1st post
Novanian Riverlands, Outer-Novania,
Nordland, Archais (Late-Dry Season of 874 ABY)
'AWAKEN, BROTHERS!!!! RISE FROM YOUR DREAMING SLUMBER!!!!
That unforgettable, once-accursed moon from the Godseer's childhood had finally descended over Nordland's lush horizon, with the breeze kicking up a promise of the joyous rainstorms to come, and though they knew the seasonal patterns to be less than mythical, the people of Yorunarr's Tarkinist theocracy would still give thanks to the Ancients at the turns of the seasons symbolically in this fashion, and sincerely in another. All of the gods watching from Melarran's Firmament would know their sincerity, and had long since acquiesced to their advanced knowledge of the cosmos in comparison to all who lived on Archais before, viewing the ceremonies with love and understanding of the beings who rejuvenated them in turn, laying eyes on the proceedings every time as the Arkanian polytheists gave thanks for aiding their living saviour's rise to prominence.
'The Priest-King's Fire is ignited! We have been summoned once more!'
Only the voices who cried out into the night knew their nation's leader personally, something that may not have been so with the likes of Yan'Sharlim Ahan-Karidim, but with the constantly deploying successor, any with the good fortune of meeting Yorunarr would be counted among a very rare few among the Flood-Bringers' majority. Having trained for at least three years, learning and praying to the Ancients devoutly, their chances of catching the Godseer's visits were few and far between, but not for any reason like the maintenance of the mystique the students, his kinsmen and his acolytes had been building up around him; every generation of the returning diaspora, every last living citizen of Novania would hold a special place in the heart of their Priest-King, so no blame of any sort would ever be laid at the feet of his loyal kinsfolk for his illusiveness.
*'Jiyartahk nurr'sennul, Uhannan!'
**"Summoned once more, brothers!"
It was all down to the very ground the large shamanic campus-enclosure had been built on, the very setting that surrounded the school the locals lovingly named,
"The Mother's Orchard", as life had been encouraged to grow over the bones of departed souls the Priest-King still missed dearly, kindly goaded into consecrating the area once more by a man who would have sooner avoided it at almost every opportunity. Staring out into the forest of his nightmares from the entrance of Fort Karidim was bad enough, walking down the same pathways that brought terrifying flashbacks at almost every corner, but actually venturing downhill to his birthplace was correctly assumed to inflict untold harm on his soul; some wounds had cut too deep, some despairs had shaken him too roughly, and being much too young to experience it at the time - but Yorunarr was still healing somehow.
Slow and steady though the process had been, and yet, the Godseer's closest associates and acolytes alike could see the improvement with their own eyes, calming their own hearts as the therapeutic, steady rehabilitation of their Priest-King showed signs of one day being strong enough to confront the harsh, brutal memories that plagued his dreams in perpetuity.
'The Flood-Bringers are on their way, your Majesty. However, I bring news.... Your,"Deathseer", has been following a rather bloody trail over the last few months or so. Nothing but dead Arkanians until he found the lead-suspect's ship leaving the Kamino system, and I have the last transmission he sent before he slipped into the nearest Hyperlane in pursuit.'
The glowing blue robes of the initiates were seen approaching in the distance, giving them five minutes alone at best, and with so many curiosities to consider, the Godseer knew there would be much and more matters to discuss that Yorunarr himself had nowhere near enough time to cover in their entirety, at least, not whilst the rain was still yet to fall on Nordland. Some of his questions would need to wait until the shamanic initiates were all brought into the fold, and though this irritated the Priest-King intensely, Yorunarr would soon find that his mood would darken with the immediate questions to a noticeably heavier extent, with the answer to the first and foremost just seconds away from being the most egregious test of them all. Turning back towards his highest-ranking Adept, the Godseer had the good sense to brace himself for the worst before asking,
'And when Rukkaya followed, predictably maintaining his pursuit.... What world did this killer decide on next, my young friend?', drawing close enough to whisper his question in the process.
'Hoth.... He followed the killer's ship to Hoth, your Majesty.'
Clenching his jaw to keep from screaming at the would-be Dreamseer, the Godseer hissed,
'Of course he did, Sur'Ah....', through his front teeth in poorly-contained fury, fully understanding the implications of such a revelation by the time the rueful laughter took him by surprise. Not only was this move risky for threats the killer in question presented, but Rukkaya was taking inordinately larger risks in the process, most chiefly with the fact the Priest-King's plans for Hoth's Arkanians were likely going to be rushed the the process, and almost as much with the fact the Deathseer (much like the one Rukkaya had been trailing for months before that night) would be against a community that had since grown since Lord Erskine Barran, Jend-Ro Quill and the First Order wiped out their armies ten years before. Relenting as far as his best student was concerned, Yorunarr vented,
'Of all the places in the Galaxy he could've followed them to, Rukkaya just had to stay the course for pursuit to Hoth.... Why are you always like this, Ruk?', looking to the moon as it continued to rise into cloudlessness.
'Please, allow me to play the transmission-recording - just the pertinent part is needed.'
<<Pale is the mare,
Dark is the tale,
Yet Catharsis keeps watch,
Catharsis wards,
And bloody is the trail,
To Hoth this one goes,
To slaughter their folk to the last,
To learn what no-one else knows,
To learn the secrets of the past,
To dance with the crows.>>
'The Deathseer's been channelling again, your Majesty. Hence the weird, poetic cadence.... The man's been putting all his faith into his work, though this worries me slightly.'
'Heh! Under other circumstances, I would - but we haven't the time for that sadly.', the Godseer retorted, though with a lot more warmth than was expected of him before, almost completely freed of his irritation by that point as his adept paced out beyond the fort's entrance, walking a few paces ahead of Yorunarr to sit down at the top of the access-stairway whilst the Priest-King kept his eyes gazing into the skies above. However, the monarch would relent again for the sake of his young friend, sitting down at the top step of the same stairwell as he continued,
'You've got your work cut out for ya tonight, Siyarr. Starting with a busy hour or so on the Fort's HoloNet terminal, then you're going to return to me when you're done there.... I want you to mobilise Firedance Battalion, and to inform the Druid on the current situation, then you're going to bring me some Root-powder - and in that order!', to which a rather worried expression was shot back in reply.
'It shall be done, your Majesty.... But I thought Warplan: MELARRA wasn't ready yet. Or at least, I thought it was only in the early stages of preparation - why the risk?'
I mean, isn't it obvious?
Sighing as the robed procession neared the outer gatehouse, Yorunarr wisely took a moment to himself, clenching his jaw at how much more this realisation infuriated him than any of the revelations Siyarr had burdened him with so far. The anger was still there to see, but the budding Dreamseer would still be glad that none was directed at him this time, relaxing his posture as the Priest-King admitted,
'I believe that the killer, like the main demographic of their victims - is also of Arkanian descent.... Catharsis.', before standing to put on his mask for the initiation proceedings. One last sigh would escape his nostrils as his head shook disapprovingly,
'All of this stinks, but when times call for action, men like you & I have never backed down. Never.... Now go, I'll meet you here when I'm done with the initiations.', leading the way as the duo stood up and walked down to the gatehouse courtyard together.
'The rains will be falling when I return, but please; I ask that you pray to the Firmament for me, tell the gods that my heart was here in my stead!'
They already know, Siyarr.... They have known since you arrived.
PART ONE
Barran Ridge, Northsteeps Mountains,
Veers Basin, Hoth (Winter of 874 ABY)
Simplistic though the design was, and as monumentally magnitudinous as the task was to be, the Priest-King's friends in Hirkenburg were confident that they had achieved what was required for Warplan: Melarran, constructing a chemical weapon of psychological warfare of the likes Novania would never see again after Hoth. But as soon as Yorunarr's contingent had safely gotten the delicate ordnance off the ground, a few of the Goidelic and Archaisian humans began to worry, understanding that the Ancients would find their unwittingly unfortunate presences to unwelcome, already knowing that Lord Michael Barran's friendship with the Ancients granted him rare privileges that would remain out of their reach in perpetuity. For the best, though it was clear this meant relying almost entirely on their gasmasks as soon as
Project: Mother's Bomb, had been detonated, though ultimately, none would regret or rejoice this decision in the end.
Released upon the local masses as they were still approaching orbit, but only as soon as contact could be established with both the Deathseer and the killer of suspected Arkanian-pureblood descent. Yorunarr would have none of the ramifications of dosing potential allies, and especially not whilst in the process of facilitating the growth and prosperity of Novania's already-growing population; or at least, not whilst there were still more minds to awaken from faithless slumbers, and not whilst he wished to protect those whose ideals aligned with his own - no matter how loosely-aligned said ideals were expected to be in the beginning.
'Filled wae about - eh - 1.35 tonne o' the Root powder in compact, block form.... They're gonnae need those mad airlock-suits just t'roll it doun the off-ramp, you Maj-'
Laughing at the Highlander's sudden courtly decorum, the Priest-King then interjected,
'Stop it, Randall. We've known each other long enough for first-name privileges here.', with an affectionate slap to the back of the Goidel's tac-helmet to kindly brook no argument on the matter, with expressed intention to keep his old friend close for the rest of the operation. Not that the Godseer had any reason to worry about his friend going walkabouts, it wasn't in the Kern's nature to step out of line, though the eagerness he was known for often neared McBain to the precipice of getting ahead of himself; easily remedied by an Arkanian who had known the Highlander since the Carlac Rebellion, old friends as according to the short life-expectancy of life as soldiers in the Second Great Hyperspace War. A war that the Priest-King knew he wasn't supposed to survive, especially not after barely surviving his fight against Darth Malus in the closing stages of the Third Imperial Civil War, a fight in particular that proved a perfect precursor to the horrors he would encounter after recovering from it.
'Fair enough, Yorunarr.... In any case, everything's ready for implementation at a moment's notice. Aw we need now is a GPS ping from your spy on the ground noo, an' with that - we can find your killer and proceed fae there.'
With everyone already well-grounded and encamped on the planet's surface already, the procedure was hoped to be quick enough, especially in being smart enough to track the Deathseer's last transmission to the location Yorunarr would consequently choose as his site to pitch and fortify the Novanian base-camp. The last known transmission, recent though it had been, had given no clues as to what Rukkaya was intending to do next; for all that was heard through the static and perpetual digital-humming, as much as it gave the Godseer hope to hear it, was the beautiful voice of the Deathseer in full, chanting repetition. Much was complicated already, even before the Novanians departed in what all felt was at half-cocked preparedness, but in hearing Rukkaya's microtonal grasp of such esoteric scripture, Yorunarr had realised that the situation was becoming more unpredictable with every passing second.
'Good man.... Though I dare say we'll need to implement it soon, I still want to believe Rukkaya survives - I need to believe he survives.'
The Deathseer was chanting with every last shred of emotion he could conjure, driven by some necessity that none could guess but the Priest-King himself, and Rukkaya was begging for help; and in the understanding of what sort of plea everyone was hearing, Yorunarr would bow his head in the realisation that his good friend had been captured, chanting a plea for Sur'Huwal to watch over his people in what was expected to be his last night as a living shaman. Twelve days had passed since, and with no word in all that time, many were assuming the Deathseer to be dead already; though this wouldn't stop the Priest-King of Novania from searching by any means, and certainly not whilst his greatest shaman's fate was still to be ascertained, as ever dutybound to tradition for the sake of a still-healing culture.
If you can hear me, fight - fight for all you are worth. Your blood isn't theirs to spill.
