The Shores of Cinder

[Deus Gor Bel]

The Shores of Cinder​

"I remember I awoke to the stench of palpable heat, a brazen wind blowing ash overhead and stinging my skin; I remember how much the taste of the liquid flame, blood red in color, contrasted so haughtily the bright azure heavens above. The landscape - beautiful, superb - black volcanic sand in contrast to the bright flux of magma and air; the locals, not so much, ugly beasts with bulbous eyes and the odor of sweat."
- Deus Gor Bel

A sullen beep fragmented the silence; an innocent ploy to attract Deus' distant attention, and it worked; he was a callous man, but not one void of concern for his necessities and this droid was one of them. A R4 model agromech droid, designated 'sixty-eight' as deemed fit by his developer; though he had recently acquired a rather unfitting nickname of 'Jeeves' at the behest of Gor Bel. It was more so from the ploy of self-gratification, wrought by Deus' ego, than the droid's own character; Deus knew nothing about communication with mechanical intelligences, and would simply translate the pitches of their seemingly repetitious vocalizations into whatever he wanted to hear: "What's that, Jeeves?" Deus inquired in a gravely voice, kicking up small clouts of volcanic soil as he marched down the shore of a river of magma; he adjusted his helmet, to slip an arthritis-plagued set of digits beneath and wipe away the collected sloughs of sweat. "It's too hot? Don't be such a bantha-suckling jawa; it's the crap like this that makes the pools of ease all the more enjoyable! Discard your fears and grind your gears, we'll find a ship soon!"

"Boop," responded Jeeves defiantly.

"I'm glad you agree."

Such was the depth of their conversations: a self-satisfactory ploy for the sake of Deus' amusement, much to R4-68's unfathomable annoyance. However, the droid would follow along, down the trench of plowed earth so eagerly divided by Deus as he marched down the cinderblown beach with startling naivety; before his wide kicks, like a child, marching home from school, the soft sand parted like the Red Sea before Moses, and the pair commenced their journey with a rather overzealous pace. Yet, unbeknownst to either, no town lay ahead of them; neigh, the Sullustans dwelt in the subterranean cities below; they marched only to a vast, collective lake of crimson lava, whose intense heat simmered beneath the cool morning sun. As they came upon it, Deus calmly sat upon the pallid earth, fingers worming into the sallow sand; he smiled beneath that helm, as if such a sight was to be expected all along. Indeed, it retained its own beauty, perhaps more spicy than the traditional flavor of gorgeousness, as Deus would word it; but all the same, in the contrast of brightness - between the cool sky and warm crust, one would be hard-pressed not to stay and wait a moment; wait to hammer such sights into unforgettable memory.

 

[Morningstaarr]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"]
Staar had sensed the man kneeling in the sand a few klicks from him. He walked in through the dark sand until he was upon the man.
"Greetings"

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Morningstaarr"]

Deus cast only a small glance towards the man, but welcomed him warmly, much to the contrast to his own dismissive body language. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he replied softly, his hand scooping away the earth and casting the rubble over himself in an almost symbolic rite; only to be brushed away by a sweeping fist. The man lurched to his feet; "Boop!" exclaimed Jeeves, the small agromech droid; Deus approached, hesitantly - a clear sense of distrust apparent in how he handled himself: the steady shifting of wait, preparing for the bolt of escape, the slow draw of his arms, pushing his momentum at opportune angle to better dodge and riposte. Yet, should there be no hostile attack, he would only extend his hand in friendship and welcome: "Deus Gor Bel; bounty hunter and mercenary for hire."

 

[Morningstaarr]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"] "Staar, Sith Acolyte." He extended his hand in greetings.

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Morningstaarr"]

"Sith Acolyte," Deus quietly repeats as he takes the man hand, granting an absurdly tight grip - though not wholly crushing - and a firm shake before releasing; his hand deftly retreating to his belt, stealthily fingering a plain-bladed knife concealed beneath. "Many would not so boldly announce such allegiance, especially one so distant from their territory." He relinquishes his worry, the panic subsides; the hand retreats from the weapon and calm returns to the throne of muse. Instead, his hands are gingerly placed on either hip in a rather impressive display of stance, and his eyes, unseen, dart over the man, inspecting with a rather stern fixation; judging of his potential. "Hiring perhaps?" he finally asks, after a moment of strained silence; "Perhaps need someone dead, captured? Got a battle that needs fought?" He raises a jabbing thumb, throwing it back towards his breast in a powerful stroke: "I'm your man, and, as chance would have it, I'm working for a discount this week only."

 

[Morningstaarr]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"] "I'm not a bigwig yet so I do not acquire your services, yet. If there is some sort of business card I could get maybe I could call you up, you could kill a select Acolyte or Lord and I can reward you handsomely."

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Morningstaarr"]

"No business card, but perhaps we say that the Force will guide us together again," he hugs himself as the philosiphized fantasy passes his cracked lips: "Or you can contact me, soon, through the established networks; Sith, right? Lot's of resources? Ask for Yul Grimm in Bleak Star Cantina - Coruscant; you know, coordinates zero, zero, zero? Yeah, that place, your capital; I operate part time for a guild of his, you'll be able to hire me through him. I never give out personal or contact information directly - you know, because I fething kill people for a living." He snaps his fingers sharply, earning a sharp woop of excitement from his droid, which began to spin around in wide circles, spraying up a small thunderstorm of ashen soil; Deus caught the man's gaze a second before breaking away, swaying a grasping hand wide over the volcanic horizon. "Bigwig or small time, boot-cleaning rookie, doesn't matter; we all need people dead from time to time. I've seen the depths of depravity, people dying for no reasn other than sport but I've also seen the most justifiable: men killed to prevent atrocities. Let me speak my mind to you, Sith - there is no value to death. Cut me, cut you; our blood is both equal parts red - I've killed it all: beast, man, woman, child, but it's all the same."

Jeeves whistled softly at this, earning a silencing slap to the air from Deus as he continued, hopefully uninterrupted: "I've done this for twenty years; I will probably do it for twenty years more - I've only failed thrice during direct jobs, where I was sought; of course I've flopped on the en masse competitions those damn aristocrats love to throw; once because the target was myself, the sarcastic little nerfherder; the second, a nonexistentant being named Tooth, last time I take a job from a schizoid; finally, a chair, because no matter how much I shot it, the employer would claim it inanimate, and thus immortal. I shot the clever sithspit. Let me get this straight, no target is too big; no target too small; but, a rant for another time, I've spilt enough life-breath." He shrugged, surrendering himself to whatever reprucussions he had earned hitherto from his monologue; yet, he was swift to interrupt his own self-wrought silence: "However, I do need transport offworld; if you could help me out in some way, consider it a favor owed - a free job, when I've settled down again and, by your standards, you are finally what you consider a 'Bigwig.'"

 

[Morningstaarr]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"] "I have a ship at the space port near here. If you want transport off world just follow me"

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Morningstaarr"]

"With all due respect, let me reiterate: 'I never give out personal or contact information directly.' You know my name, my appearance - Hell, you even know my company with which I travel," he says, motioning viscerally towards Jeeves, who simply whistles disdainfully. "I've done a lot of things during this life of mine, Staar; with what you know of me, given with my blessing, knowing my destination and, perchance, my motivation, would be too great a reveal to someone who is little more than a strange - potential proprietor or no." He traces his steps back, tracked in the beach of cinder, until he returned to his initial spot, sitting on the bank overlooking the flux of magma currents; he continues, "A loan and a general direction of the nearest port would suffice; however, I appreciate the offer all the same and my own still stands. One job." He raises a single figure to cement the numeral value of this offering: "A single act of favor returned; may it serve you well." Jeeves adds to this with his own whirl of beeps; a long-winded comment which Deus misleadingly translates, unaware of its true context ("Don't trust the scheming bastard!"): "Jeeves would like to support the sincerity of my proposal."

 

[Morningstaarr]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"] Staar could understand the droid but he kept that a secret. "9 klicks over that mountain of ash is the space port." He had given him the wrong directions on purpose there was nothing over there except the burning ocean. He didn't appreicate lies. "Good day." He made his way back to his ship.

 

[Jyfo]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"]

Jyfo felt the hot volcanic wind whip across the desolate landscape, strewn with rocks, ash, and streams of lava. Yet above, the blue sky and Sullust's sun shone strong, reflecting off each crevice and rock with an almost blinding glare. To most, this planet would be insufferable, but to Jyfo it was beautiful. It was rare to see such a physical description of the light and the dark side of the Force. The tranquil sky, the light; the raging lava, the dark. It was here on Sullust that he temporarily paused his wandering to meditate and exercise his abilities.

Just like the planet, Jyfo himself was full of both the light and dark. He couldn't remember if it had always been that way; hell, he couldn't even remember his life before the past year. He had woken up on Tattooine with no memory, only his lightsaber, clothes, and the powerful connection to the Force. And as he traveled to try to discover the truth, he felt the Force with him. All of it. The light and the dark.

Emptying his mind, he closed his eyes and sought the Force. Felt the calm. Jyfo knew if he could get stronger, perhaps the Force could tell him about his past. It was his only hope.

Something tugged at his mind as he meditated. Someone nearby, and a droid perhaps? Curious. Most were too scared to venture on the surface of Sullust, especially here, this close to the Burning Ocean.

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Morningstaarr"] [member="Jyfo"]

Deus, always one to count his blessings, remained wholly thankful of the seemingly sound advice departed by the wayward Sith; a message given that he would surely not soon forget. "You have my gratitude, Lord Staar; remember - Coruscant, the Bleak Star, Yul Grimm: a nagai, about sixty-one years of age. An old fart, we're not on good terms either; he shot me in the thigh once, the little ewok-faced, alchaka-loving emotional homunculus." Groaning, he shifts a hand to the nape of his neck, massaging his stiffened muscles, tender with age - a message of easing discomfort that released a sigh of calm from his cloaked lips; he eyes the man for a moment, some fragmented notion of distrust sparking within the recesses of his subconscious, but nothing he paid any particular mind to. Instead of questioning the force of his intuition he turned, Jeeves in tow shortly behind, and made his departure in the given direction; a single word escaping his maw, cast sharp and hot, like a bolt from a blaster, plasma heated by a bitter exposure of knowing distrust: "G'day."

Nine klicks, a long distance as far as walks upon volcanic geography goes it was a rather exhaustive campaign; only the occasional ash angel would depart from the waxen coasts, the sole sensation of movement upon a windless afternoon; and Deus, growing impatient at the length of his journey, saw fit to take out his frustration upon Jeeves. "He's lying to us, right? Why would there be a damn spaceport out here, in the middle of nowhere; that's idiotic, imbecilic, a fifty-two other fething adjectives synonymous with the word stupid!" he exclaimed, kicking up a whirlwind of sand as he assailed his form with the physical metaphor of his vocalized frustration. "Boop," softly commented R4-68; a commentary wholly unwelcome by Deus' standard and one that would be met with a rhetorical soliloquy of how he should kindly shut up - however, he was silenced by the onset of a hot volcanic wind, one which blew the words from his throat. And then there was the sea - an amalgamous ocean of magma and liquid flame, boiling upon its own heat with molten rock; spewing clouds of sulfurous fog in gurgling belches; and before it, a fellow man, cloaked and in deep trance - meditating.

Yet, Deus' attention span was not solely fixated upon the figure; rather, the sea itself and the rage it would symbolize. Though, quickly as it lit, a knife drawn - tossed to the earth in physical departure of ire - he calmed, retrieving the blade; he was calm again, no words spewed from his mouth in fiery anguish. Instead, he spoke to his companion, the droid: "It would seem, to me, that the spaceport the man directed to us was entirely fictitious - or it was swallowed by the earth in a fiery blaze; though, consequently, there is a man meditating upon the brink - upon the shore of cinder." It was in this moment he realized he was thinking aloud, though he felt it may be too odd to stop there, and sought to write a sanction of self-deprecation for this odd behavior, one that was unfamiliar; he would simply continue, and attempt to write this off as a quirk towards the fellow on the shore of the Burning Ocean. "Ah, yes," he began; "Perhaps the sir on this shore of this Burning Ocean of Sullust, of the Sullust Sector, of the Sullust System-" He was clearly trying too hard; at this point, he sought to wrap up his narration. "Sir, are you by chance on merry terms with the innate Force? Perhaps, you might be willing to elaborate, whether or not hundreds of Sullustan folk - or otherwise - had at any point sunk into this great field of magma; perhaps writhing in horrible agony?"

He stood juxtaposed to his prior demeanor, a strange change of note which Jeeves would recognize, but choose to not call upon, for such was the way of Deus.

 

[Jyfo]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"]

They were an odd pair, certainly. A fidgety older man, well armed but seemingly past his prime and a droid, alone out here by the Burning Ocean. Jyfo felt a smirk rise on his face, obscured by his hood. It must have been quite a travelling error for the pair to be so far out of the way. Surely the droid could have pulled up a holomap or something of the sort? Whatever. It was not his concern.

Opening his eyes and pushing off the hardened magma beneath him, Jyfo stood and addressed the man. ​"A bit lost, aren't you? I picked this location specifically because it is out of the way of civilization. And what is this about Sullustans sinking into the Burning Ocean?" Jyfo couldn't help letting a chuckle escape from beneath his hood. "Sullustans avoid the Burning Ocean as if it were a plague. Any wise person would, wouldn't you say?" He turned and gazed out cross the roiling mass of magma, noticing each wave as it crashed upon the rocks not more than 20 meters from him.

The man was still there, unsure of what to say. "Are you lost, traveler? Or are you a wanderer, like myself? We are never lost. Always on our path." Jyfo felt his speech might come off a bit strange, so he quickly continued. "Forgive me for my words, if they are confusing. I'm afraid I haven't talked with another soul in some time."

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Jyfo"]

"Don't be so bashful," Deus replied, stepping forward to greet the rather awkward mystic with equally cumbersome steps as he navigated the dunes of ash with unwieldy grace, "Indeed, the wise man may avoid this burning pestilence; but the transcendent intuitive would seek its mystery, for all such places have them." He extends his hand in greeting, much like he had done before, though with much more care than comfort; his hand, softly gloved, bathed in snowy ash. "Call me Gorebell," he commands, though the tone suggested much more passivity; he motions to his rather sly and uncooperative agromech droid; "That's R4-68, or perhaps, should you not be fairly well versed with names composed of numeral figures, Jeeves. I'm a mercenary - he's a droid." While one hand remains outstretched, the other, in Deus-classical fashion, swings back forcefully, to pinpoint a thumb at his own breast, acknowledging himself as the central gravitational force of the subject; at least by his own account. "If you need anyone dead, disposed of, eliminated, disintegrated, obliterated, annihilated, assimilated, decimated, liquidated, eradicated, expunged, kidnapped, demolished, zapped, nuked, torpedoed, shot, stabbed, butchered, slaughtered... I'm your man."

 

[Jyfo]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"]

Jyfo hesitantly shook the man's hand. He could not remember the last time he had performed this gesture to another being in his two-year long travels; and before that, he couldn't remember anything. "A mercenary, yes? Spending your life causing death. Dying to end lives. Some say it is a fitting and beautiful cycle, yet who are you to administer death before it is due? Then again, who am I to pretend I know when death is in fact due?" Jyfo looked down and sighed. He was probably scaring the odd man. "So an old mercenary and an amnesiac cross paths on this world of fire and rock. Will this be the end of our stories intertwining, or rather the beginning?"

By the Force, it had been so long since he had talked to someone. He had lost the art of conversation. Or had he had it at all in his past? It was impossible to know. Scowling slightly at his awkwardness, though realizing this... Gorebell character in front of him shared it, Jyfo rephrased his thoughts. "Forgive me again ... Gorebell." Gorebell was most definitely not his real name, Jyfo could sense that. He supposed mercenaries needed that anonymity, anyway. "Do you require anything? I'm afraid I can offer little but ramblings at the moment."

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Jyfo"]

"Death is subjective to one's tenacity; who are we to fear such a trivial fact of such a life, wrought with fundamentalist interpretations of what composes and comprises our nature? I spend my life not causing death, but paying that price, which we all think to absolve our sense of self from, directly to remain void of hypocrisy." He released his hand, freeing the man's own grip from the iron vice of bonding; a solemn gesture which earned his fixation to the eyes of the one who had yet to be named. Such melancholy locked away to the fetters of the bloodwrought body; encapsulating an avatar of - 'What was the word?' Deus called out in silence to his muse; 'Awkward,' it replied, 'No, disconnected.' And so, he sought to read the man - a process he found increasingly straining as he so carefully drifted through the conversation, like a napkin caught in a light breeze:

"Do you require anything? I'm afraid I can offer little but ramblings at the moment."

Deus Gor Bel could appreciate such straightforward talk; unlike that of the wayward politician or philanthropist - filled with the instinctual desire to haggle and persuade, usually through discreet white lies. No, this was an honest man, one he could afford to be more open with; he would come forward with his intentions: "I seek passage from the planet - to Coruscant in fact, for my destiny calls me to audience with an individual who resides there. But, speak no more of this now, I shall - perhaps as one of those green fellows would say; I require immediate transport, for I fear time is an obstacle in this effort. Perhaps you might own a ship, one that may be hired as a ferry to my destination? Or perhaps you are aware of a nearby starport or hamlet, which may further my search; either of which would be greatly appreciated, and awarded."

R4-68 wails a solemn, monotone decry: "Woop."

"Jeeves supports the opportunity to depart from such a... a vibrant local; I think the heat is frizzling up some of the internal wiring."

 

[Jyfo]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"]

How curious. This mercenary, from an occupation that usually yielded gruff, aggressive, and simpleminded men and women, seemed to match Jyfo's own odd philosophical way of speaking. Certainly a surprising event.

Gorebell needed transport; that much Jyfo couldn't give, however he did know of the nearest port. Not terribly far, but it was hidden from view by the black mountains that pierced the earth every so often, so it was understandable that this traveler had gotten lost. Quickly thinking, Jyfo decided his next course of action. His time on Sullust had been splendid; he grew with the Force and had plenty of room to practice both his abilities and his lightsaber skills. But this man presented a golden opportunity.

If Jyfo could get whatever ride Gorebell would take to Coruscant, which he had learned was under control of the Sith, then he could use this chance to learn from the Sith and enhance his abilities. Though, from what he knew, Sith were often unpredictable, power-crazy, and stupid.

Jyfo made up his mind. "I can take you to the nearest starport. It's a difficult path from this location, but I can guide you and your droid. My only request for an award is that I may travel with you to Coruscant."

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Jyfo"]

A mutual interest, intertwined between two unspoken goals; a matter of security, dividing both yet ultimately uniting them - it was a matter of a pure flux of irony. It was a case which Deus unconsciously - where he would recognize the nature of such a relation through his deep, intuitive ties to the Force - would enjoy to a sense of deep satisfaction. "An additional traveling companion, especially one so idiosyncratic such as yourself, is an occasion best responded with jolly... feth - Jeeves, what's the word?"

"Beep."

"Right, memorialized commemoration - we will celebrate this anniversary for decades to come; in short, I accept your proposal on the condition that you give me your name, kind sir."

 

[Jyfo]

[member="Deus Gor Bel"]

Jyfo gave a slight bow in gratitude to Gorebell and swiftly turned and began walking, cloak whirling behind him. To learn from the Sith will be a most excellent opportunity, he thought to himself as he trudged along a black volcanic ridge, not looking back to see if they were following. He could study the Sith, examine their pitfalls and triumphs, and take the best of their knowledge. Assuming they wouldn't kill him, of course. Jyfo was no fool. Sith were very dangerous.

The walk to the port would be easy. Not so easy for an average human, but Jyfo's travels and exercises yielded him a fit body with an endurance to be rivaled by many. A walk in the park, surely.

 

[Deus Gor Bel]

[member="Jyfo"]

Ignored: the desiccated synonym to the lengthy speech of explosive hyperbole in which Deus would drastically define exactly what had just taken place; at least until the moment in which he recognized he did not exactly care that he did not know the stranger's name. In fact, he preferred this, so he might deposit a charming nickname upon his new compatriot much in the same fashion as he had done for R4-68 - Jeeves. Now was the moment of truth; he would discard all fragments of his previously elaborate ire and fixate upon the interwoven complexities of linguistic stitching - the process of the exalted nickname development. And so, as they departed upon the scorched, volcanic knolls, he crossed his arms in a stern matter, and hummed softly to himself as the train of muse slowly chugged along its given course.

"Boop," interrupted Jeeves.

"Shut the hell up," replied Deus.

"Beep."

"I have it!" exclaimed Gor Bel in a wild declaration; his hands twist in a wild, explosive gesture, as if mimicking the fireworks that had previously ignited within his mind: "How does Pain-in-my-Shebs sound? - Oh, excuse my vagueness, I mean for your nickname - not my vulgarity, because in that case you may have gently... misheard me? Misinterpreted? Do you speak Galactic Standard, perhaps? Of course you do, we already talked - so why haven't you done as I asked?" There was that anger again, arising from the depths of the individual psyche and unleashing tides of lapping flame, much like the Burning Ocean far beyond them as they traveled, sparked by the silence of his partner; however, as quick as he was to anger, he was to calm, giving little opening for interruption as he poured his speech, as always, down upon his fellow traveler: "Never mind me, a nickname shall do! How does Pook sound? You look like a Pook."