Boethiah
Dark Messiah
reminiscence
ɹǝɯᴉuᴉsɔǝuɔǝ
Grassy plains flow under the blue; the hush wind left a kiss on the herd. The farmers kept their crops well to feed the hungry and desperate... The Primeval weren't always this dark, once they were simply lost amongst terror itself, the darkness left upon the galaxy like a cruel birthmark that was hidden due to embarrassment. They didn't choose to flee, but they did choose to fight. A fight they knew they could not win but that isn't why they did so; they had hope. Hope that in their sacrifice a message could be displayed to end the cruelest of terrors. Wars, famine, murder, corruption, and zealousness.
Thinking of the past -- life before all this -- was the only touching thought given to the children born in the deception of pain and death. To believe you're already dead, to believe that salvation exists only for the strong; these are not conditions for compassion and so it is in the hidden texts, most destroyed, that any chance of righteous redemption exists. To redeem oneself from The Primeval was not a task openly taken and those who do generally fail; they and their bloodline purged from existence. Is it any wonder why these zealots are able to slaughter billions, burn worlds into ash, and destroy the imagination of children? There is no remorse when life no longer matters. The heart of their people was taken away long ago by the one who they praised most. A prophet regarded for his unconventional wisdom but more so his unwavering compassion for all life; a man whom they trusted as their hero and savior, a man of true humility. The Prophet is no longer remembered by any name -- only simply that and perhaps it was his own choice but some do remember the truth of his origins. He was a farmer like many others who made life under the soft laid light of Umbara's shadowy landscape and chose to bring light to his people. Like many he also had a family, fears, and bent knee to the will of masters aplenty. This very world that had bore scars of wars and struggles too many times to count. In service to their own interests and feinting alliance with the light led Republic for countless ages until it became convenient for them not to.
He rose to defend the people of his world not because he wanted power but because he feared the systematic destruction of all those he loved -- of all those who love -- and aside war he saw only one cure. Compassion for life in its most primitive form; there was no ego or ambition just words. He was remembered for being the one who fought with his tongue not by blade or rifle, but by wisdom and persuasiveness. Of course there were those who felt threatened because others chose to listen; they tried to kill an innocent man who only spoke of peace and love because they feared he bore the same greed they did. A lust for power and authority insatiably by any opportunity to grow it. The First Prophet in the twilight of his time on Umbara had many followers, and many others listened to him from across the galaxy like heeding whispers from a dying friend. This was what lead to their exile; the peak of war had brought Umbara to its knees and a jealous leader saw threat in the man who never took a life or brought destruction to his people. A man who wanted nothing but fairness and humility in content.
Countless were slaughtered at the feet of this jealous warlord, a person who feared nothing but the eradication of their wealth and power. So then The Prophet struck a deal; he begged the Warlord to allow them to take the oldest ships in the mothball fleets and leave the system forever, stripped of any weapons and armaments and only with what supplies they procured from other worlds. The Warlord of course grew suspicious but when rumors in his court spread that the Prophet had gained terrifying powers capable of wiping worlds, he relented: granting the prophet his wish. The exiled followers saw their world from the starry expanse like an intricate pearl delicately disappearing amongst the darkness. Years passed and the darkness inside their Prophet grew, the darkness that lead to The Primeval and the fear of those faithful to the old ways.
To reminisce of the past -- before the Darkness -- is the most heinous and blasphemous crime one can commit and so it would be the Bleeding Sun to take up this call; to eliminate all heresy.
Breath.
Anja sat inside her personal chambers; wearing the traditional garments of a warrior-in-training. She preferred these green robes held together by a simple rope, they breathed well and provided great flexibility and kept her aloft and agile. Her hair was tied up in the traditional manner as well, a simple knot keeping it from covering the back of her neck and away from the ears. The Host Lord normally wore her armour -- a symbol of her authority -- but when she was alone, absolutely alone, she felt at her true self. For few would suspect that she meditated deeply on the heretical documents of the old ways. The original path of the First Prophet. Her curiosity was known amongst the highest of her people to be insatiable and as it may be her greatest weapon; it will also likely be her greatest weakness and perhaps even her downfall. For now, however, the Umbaran woman simply prayed to her Lost Gods; asking for guidance amongst the stars and to lead her people to them successfully. She had just concluded a diplomatic effort with the One Sith, offering them her aid and that of The Primeval. Her scepter -- given to her as as a simple of her position, her most prized weapon was just recently polished. The metalwork bore a simplistic design that lead up to the fearsome claw-like head that acted both as a mace and a spear, the weapon itself equally able to be fought with like a short staff.
Meditation kept her free of torment and stress; her mind open to learning and growth in power. It was time for her to master not only that in which she was taught but her new-found powers in the force as well. She was ready for the war ahead of them, the invasions to come, and the end when they finally face their Gods.
[member="Jorda Ulluto"]
ɹǝɯᴉuᴉsɔǝuɔǝ
Grassy plains flow under the blue; the hush wind left a kiss on the herd. The farmers kept their crops well to feed the hungry and desperate... The Primeval weren't always this dark, once they were simply lost amongst terror itself, the darkness left upon the galaxy like a cruel birthmark that was hidden due to embarrassment. They didn't choose to flee, but they did choose to fight. A fight they knew they could not win but that isn't why they did so; they had hope. Hope that in their sacrifice a message could be displayed to end the cruelest of terrors. Wars, famine, murder, corruption, and zealousness.
Thinking of the past -- life before all this -- was the only touching thought given to the children born in the deception of pain and death. To believe you're already dead, to believe that salvation exists only for the strong; these are not conditions for compassion and so it is in the hidden texts, most destroyed, that any chance of righteous redemption exists. To redeem oneself from The Primeval was not a task openly taken and those who do generally fail; they and their bloodline purged from existence. Is it any wonder why these zealots are able to slaughter billions, burn worlds into ash, and destroy the imagination of children? There is no remorse when life no longer matters. The heart of their people was taken away long ago by the one who they praised most. A prophet regarded for his unconventional wisdom but more so his unwavering compassion for all life; a man whom they trusted as their hero and savior, a man of true humility. The Prophet is no longer remembered by any name -- only simply that and perhaps it was his own choice but some do remember the truth of his origins. He was a farmer like many others who made life under the soft laid light of Umbara's shadowy landscape and chose to bring light to his people. Like many he also had a family, fears, and bent knee to the will of masters aplenty. This very world that had bore scars of wars and struggles too many times to count. In service to their own interests and feinting alliance with the light led Republic for countless ages until it became convenient for them not to.
He rose to defend the people of his world not because he wanted power but because he feared the systematic destruction of all those he loved -- of all those who love -- and aside war he saw only one cure. Compassion for life in its most primitive form; there was no ego or ambition just words. He was remembered for being the one who fought with his tongue not by blade or rifle, but by wisdom and persuasiveness. Of course there were those who felt threatened because others chose to listen; they tried to kill an innocent man who only spoke of peace and love because they feared he bore the same greed they did. A lust for power and authority insatiably by any opportunity to grow it. The First Prophet in the twilight of his time on Umbara had many followers, and many others listened to him from across the galaxy like heeding whispers from a dying friend. This was what lead to their exile; the peak of war had brought Umbara to its knees and a jealous leader saw threat in the man who never took a life or brought destruction to his people. A man who wanted nothing but fairness and humility in content.
Countless were slaughtered at the feet of this jealous warlord, a person who feared nothing but the eradication of their wealth and power. So then The Prophet struck a deal; he begged the Warlord to allow them to take the oldest ships in the mothball fleets and leave the system forever, stripped of any weapons and armaments and only with what supplies they procured from other worlds. The Warlord of course grew suspicious but when rumors in his court spread that the Prophet had gained terrifying powers capable of wiping worlds, he relented: granting the prophet his wish. The exiled followers saw their world from the starry expanse like an intricate pearl delicately disappearing amongst the darkness. Years passed and the darkness inside their Prophet grew, the darkness that lead to The Primeval and the fear of those faithful to the old ways.
To reminisce of the past -- before the Darkness -- is the most heinous and blasphemous crime one can commit and so it would be the Bleeding Sun to take up this call; to eliminate all heresy.
Breath.
Anja sat inside her personal chambers; wearing the traditional garments of a warrior-in-training. She preferred these green robes held together by a simple rope, they breathed well and provided great flexibility and kept her aloft and agile. Her hair was tied up in the traditional manner as well, a simple knot keeping it from covering the back of her neck and away from the ears. The Host Lord normally wore her armour -- a symbol of her authority -- but when she was alone, absolutely alone, she felt at her true self. For few would suspect that she meditated deeply on the heretical documents of the old ways. The original path of the First Prophet. Her curiosity was known amongst the highest of her people to be insatiable and as it may be her greatest weapon; it will also likely be her greatest weakness and perhaps even her downfall. For now, however, the Umbaran woman simply prayed to her Lost Gods; asking for guidance amongst the stars and to lead her people to them successfully. She had just concluded a diplomatic effort with the One Sith, offering them her aid and that of The Primeval. Her scepter -- given to her as as a simple of her position, her most prized weapon was just recently polished. The metalwork bore a simplistic design that lead up to the fearsome claw-like head that acted both as a mace and a spear, the weapon itself equally able to be fought with like a short staff.
Meditation kept her free of torment and stress; her mind open to learning and growth in power. It was time for her to master not only that in which she was taught but her new-found powers in the force as well. She was ready for the war ahead of them, the invasions to come, and the end when they finally face their Gods.
[member="Jorda Ulluto"]