop took more than one branch as she utilised the basic tenets of the Way of the Sarlacc.

She was pleased to see that the petite brunette fell behind, if only a little. A cocky smile spread on her lips as she raked the branches off to the side with one of the tools she had snatched from the passerby earlier.

And after the logs were appropriately cut, and more importantly, split into quarters, Joycelyn was about to ask a question, but was beat to it by Aria.

"S- Uh, no. This is where it gets tricky, in fact."

She wiped the sweat from her brow with a sleeve, then peeled off her jacket, bunched it together and tossed it over to the root of another tree, where some of their tools were. Her physical form was all the more apparent. Lines of scars, traced over dusky skin, ran down the sides of her neck and shoulders - Each a lesson learned and blood given to the goddess. The shirt she was left wearing stuck tightly to her skin, just failing to obscure the chiselled lines of her abdomen.

"We are going to have to stack these so there is enough air to go through them, but close enough that the fire will spread."

A dirty hand tousled the short, black hair and left a smudge of sap on her forehead. She did not seem to mind or care as her thoughts were all but occupied on the construction of the pyre.

"We lay down five and five logs like so, and then coat every other layer with dry grass. That ought to carry the fire."

Without waiting, she marked up a square in the dirt with her heel. It was a marker, by which they could orient the logs. By now, Aria would perhaps begin to pick up on the strange accent. The way 'g'-sounds intruded, the way she almost rolled her 'r' or occasionally lisped on her her 's'. Not to mention the intonation. It was not of the galactic core standard, nor the outer-rim variety.

"So, what brought you to the pyres? You don't seem the type for manual labour, if you don't mind me saying"

[member="Aria Vale"]

 

[Blackthorne]

Sha'Matri watched [member="The Slave"] as the cerulean took hold and scoured through his body like a flame through fuel. The swell of malign power could not go unnoticed and though it may have made others flinch, the Priestess took it in upon her own presence as to welcome it into the fold. She raised her left hand, fingers splaying over the man's skull, a fire growing in her eyes.

<< Falduna l'Oloth, vel'uss zhah lu'zhah naut, nindel morfethe aphyon d'vel'bol zhah tupora ji nindel udos xal screa l'ulnar wun l'aster. >>

"Praise the Darkness, who is and is not, that makes death of what is living so that we may learn the lie in the truth."

The hand settled upon the man's hair and immediately shoved his head back into the bowl of blue, holding it there with strength ungodly, saturating body, mind, and soul with the unraveling essence of worlds between worlds.

<< Falduna l'Ssivah, vel'uss Kirn'udossta kaaseel lu'morfel udossa ephaln'sohna, nindel udos xal kampi'un l'u'lar lu'ku'lam ulu lassrinn ol. >>

"Praise the Voice, who spoke our names and made us flawed again, that we might understand the impossible and rise to break it."

<< Whol udos ph'tupora lu'quin udos el. >>

"For we are living and yet we die," Nikoma chanted louder as she watched the flames of the fire catch upon the robes of the Priestess, engulfing her figure in a vehement and otherworldly blue.

"For we are living and yet we die," echoed those surrounding them.

Loxa released the man's skull, golden eyes alight within the lick of fire consuming her, burning flesh and cloth and hair and yet renewing it all again. Over and over, a ceaseless cycle of death and rejuvenation - the power of her connection to the Gods. The power of The Source.

<< Falduna tlu ulu l'Sovi! >> she called, her voice made of flames, uproarious and heated.

 

[Darth Empyrean]

As hand met head, the malignant power held within him continued its gaseous surging. Thrashing, fighting, it was a beast empowered by whatever fuel she was feeding it; and it only grew as she did. Its darkness was abysmal, presence undeniable, and while many took steps back to avoid its presence, she took it in stride. Her chants took precedent, forcing those routing to rekindle their presence and repeated after her.

<< Falduna l'Oloth, vel'uss zhah lu'zhah naut, nindel morfethe aphyon d'vel'bol zhah tupora ji nindel udos xal screa l'ulnar wun l'aster. >>

Any sentience he may have held was disintegrated by the drugs as she pressed his head into the bowl. Symbols rushed past him and faces of unknown plaster washed past, ever mimicking the presence of hyperspace on the mortal plane. Each held their own darkness, and each seemed to mock his for being so pridefully open. Their words were incessant, their taunting overpowering; all filling his ears with a darkness he hoped to repress.

Were these the people he had killed, or strangers who knew what he was?

<< Falduna l'Ssivah, vel'uss Kirn'udossta kaaseel lu'morfel udossa ephaln'sohna, nindel udos xal kampi'un l'u'lar lu'ku'lam ulu lassrinn ol. >>

They saw who he was regardless, forever judging with their cold and straining gazes.

<< Whol udos ph'tupora lu'quin udos el. >>

Flames caught her cloak and spread to his body, flash forging a struggling form with vital potency he had never before been exposed to. As the crowds chanted, as her hand let go, he collapsed backwards with eyes rolling themselves into his skull; only to have his idea of the world fade black and back in pulsing tension.

He was seizing on the ground, back arched painfully as his face contorted in pain. The flames fought against him, taking his skin and releasing it as it changed back to health. While she took it as her gods, he took it as pain; but not of the flame, but of the heart. Flames that fed not on the lithe form that he was, but the energy that seeped from him in droves. The darkness of the soul.

A pained cry left his lips as tendons grew taut, muscles ripped and tore for release from the torture, only to be reforged stronger than before. The power she had sent into him was tearing his body apart, yet all the same brought it back together in ways it never could have prior. As broken as his figure was, it too healed with an entropic greed; consuming the energy around them.

The energy that once treaded the ground the crowd walked on found its way slithering back to its origin, slowly and surely finding its place in stasis only a few feet from the collapsed form that he was. A stranger to the rest, he was nothing more than an initiate brought unto the light. They held no sympathy for his struggle.

And all the same, he didn’t need them to.

│ [member="Loxa Visl"] │

 

[NightSister]

Aria lifted a brow; here was where it got tricky, Joyce said. She wasn't particularly concerned for her ability to do whatever else was required to finish the pyre, of course - simply apprehensive.

Her head inclined in a nod nonetheless as she listened to the part-Vahla's instructions, and eyes briefly head-to-toed the woman when she took her jacket off. It was easy to see how she'd been so at ease with the task, though Aria kept that thought to herself. Quickly she fetched logs from the pile, half-crouched as she began to lay them out how Joyce'd shown.

At the question, she looked up and over her shoulder.

"Not at all," she answered; Aria was perfectly aware that she was a slight thing, not easily sorted in with those who built pyres. "Well, everyone else is either -" a glance around the encampment, a vague gesture once she'd put down a log - "either tearing the place apart-" another look, to the woods this time - "or off hunting. This seemed like a good alternative."

By now Joyce was opposite and making quick work of the wooden structure that would be their pyre.

"So where're you from that you know how to build pyres?"

​

- [member="Joycelyn Zambrano"] -​

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

A slight thing indeed, but hardly deserving of underestimating. The fact that Aria stayed behind to build pyres not only piqued Joycelyn's curiosity, but paved way for some semblance of respect. Perhaps this one understood the value in these chores and in doing them as correctly as possible. She did not linger or watch Aria work, but crouched down to help putting down the logs and spreading the dry grass in between.

There were indeed many others that could have helped, but who preferred other tasks. Joycelyn herself would not mind a hunt, but pyres had to be built and it was not a task left to servants. Not if you wanted the pyre to burn with a fire that would cleanse flesh and soul alike.

When Aria took her turn to question Joyce, she thinned her lips in silence for a moment. There were many things she could say, but what was true, and what was wise to divulge? She was of the Ember of Vahl and the migrant fleet, and she was a Zambrano of Panatha, if in name only. The Ember shared much with the Primeval, but in the end they were a separate faith, and the Zambranos had as many enemies as they had friends, if not more.

"I am from.. Everywhere." Her voice was hesitant for the first time as she sprinkled out the yellowed straw. "My kind travel, but we have a long tradition of pyre-building." It rustled between her fingers before nestling between the logs. "I learned from my mother; as she once learned from hers."

The Ember had built pyres for millennia, and her father was always more the flaying-type.

She leaned over to the corners on her sides of the pyre and wrapped a cord of twine around the base, making sure Aria could see the simple knot. With each accumulated layer, the corners would be bound with twine. Once they got into it, the building was not difficult, but it required a certain precision. As the pyre would steadily accumulate height, it would also increase the risk of collapsing.

However, a taller pyre looked all the better.

"And you? How did you come to find The Faith?"

[member="Aria Vale"]

 

[NightSister]

- [member="Joycelyn Zambrano"] -​

​

"Everywhere, huh?"

Dried grass crumpled beneath her fingers as Aria scattered it over the logs, and her hand reached for another log to add to the pile. It was starting to take shape; layer by layer, log by log. She couldn't claim to a frequent inclination towards this type of thing, but it was proving enjoyable - and they weren't even at the fun part yet (really shouldn't be the fun p—oh, not now!). Eyes glanced over the knot Joyce had made, running over its design for an instant until it was in her memory, then she picked up more as she set the fifth log down, quickly binding the layer together.

"I travel a lot too," she started answering Joyce, briefly pausing in her work to look at the part-Vahla as she spoke. "Caught word of the Primeval after a while, liked what they stood for." It was purposefully vague. Aria had no way of knowing Joyce's level of conviction in the gods - she doubted she was the only one not yet fully convinced of their existence, not that she wanted to test that - and though she wasn't insisting that they weren't there, she still preferred not to go into detail when it came to the faith.

The sun dipped further down, and Aria realised for the first time since they'd set to work building the pyre how dark it was getting. It'd almost certainly be dark by the time it was ready to burn.

"How long've you been with the Primeval?" she inquired, sizing up what they had so far of the pyre. It would be ready soon enough if they kept at it, she reckoned.

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

Liked what they stood for.

Joycelyn considered for a moment as she fastened a knot, what did the Primeval stand for? Sometimes they were freedom fighters, other times they were oppressors. To Joycelyn, they represented power, yet they held no land nor commanded standing armies. Their power lay in the peoples they inspired. She supposed most people came for the zealotry and stayed for the parties. And by parties she meant burning captives on pyres.

"I guess you could say it's a family tradition. My father introduced me after the Netherworld incident."

The image of the Butcher King and his fleet of ships, Joycelyn standing at his back on board Ruination, ready to serve her name. Even then she had eyed his back with bloodthirst. He had only taken interest in her as soon as she displayed an affinity with the Force and appropriate levels of ruthlessness.
What did Joycelyn stand for?

"I didn't always stick around." A small chuckle bubbled up in Joyce. "I could never stay still for long enough."

Joycelyn conveniently skipped mentioning her dedication to the Ember of Vahl. The intersection of worship was hotly debated among priests of the Primeval and of the Ember. If asked to choose, she knew she would pick the Ember. Vahl held her heart, and it was in search of Vahla influence that she had returned to the Primeval after Kaine had abandoned it.

She stood for the Ember, then.
The Ember, and Evaelyn.

"Have you ever taken part in the fire festivals before?"

By now, even the tall Vahlacanthix was stretching to reach certain parts of the pyre. Her hair still crested over the top, but only barely.

[member="Aria Vale"]

 

[Vaylin]

Vaylin had arrived on Dantooine along with her Master, [member="Aria Vale"]. But had seperated from her soon after departing the ship. It was the first time she had been on the planet, and as was usual, she was naturally curious to explore. However Aria had insisted on the fact she not stray too far. Not out of a belief that the Zabrak couldn't look out for herself, or that she'd get lost. But rather because she was here as part of the Primeval, and as such should try and take part in the 'festivities'.

It didn't take long for the Zabrak to grow bored. That and she wasn't particularly a fan of what she was wearing.

She was dressed in similiar black robes as her Master. Only Vaylin's had some slight 'alterations', the first being the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. It looked both awkward and hilarious at the same time. Though the Zabrak cared little about that and much preferred being able to move her arms rather than them being buried under the robes.

Vaylin was also tempted to tear at the bottoms, a feeling that was getting increasingly prominent the more she kept stepping and almost tripping on it.

But for now, she stayed her hand and instead focused on herding the supposed prisoners.

A few of them had already been 'prepared', and Vaylin was finally doing her due for the festival.

"Move it, I ain't gonna repeat myself." The Zabrak spoke with an edged tone, marching one of the prisoners towards the pyres that were alight. However as they neared it, the prisoner seemed to clue in on what exactly was going to happen, and tried to make a break for it.

That would've happened if Vaylin hadn't immediately tackled him to the ground. Her robes flapping about rather comically, one of her rolled up arms falling back to its original state in the process.

"Alright, you asked for it." She growled, pulling the prisoner onto his feet and aggressively pushing him onwards. There was probably some type of ritual or procedure that was required before the sacrifice, but right now Vaylin was pissed. And as such, the moment they got within distance of the pyre, she let the prisoner go before promptly kicking him into the fire.