Public Weekend Treasure Hunt: The Haunted Storm

[Brooke Waters]

Crash of thunder.

Flash of light in the darkness.

This was the world she found.

Eternal darkness and storms.

The Force was her guide, as it normally was. Flashes of light illuminating her surroundings as she stepped under the archway into the ancient temple. The storm outside. The rain stopped. She looked around. Reaching for her bag, she pulled a few stones. Whispering a spell, she threw them into the air and they spun around her, clacking against each other before eventually igniting in a yellowish-green glow.

It wasn’t blue coral, like she preferred, but it was what she found.

There was already one out building where she landed. Thats where she grabbed these. Ancient nightsister creations. This world was part of the Witch Kingdom of the past.

The past was awake this night. As she stepped through, her shark skin robes slick with rain, dripped on the floor. The thunder outside hid the other sounds that were coming from this temple. Scurrying. Cawing.

Familiars of long dead sisters, keeping watch on the bodies. Their own bodies kept going, fueled by the Force, and their final orders.

Though they were walking again this night. She could hear the slow fragile footsteps. The raspy songs of the other witches, various clans, but if she was correct, this was a store house with many treasures of the history of the Witches.

How thin was the veil here? Would others have been called here this evening?

 

[Scour]

The stars may not answer to anyone, but my crew does.

A woman hung suspended from the ceiling fastened into a embrace of pain. A night sister. Her misery was a white noise in the room. Heard by Scour but tuned out. The captains focus was on the womans belongings. Minor potions, cloaks, charms and weapons. He handled them meticulously, slow and deliberate. Getting to know it and then press in and enter its perspective.

There was a flash! And then histories unfolded before his minds eyes like an hourglass. Raptured in visions of far and not distant times, a thump sounded and a organic door moved aside. Brooding into the chamber walked Latch, lieutenant and second in command of the Ten Thousand Fists. He bore ill news.

" Cap? The men have grown-" He began and was cut off. Somewhere lost in a shifting timeline his captain interrupted. " More what..deranged?!" His hands moved to another item and initiated his perception into another reality tunnel.

" Heh. Have you attained the secrets of this, Witch. Sir?" He asked and mused.
" Secrets no longer." The man jerked and anchored his mind to the present. " Tell the crew that treasure awaits for them all!"

That was how he arrived. A captain and some of his crew. They were bunched in scouting parties scouring all they could hope to find. Heeding a call of greed and fate.

Brooke Waters

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Robes + Hat
Tag: Brooke Waters
Nearby: Scour

Anathemous had always hated guidance from the otherworldly.

An invisible hand shoving you along towards machinations not one's own, neither friend nor foe.

Just apathy.

But Mother Dathomir? Primal winds which smelled of home guided the half-witch to this stormy place, boots sinking deep into mud under weight hidden inside the warrior's body, yet on she trudged. The rain slicked off her hat, soaking the Nightsister charms which hung from it's wide brim, which occasionally vibrated to the pulsing rhythm of something ahead, a heartbeat.

And with each, whispers on the wind grew louder.

Dark stone rose in the distance, some kind of temple which the former archeologist theorized to be vastly ancient, predating the plague even.

Relief then, she thought, this rain has grown so cold.

When she arrived at the temple entrance, she knelt to examine muddy prints on the stone floor. Small and still wet, left by someone light on their feet minutes ago. A woman perhaps, of less warrior physique than her own. But were they a witch or mere tomb raider?

The crow calls drew golden eyes upwards, glowing in the dark room soon as she cleared the doorway.

She carried a staff over her shoulder, lest the tapping reveal her too soon.

Anathemous was no assassin, but she moved with a predator's grace all the same, quietly rolling her foot with each slow step into the ruins, eyes fixed on mysterious yellow-green flashes.

If only the half-witch knew what the spirits had guided her to, perhaps she'd have sang gratitude.

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