Devil's Daughter
“Leave me.” The Temple of Nussyn in Canthar was once more resplendent after the Ssi Ruuk attacks. A bastion of the religious and politically savvy, the Temple once more took on a guest of high prestige. Amidst the narrow bustle of bodies, a youth in the blossom of her teenaged years took commanding steps toward the main altar and holiest of places.
“Princess, do you require…” The Deacon bowed her head, meaning no disrespect but that to serve.
“I require to be left alone. No one is to enter the Temple while I have use of it.” But her father, frigid eyes bespoke of the only acceptable entrant, a man more feared than any the Galaxy through. “Thank you, Deacon.”
[member="Darth Prazutis"], Shadow Hand of the Sith Empire, Sovereign-Twin of Panatha. None could deny Braxus Zambrano any entry or exeunt he wished, and as his daughter was yet a fledgeling in their ways, the Shadow’s cast was mighty.
Draped in a deep burgundy chersilk dress with embroidered finery, undercut with a high necked spidersilk under-tunic, Vigdis stepped calm and poised to the Altar. Her attendants, bodyguards and those denizens in the Temple took their leave, the bodyguards ensuring all exits were held in their control. Once the footsteps receded, Vigdis Zambrano, Daughter of Panatha, knelt before the image of the Goddess to whom she was dedicated by her mother’s House. Incense self-lit, smoke curling toward the ceiling and filling the room with the resinous fragrance of frankincense. Water from a nearby fountain burbled, the only sound.
A shuddered exhale peppered out of young lungs. In the intervening years, Vigdis grew petite of stature, but wiry, with a health to her cheeks her childhood maladies denied. Her fingers quivered as she clutched each in a web with the others. She inhaled and held her breath until her lungs fought the act, letting the exhale become a signature of hopeful relief.
The conquering of Mandalorian lands sent rigid chills down Vigdis, her father ever farther from her during his decimations. A retreat from Bastion, from the cut-throat proclivities of Courtly life relieved none of the foreboding in Vigdis’ spirit. Her powers continued to grow, chaotic, but measured by her father’s teachings.
They were the Shadows of Panatha, the Lord of Lies outstretched his hand and destroyed anything within its’ vacancy of Light. Vigdis tried ever harder to embolden her father’s pride, to instil his teachings into the pores of every centimetre of skin… and the ghostly apparitions she witnessed since childhood grew in number and frequency. Even now at the Temple, although alone, the room was mired by impressions of servants to the goddess, Deacons passed, emboldened pleas, impressions of centuries of Panathan life.
And the lingering impress of Vigdis’ first kills roaring at her back. It seemed anathema that a Zambrano might feel guilt or conflict over death created, but for the nature of her first blood shed. The Dark was a crueller master than Darth Prazutis, and Vigdis shuddered at her own ignorance.
"Is stone the only medium for a goddess to look powerful and beyond reproach? Is it my flesh which is failing me, or have I not grown a hard enough heart of stone, Nussyn? Goddess of beauty and war... what could I be the goddess of today, eh? Shaking fingers? Tell me... how do I make what must be done easier to do? It can't always be this terrible." Focusing on nothing but the image of the goddess, and her own breathing, Vigdis knew despite her attempts at handling all by herself, this was one moment in which she required her father’s council.
He who knew how best to deal death would know best how to conquer the murderer’s sting.
“Princess, do you require…” The Deacon bowed her head, meaning no disrespect but that to serve.
“I require to be left alone. No one is to enter the Temple while I have use of it.” But her father, frigid eyes bespoke of the only acceptable entrant, a man more feared than any the Galaxy through. “Thank you, Deacon.”
[member="Darth Prazutis"], Shadow Hand of the Sith Empire, Sovereign-Twin of Panatha. None could deny Braxus Zambrano any entry or exeunt he wished, and as his daughter was yet a fledgeling in their ways, the Shadow’s cast was mighty.
Draped in a deep burgundy chersilk dress with embroidered finery, undercut with a high necked spidersilk under-tunic, Vigdis stepped calm and poised to the Altar. Her attendants, bodyguards and those denizens in the Temple took their leave, the bodyguards ensuring all exits were held in their control. Once the footsteps receded, Vigdis Zambrano, Daughter of Panatha, knelt before the image of the Goddess to whom she was dedicated by her mother’s House. Incense self-lit, smoke curling toward the ceiling and filling the room with the resinous fragrance of frankincense. Water from a nearby fountain burbled, the only sound.
A shuddered exhale peppered out of young lungs. In the intervening years, Vigdis grew petite of stature, but wiry, with a health to her cheeks her childhood maladies denied. Her fingers quivered as she clutched each in a web with the others. She inhaled and held her breath until her lungs fought the act, letting the exhale become a signature of hopeful relief.
The conquering of Mandalorian lands sent rigid chills down Vigdis, her father ever farther from her during his decimations. A retreat from Bastion, from the cut-throat proclivities of Courtly life relieved none of the foreboding in Vigdis’ spirit. Her powers continued to grow, chaotic, but measured by her father’s teachings.
They were the Shadows of Panatha, the Lord of Lies outstretched his hand and destroyed anything within its’ vacancy of Light. Vigdis tried ever harder to embolden her father’s pride, to instil his teachings into the pores of every centimetre of skin… and the ghostly apparitions she witnessed since childhood grew in number and frequency. Even now at the Temple, although alone, the room was mired by impressions of servants to the goddess, Deacons passed, emboldened pleas, impressions of centuries of Panathan life.
And the lingering impress of Vigdis’ first kills roaring at her back. It seemed anathema that a Zambrano might feel guilt or conflict over death created, but for the nature of her first blood shed. The Dark was a crueller master than Darth Prazutis, and Vigdis shuddered at her own ignorance.
"Is stone the only medium for a goddess to look powerful and beyond reproach? Is it my flesh which is failing me, or have I not grown a hard enough heart of stone, Nussyn? Goddess of beauty and war... what could I be the goddess of today, eh? Shaking fingers? Tell me... how do I make what must be done easier to do? It can't always be this terrible." Focusing on nothing but the image of the goddess, and her own breathing, Vigdis knew despite her attempts at handling all by herself, this was one moment in which she required her father’s council.
He who knew how best to deal death would know best how to conquer the murderer’s sting.