Private Remains

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Aether Verd
​

Night had already swallowed most of the valley by the time Mortyra arrived.

Fog drifted low across the uneven ground in slow-moving currents, thick enough in places to conceal entire sections of jagged stone beneath it. Deeper within the valley, the sensation within the Force grew heavier. Not simply darkness. Age. Saturation. The feeling of something buried too long beneath layers of death, ritual, and time.

Ahead, the waterfall thundered endlessly through the fog. Occasionally, another sound slipped beneath it. Distant cracking stone. Water dripping deeper within unseen caverns. Low wind moving through dead branches overhead.

No wildlife. Not even insects.

Mortyra continued forward through the mist without slowing.

Tonight, she wore none of the gold, silk, or ceremonial elegance normally associated with her. Everything about the figure moving through the valley had been stripped down into something colder. More practical.

Black armorweave cloth rested close against her frame beneath sections of fitted protective plating. A reinforced blast vest guarded her torso, while lighter armor segments protected her shoulders and sides without sacrificing mobility.

A long black half-cloak rested over her weapons, obscuring their outlines beneath the dark fabric.

Segmented phrik plating rested across the backs of her gloves and along her forearms in overlapping blackened sections. One gloved hand occasionally brushed near the lightsaber hilt positioned horizontally near the small of her back. A habit more than conscious thought. Two frag grenades rested secured against her belt opposite the saber.

Most of the material absorbed surrounding light rather than reflecting it, allowing her silhouette to dissolve repeatedly into shadow.

A duraplast helmet concealed her face entirely. Smooth. Dark. Featureless aside from the narrow blackened visor stretching across the front. Inside, faint red and pale blue symbols shifted silently across the HUD display as she cycled through vision modes. Low-light overlays sharpened the terrain first. Thermal signatures next.

Nothing living registered nearby.

The helmet’s internal filter muted the smell of moisture and decay while feeding cleaned air steadily through the respirator system beneath the mask. Somewhere deeper in the valley, sulfuric traces had already begun appearing within the atmosphere readings. But not enough to concern her yet.

Rumors of Sith alchemy relics and fragmented records had brought her here.

Mortyra slowed. Black fabric shifted softly beneath the wind while pale vapor rolled around her boots. Behind the dark visor of the helmet, golden eyes remained fixed on the enormous door concealed behind the waterfall. For several moments, she simply watched it. Then one gloved hand moved toward the hilt at the small of her back. She unclipped it, bringing the hilt to her side.

A sharp crimson blade erupted violently into the fog with a low mechanical snap-hiss. Light spilled across wet stone and falling water alike. Steam curled immediately where rain and mist touched the unstable energy.

Without hesitation, Mortyra stepped forward beneath the waterfall and drove the blade directly into the ancient door.

 

[Aether Verd]

Wearing:
Armor - Darksaber - Mask of Mandalore
.​

NETRA'YAIM, KRANT

Pain.

The sensation was quick and sharp, as if a knife had been suddenly driven into the ribs. Its presence was a warning: an angry rebuke of the crimson lightsaber which had invaded the ancient stone. And the one suffering this pain? He was an armored figure seated upon a throne. The ancient fortress, hidden by fog, by valley, and by the very Force, was many things to the man. A lifetime ago, it had been a place called home. It was the source of...joyful memories.

Yet now? Its purpose was more aligned with its origins. For though his lineage had claimed the land and built a home upon it, the very bones of the fortress were Dark in origin. Eons ago, a temple once stood defiant in this very place. Here, the Dark Side was worshipped. Here, the abyssal taint still resided in each and every stone. And as Alor of the House? Aether communed with these very stones.

Thus, when the intrusion began, the fortress reacted in a way that only the Darkness could: pain.

From behind his helm, the Mand'alor's eyes snapped open. A sudden huff of frustration fell from his lips as the sensation rattled in his mind. He had come to prepare for what laid upon the horizon: for the chaos and battles that were sure to crash upon his people. Thus, he communed with the abyss - testing and honing his own might against the ancient Dark. This interruption? This incursion? It would not do.

He rose at once and thunderous steps bore him into the dimly lid corridors of his home.

Meanwhile, as the crimson saber ripped through ancient stone, the interloper would be greeted by the presence of the Dark. Hunger, Cold, and Angry. Her presence was regarded and was deemed unwelcome. Before her laid an entry hall that was neglected to time. As if a decade had gone by without care. A crimson carpet, tattered and worn, stretched forth to "greet" her. Empty suits of armor stood on each wall, as if they were attending a silent vigil.

But alas, they would be silent no more.

For upon crossing the threshold, the beskar'gam stirred. The din of metal moving would fill the hall, as hollow shells began to defend. Blades in hand, they marched against the intruder - for this affront would be denied.

Meya Liefi

 

[Meya Liefi]

Tag: Aether Verd​

A sense of danger prickled up Meya’s spine the moment she crossed the threshold. Whispers of the Dark Side came from all corners of the building, carrying with them an unmistakable sense of hostility. This, perhaps, had been a mistake, but the witch had little time to dwell on it before everything seemed to begin moving toward her.

She disappeared in a plume of green mist to avoid the initial attacks, reappearing several meters behind a swath of the armoured figures. Dathomiri words slipped quietly from her lips as her left hand swept through the air.

A wave of corrosive, magick-imbued acid streamed from her fingertips as it tugged on the ichor of Dathomir running through her.

Meya liked to think she had discovered and refined the particular application of magick herself. The truth was that someone else may have discovered it long before her. Though it hardly mattered if that were true. She had made it her own.

The acid was designed to cling to whatever it struck rather than run from its surface. If it made contact, heat was meant to rapidly follow, spreading through the corrosive substance and gradually raising the temperature of whatever lay beneath it.

Of course, it would not simply melt the armour. Beskar was not so easily defeated. That was never the intention. Against beskar, prolonged exposure might eventually leave the metal glowing dull red, compromising the plating and making it more vulnerable to subsequent strikes.

Her lightsaber came up as she moved, crimson blade angling across her body as she retreated a few steps. She kept her guard between herself and the… attackers, ready to intercept another blow or answer with a strike of her own should an opening present itself.

At the back of her mind, her senses tingled again.

Something else was coming.

Something more dangerous. More powerful.

Truth be told, it was not merely the growing danger that had begun to make her reconsider the wisdom of being here. Meya put herself in danger constantly. Even sitting aboard her own ship, enemies of her cartel plotted her death, and some of their lackeys might very well have already slipped into her ranks.

It was this places obvious connection to the Mandalorians that concerned her the most. The possibility of bringing their anger down on Dathomir, or at least her clan, because of her actions, was not palatable.