Vrrk
Tribal Chieftain of Clanhold Loa
MUSTAFAR - TULRUS FOREST - CLANHOLD LOA FORTRESS
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Funeral Procession...
There is grief. This emotion is one that Vrrk is familiar with - and yet, it burns, hot, heavy, like flowing lava in his heart that torched all feelings of happiness to smoldering cinders. His brothers and sisters had been the first - they who had sought to collectivize, to free their people from the chains of economic oppression. Then the Sith slew them where they stood; a reminder of "Sith generosity", they called it, that they had been given such mercilessly quick deaths. This was no mercy, for it was naught but murder of the highest degree. Then his mother, whose illness caught up with her, and whose body he carried to the lava flows, for his father ailed and could not do such. They could not afford the medicine to keep her alive, and the glimmer of light within her eyes died equally as did a piece of himself that day.
And now too came his father on his deathbed to join her soon.
He did not want to bring another of his family to the flows. He did not want to see another loved one immolated by the flames, a person he adored and loved and venerated. Yet...
Time waited for no one, nor did the sickly hand of death that loomed over his father like a ghoulish specter await his prayers. He allowed the priest his time to sanctify and ordain his father - to bless him for the life beyond, for his lifefire would join the soul-spirit of Mustafar alongside its other martyred children. There is the clank of heavy boots as the Priest entered the room and nodded silently to Vrrk.
It was time.
Vrrk felt pain, agony, grief, well within his heart with every aching step. His father's frail frame, broken by the touch of malignant disease. And as his father's rheumy eyes softly peered at Vrrk, vision beset by the cataracts that had grown, his voice, his question, brought Vrrk to that despair.
"Son. Come to me. Take your helmet off. We have little time to speak before my lifefire will go on to join your mother and siblings."
This gentle request was not one Vrrk refused, and as heavy, gauntlet-clad hands pulled free the sealed helmet with a hiss of air, his snout quivered as his eyes softened. A gauntlet found itself shucked, and the feeling of warm, vibrant, life-filled flesh against the chill of his father's palm felt alien. He did not speak; a nod graced his father from Vrrk - the willingness to listen. To hear his father's last words. To hear that which was inevitable to come.
"My son. You have done us proud. Promise me... Promise me, that you will bring Mustafar and her people to freedom. Promise me, that you will know only war, so that one day, your children and generations after will only know peace. Promise me, my son, that when you one day join us, you will live a life with no regret and only pride. My son. My boy."
His father's hand gently reached upward to caress the quivering cheeks of Vrrk, as he felt like breaking. A hand softly clasped his father's, and then a determined nod - weakened by the emotional turmoil of this moment, and yet, resolved to do as his father asked. A good man. A gentle man. Vrrk's father watched with ebbing, waning breath, as Vrrk responded.
"I will, Father. I will bring our people justice and freedom. I promise, Father."
His father merely smiled as softly as he could, snout lifting a touch upwards, before he spoke one last time.
"I am proud of you, my son."
Then, as Vrrk gently held his father's hand, Father's eyes softly rolled up. His hand let itself be freed - slackened fingers and limb hanging from the cot-side. Vrrk did not need to call the Priest in - his father had joined the soul-spirit of Mustafar, as had his mother, as had his siblings. There could be no tears shed from his own eyes - Vrrk knew no Mustafarian was capable of crying. But for a moment, there is only silence. There is only the stilling, the stop, of time, as his unarmored hand softly shut his father's eyes, and Vrrk's forehead pressed against his father's clammy cranium.
"Goodbye, father. I will honor us all."
As he redonned his armor, as his fellow Clanhold watched once he exited with his father's skeletal body, the priest only shot a wordless gaze to Vrrk. A soft nod, and then it was time. Every step felt like a dagger slipping deep into his heart, prying free his emotional pain bit by bit. And yet, he held firm. He held resilient. He held stoic, as his father's body was taken to the flowing lava of the Tulrus Forest. Softly, ignoring the heat that sought to consume him, his father was placed on the skiff-cask, and pushed out into the lava. There is a moment that passed - one, two, three, before the skiff started to sink gently as his father's body caught aflame.
He could not bear the pain. But Vrrk did not look away either - his father's immolation to join the soul-spirit of Mustafar deserved nothing but the highest of respect.
Then, his father's body sunk within the flowing lava, and he was no more.
As he returned to his Clanhold's Fortress, many gathered. All called his Chieftain, yet their despondent looks spoke volumes. Grief. Sorrow. Despair. His father's legacy was a strong one - it would be one he planned on dedicating his life to fill. Collecting his vibrostaff and stepping forward into the gathering hall, Vrrk took note of his warriors who he assembled. Fellow Southern Mustafarians, Northern Mustafarians, even those rare few outsiders who, while he never trusted, had earned his grudging respect. Slamming the butt of his vibro-staff against the ground, Vrrk stated his words carefully, yet with passion and vigor. It was time. He would not hesitate - the freedom of Mustafar awaited, and his own personal grief buried itself. His people needed him. Mustafar's people needed him.
"My warriors! Tonight, we grieve, we mourn the loss of my father, Chieftain Mvvk, and we honor his memory. But tomorrow on first ashfall, we will march. The Sith, and so many others, have diminished Mustafar's lifefires - it is but a fraction of what it once was. And today, we will restore it - us, who are stewards and caretakers of its flames. Today, we fight and dedicate ourselves to war, so that our children know only generations forever-more of peace! My warriors, tomorrow we start the beginning of the end for our colonizers. Tomorrow, we strike a new chapter in Mustafar's storied history! Tomorrow, my warriors, we will stand, we will fight, and we will prove victorious! Grieve tonight, my warriors, for tomorrow, we shall rout the enemy fiercely and free our home! Come, my warriors! Ready yourselves for battle on the morn! For they shall learn our fury, our cause, our aims, are noble and true against their wicked ways and false idols! Come, my warriors! For tomorrow, WE MARCH!"
And with that, there is a moment, before his warriors, and his people, cheered. Hope bloomed on their features as their bodies shook with excitement. It was time to beget Mustafar's freedom from the outsider, from the hated colonizer. And with it, as they dismissed to go ready their lava flea mounts, to engage in last prayers or conversations with loved ones, and to dine upon what could be their last meals, Vrrk stood alone. This weight would be an impressive one - but he would not break, he would not yield. Not until Mustafar's freedom raged as true as its lifefires burned freely once more!
"Father, I will bring honor onto our people again as I will bring freedom unto our home. I will see you one day again, Father. But for now, I must fight - forgive me for this long wait until my being joins Mustafar's lifefires forevermore with you and our family."
And thus, as his soft words were heard by himself, it was time to prepare. For tomorrow would be the beginning of the end for those who dared to oppress Mustafar and its children...
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