Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Patience in the Dark (Planet Aphoresis / Grumani Sector)

He could feel the planet. The energy. The death. A plagueworld by designation. A grave. Tomb. The signs led him. Guided him. Whispered. He could feel the pull as he walked onward. Forward. Ahead and behind his minions did the same. His work would begin again. A new task to finish. It was endless. Eternal.

He followed the light. A flicker. A flame in the dark. It burned dull glow like left over coals in an old fire. The mist rolled across the ground. Midnight black. Roiling. Billowing. It tugged along at his boots as he walked. As they walked.

The glow was ahead. Always ahead. He walked on. The keening was ahead. Louder than before. Stronger. Pulling. Shoving. A beacon in the black. A soul. More powerful than the others. More dangerous. Lethal. A test of his abilities. His resolve. His work. It would never end. Or would it. He didn't know. Didn't care. It simply was. Boots crunched silently with each step.

He walked on.
 
Ahead there was light. Bright white. Stark against the black. Shapes could be seen. Some large and foreboding. Angular and massive. Others smaller and moving. Shadows back-lit against the glow. He walked on. The coals burned ahead within the light.

It was a camp. A gathering. Great machines roared and dug. Some ripped at the earth. Others moved the soil slowly. Carefully. Workers operated the machines. Others supervised. Nearby items were arrayed. Most old. Ancient. Decaying. Shards of pottery intermixed with ancient scraps of technology. Picks and shovels lay next to trowels and brushes. It was a work site. An archaeological dig. The signs led on. The coals burned within the dig. They did not see it. Know of it. Only him. Only the whispers. The void.

Unspoken orders and the lead figure moved. It held its blaster ready. Waiting. It disappeared into the darkness nearby. Hidden. Silent. In life, Quan Quo had lived for this kind of work. Died for it. Once his soul would have thrilled at another chance to fight once more. Now it roiled in disgust at its chains. Its bindings. A soul attuned to war forced into thralldom. Slavery. Undeath.

The robed figure stood silently. It pulled a small cylinder from its belt. Held it. Handled it. Seemingly caressing. He moved to the side and left his second minion. Nehnazaz had been a champion of light in life. A Jedi warrior. A hero. Now bound to the darkside. He could feel the resistance. She pushed against the chains. The shackles. Fought against his will. Her soul lost each time. The void was far stronger.

He looked ahead. Before. Brown eyes turned black and the mist boiled up from below. Around. The signs led onward. Forward. Inside the work site. He had never seen such things before. Never seen great stones piled upon another. Yet he knew what this was. What purpose it served. It was a grave. A tomb. Inside held his work. His task. Unending. Eternal. The coals glowed brighter as his work grew near.

It was time.
 
Darth Mortus meditated. It was this pervading energy underlying the rubble and dust that magnetically attracted him and others who wield the dark force. It was a time like now when Ord was confident. His power was at it's apex, his body once again attuned. He could sense their energy, even while masking his own. The interior of the ancient resting place was pitch black, but the bodies converging upon him were as clear as day. Mortus spoke.

"What do you seek to gain from this corpse, human?"
 
A touch on the mind. A brush across the senses. Probing. Searching. Speaking. It called him human. Demanded his purpose. His cause. Desire.

His work called to him. Keened. Sang. The coals grew brighter. Hotter. Only he could see. Could know. Understand. Others couldn't. Wouldn't. It was beyond their understanding. Their grasp. Their minds.

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. How could the unexplainable be explained. Shown. Taught. Black eyes gazed ahead. At the workers. The artifacts. Through them. In them. The void whispered in his ear. Muttered. Hissed. He felt the rush around him. The sing-song howl permeated his senses.

Silent orders from unspoken thoughts and his puppets moved. Bolts of light flew from the darkness. Burst among the workers. The shock and surprise was evident even at range. Most were cut down. Others ran. Some stood in shock.

As the last died or darted into the night, they moved forward. It was nearly time.

The signs led on.

[member="Ord Mantell"]
 
Mortus' dissipated into the shadows, thoroughly interested if this Sith was siphoning Dark Side energy as well.
He followed the dark spirit, sending whispers through the cracks.

"Powerful abilities. Such purpose. You have big plans...I have collected bits and pieces as well. A hundred-year darkness, Sith...a new order to begin again. Imagine a nexus feeding Dark Side energy across the galaxy...a restoration of Dark rule. I've built another chance for us...it will be a beacon of death."


[member="Locke"]
 
Screams filled the night air. Blood carried on wind. The coals burned on. Glowed. Pulsed. Boots crunched silently in the dark as the figures moved through the light. Silent. Faceless. Armor hiding living flesh and dried bone alike. Here and there a flash in the dark. An arc of energy. A stab of brightness. The wounded wailed. The dead lay still. He felt the touch again. The brush on the mind. The other was persistent. Determined. Foolish.

It called into the dark expecting an echo. A return. A voice. Words cast into the void only found emptiness. Stillness. Hollow and vacant. Only silence could exist within. Without. It spoke without words. Sang without voice. Called to him noiselessly across the void. To use the darkness was to grasp at power. To accept it. Embrace it. To welcome it was to become power. To understand the silence. The void.

Reality required emptiness. The void required reality. Harmonious, yet chaotic. Light and dark. Life and death. A coin in simplicity. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Ahead the coals burned. The signs led on. He could feel the soul below. Slumbering. Waiting. The signs guided him onward. He felt the Other following. Trailing. Waiting. It spoke of empires and fate. Of riches and power. Understanding was beyond it. Above it. Smoke on the wind. Tangible, yet untouchable. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps never. Perhaps not. He opened the void. The darkness. Revealed it to the Other. Raw blackness unchecked. Unfettered. It pulsed in the dark. In the black. A violent wave of midnight felt only by those who could.

Perhaps it would destroy the Other. Perhaps it would teach. Perhaps not. It didn't matter. Wouldn't matter.

His work was at hand. They walked onward. Down. Inside the grave. The tomb. He felt the rush as the time drew near. The time for his work. His task.

His plan.

[member="Ord Mantell"]
 
Stone steps lead down. Deeper. Dark halls and ancient rooms could be seen. Felt. The air was dry and cold. Not quite stale. Not quite fresh. A new discovery. Recent. Fresh. He stepped over a new corpse, the body of a worker. The figures moved on as he swapped magazines in his blaster.

He felt the pull leading him. Leading them. A draw. A calling. A beacon felt, but not seen. Touched, but not heard. A heartbeat in the dark.

The light of the coals guided him. The signs were clear. His task grew closer with each step. Each hallway.

Each death.
 
Corruption seeped into the corners of the crypt.

Where death and decay converged with life he found himself on bloodied knees. All about him darkness convened. No light permeated the stagnant halls within which countless souls had been laid to unrest. Tormented. Clinging to the depravity they had known in life. Incapable of moving on.

Their lamentations had clawed into his every waking moment. Each thought contained their wails like some perverse symphony, a caterwaul which frayed every last nerve. And yet, in some respect, their orchestrated misery soothed his disfigured soul. He fed from it, drew their misery and pain until the amalgamation was all that sustained him in his atrophy.

The tomb was as much his now as it was theirs. No stone bore his name, no plaque to disguise the monster which lay encased within, yet it had claimed him as its own.

For so long now he had knelt in place. Without sustenance, without motion, he could feel his body simultaneously weaken and strengthen as that same darkness which lay heavy on the air dug into his core. Time had become meaningless, inconsequential, the relic caught within his grasp revealing to him the mystery of its past. The horrors which had unfolded.

It all merged into nothingness, beyond the realm of reason, until he could no longer comprehend if he was living or succumbing to the embrace of death.

Such was a dance he longed to tame, to control...

[member="Locke"]
 

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