Vashti Tohrein

[Reisier]

Name: Vashti ‘Kailash’ Tohrein
Race: Firrerreo
Age: Thirty-Eight
Height: 5’8’’
Weight: 146

Appearance: There are some who say that everything of the female is poison – an alluring venom that beckons all near. For years, stories have been formed of the witch in Felucia, of her siren call, of the sweet nothings she speaks amid soft breaths, of how she drags her nails across your neck. Legends are said of how pliant fingers curl listlessly around your forehead, and how honey eyes bore into your own – stripping every ounce of your being apart, until nothing is left but your bare core. She then smiles a callous smile, a simple gesture that stretches across full red lips, exposing the tip of well-developed canines. It is with that done that the female pulls away with grace akin to a dancer, disappearing into the shadows as if she were nothing more than the creation of a feverish dream. But in those late nights, her shape comes again and again, a constant reminder of how close you had been to the witch.

Others say that Vashti is a Nexu wearing the skin of a Firrerreo – a ploy to stalk her prey. She moves slowly through the foliage, the agile wisp of an ankle weighed down in firm balance. No sound comes from the tentative steps the witch takes, no room for hesitation exists; the movements come as second nature to her, without thought. Her body is similar to the feline as well – soft, delicately crafted, and by no means an afterthought. With a soft line of hips and a gentle bend of elbows and knees, the witch is what some would describe as statuesque, even within the shadows. Vashti is, the legend says, a thing of classic beauty mixed with exotic features fostered by the wilds that surround her.

Those that have gotten close to the witch, describe a creature of equal curiosity as those described by tales. Her skin is smooth and warm, a healthy olive shade acquired by long hours spent under the Felucian sun. Her gentle face, oval in shape, does little to hide the devilish lilt in her round eyes, instead emphasizing it with the knowing grin that stretches across her lips. Where one would expect a thin, button nose, one finds a slightly broad one instead – trait that merely increases her character. Set above high cheekbones you can see a set of impish eyes. The sprites are the color of honey, eager and bright, but do little to tell what exactly is capturing the witch’s thoughts. The impossibly dark lashes that surround the eyes increase their wicked nature, giving them life. Arched eyebrows, the color of rich coffee, are by no means an afterthought, convincing those who lock eyes with the woman that maybe she knows more than she is letting off. A rare number of people have sputtered in nervous shudders, that Vashti’s eyes are neither honey nor golden, but rather they are a vicious red shade – twisting and turning in an endless swirl that could readily swallow anyone that wandered near.

In many ways, the witch’s nature is reflected by her hair – a wild, untamed mass that does as it pleases whenever it deems it wise; if subdued, some would explain, Vashti pulls her hair into a messy fish braid that drifts listlessly below her ribcage but one that continues to show the same defiance. Her fierce and untamed nature is also seen in the paint she sports through her skin. Two unbroken lines of red start at the base of her jaw, running up, across her cheeks and eyes, and end in the middle of her forehead in an inverted ‘V’ Her unusual appearance is further emphasized by the clothing she sports – an array of vibrant colors and patterns, jewelry, feathers, and beads; over time, the witch has adopted a style unlike other, ethnic robes acquired from travelers mixed together and made her own. She rarely seems worried of protecting her feet, instead leaving them bare – left to be decorated by red paint, toe rings, and anklets of metal and wood. When required to protect her feet, if one can even call it that, she finds leather sandals to be the closest thing related to shoes that she will ever wear.


Personality: A liar knows that he is a liar, but one who speaks mere portions of the truth in order to deceive, are true craftsmen of destruction. Those who have learned this trait and have come to hold it as their own see the world and its inhabitants as means to an end – and Vashti is no different.

To the witch, everyone has a use, every creature something to exploit, and both are compliant if the right pressure is applied. She speaks softly with those she meets, saying enough to pique their interest and remaining vague enough to keep them on the edge. It is a delicate balance that takes years of practice – as well as trial and error – to perfect, but one that the woman is happy to embrace. Of course, in order to manipulate, one must know where pressure should be applied – information that only keen eyes and a keener mind can identify. In order to successfully bend the will of others to do as she pleases, over the years Vashti has become incredibly perceptive. The woman pays close attention to physical reactions, to the sound of a voice, the scent of someone, the gentle palpitations in the Force. Placed together, it is possible for the woman to pick up on subtle cues and use them to her advantage. Dexterity is truly something that not many enjoy, especially when it is artfully applied to achieve an end – in this galaxy, the witch has said, survival is achieved by a certain finesse.

Her ability to mold others into what she sees fit, however, has made the woman terribly weary of others, especially those she feels share common qualities with her. That, combined with her lack of interaction with the world outside of Felucia for many years, have made Vasthi suspicious of the intentions of others. When meeting someone for the first time, the woman says little more than what she sees fit, dodging questions and turning them around with particular ease. When met with kind words or those of genuine concern, the woman quickly becomes guarded. As far as she has seen and has come to know, interest is only shown when others hope to attain something in the process. To Vashti, the galaxy is no better than she, and is quick to keep anyone else at bay. As a result, if the witch feels threatened by anything around, she is quickly reduced into a ticking bomb – ready to go off with the slightest provocation. If ever the woman feels she has been wronged at one time or another, it is nearly impossible for the woman to forgive. Truth be told is that if Vashti feels she has been offended, she will become the vindictive beast of the wilds many have come to know.

In her better days, Vashti is nothing short of a con artist – taking advantage of those who open themselves to her. She smiles knowing smiles and throws artful glances behind a carefully turned-up head. She grins as she speaks, her voice rich as molasses, nimble fingers parting the cards. Vashti is oddly fond of gambling and the game of poker, and it truly is the only way to get in the woman’s good graces. To best her in the game is to prove yourself worthy, and it is the only way she will introduce herself with her birth given name instead of Kailash. As Firrerreo, Vashti learned early on of the importance of holding unto her name – and of the power it gave others if she were to release that information. There have been less than a handful of people that have learned the female’s name, and she will keep it that way so long as she may be able to.


Birth place: Firrerre

Faction: Sith
Rank: Initiate

Previous Faction: Dark Jedi
Previous Rank: Master - Prophet

Lightsaber: --
Color: --

Practiced Lightsaber forms:

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Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices:

[/b] 7
Telepathic: 8
Body: 4
Sense: 6
Protection: 0
Healing: 2
Destruction: 7
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Specialized Skills: [/font]

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Attributes:

[/b] 4
Intelligence: 5
Speed: 7
Leadership: 5

Unarmed: 4
Melee Weapons: 0
Ranged Weapons: 0
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RP Sample: The earth was crying – it was wailing, it was screaming, it was begging. The earth was pleading for the end to come, to find solace away from the wicked one´s touch. The witch could feel how the ground cringed at every step the male took, how the bebettes scurried away from the being and its blood-drenched stench. The witch could feel how the plants withdrew at the presence’s touch, shuddering in distaste from the intimate touch. She could feel how Felucia squirmed under the male’s unwavering gaze, feeling exposed even with the protection of the foliage. And, the witch could feel how the warmth of his aura lapped gently at her feet. Oh what a strange, intoxicating sensation that was – so foreign, unwanted, and accepted all at once. It made her inch forward, away from wild lands, and towards those of that had been conquered with time.

Vashti Tohrein could feel how he was calling, how it whispered soured breaths into the evening air, how it beckoned near with promises sweet as wine. “You feel dat, don you?” The woman uttered into the thick air, her lungs full with its oppressive heat, “‘E be comin’ for you – ‘as been lookin’ for you for a very lon’ time.” She swayed forward, the movement slow and her steps measured, toes digging into the moist ground, covered by brown leaf that have begun to rot. The prospect pulled her lips into a grin, which oddly resembled a snarl, a chuckle caught steadfast in the back of her throat. Oh how long had she seen the figure dance in the back of her head in the dead of night, how long had she sought the promises beyond the tainted lands? Weeks, months, years? Little did it matter; at night, time was one and the same, and the promises eternal.

The Firrerreo crouched low, knees bent and elbows resting on her legs, honey eyes set into the distance, staring at the silence that the wilderness provided. The witch also noted how quickly the silence ended as the foliage was stripped and the lands left bare. Vashti breathed in quickly through her nose, before alternating to suck air between parted lips, as if trying to taste the air. She could feel the male, feel as he combed the land, but little could the witch do to identify where he stood. Instead, the female stood, seeing no defeat in what she had learned. He was here, he was searching, and, with time, he would find her. For now, the conquered lands, the lands of the farmers and the ranchers, would have to wait.

Those who saw the flicker of shadow and light dismissed it as a thing from the mind – a trick, an illusion, something that did not exist in time. And yet, at the same time, they knew better than that. The witch had been watching, she had been waiting, she had been looking for something. It was not often that the creature left the security of her lands, rarer then when she came so close to their home. It was, troublesome. Whenever she came, only pain would follow. She was an omen, a telltale sign of the difficulties that should be expected to befall them.

[Reisier]

Bio: Deep in the jungles of Felucia, amid the fetid forests made of bizarre fungi and the mocking cries of wildlife, a legend has begun to spread – one that speaks of a curious female that has made the wilds her home. They say she was crafted from shadows – that she is daughter of the moons, one that stares at the world with hungry eyes, simply watching as the time rolls by. Others say that the woman is as ancient as time itself, and that the two have forgotten which preceded the other. They say that she has seen the galaxy come to life and that, in time, she will see it takes its last breath.

A few other swear that the creature is ancient as a result of more devious means – that she takes the soul of daughters beckoned into the shadowed lands by the unknown being. They say Kailash consumes the young, pretty things, makes them their own, and continues to live in them until the time to find a new body comes. But while the stories of Kailash are many, the tales wild and fierce as the woman in the wasteland, none can compared to the woman's actual origins.

WHY YOU GOIN' TO DA FOREST, SHA?
Don' You Know Dat Place Be 'Aunted?

The Jedi are never meant to fall in love, it is an experience that can cripple their unbendable nature. They love, yes, extend their hearts to the galaxy that surrounds them, but never are they meant to give their heart to one. Rasheem Tohrein knew this well, had learned and accepted this message as far as his memory could say, but the day he met her and her honey eyes in the Capitol of Firrerre, the way she smiled and how her laughter bubbled like a rivulet, all he learned was forgotten. She was no thing of extraordinary beauty, Hediyeh, no creature for which entire planets waged wars; she was a pretty thing at most, but one that possessed something about her that captured his heart.

??It happened to Rasheem when he called himself a Guardian, recently appointed to the rank of Master, and he had been given the opportunity to return to the world that had given birth to him, Firrerre. There, he would protect the people of the Capital, be a guardian to all, a silent servant that ensured the safety of the inhabitants. It was as he wandered the waterfall filled planet that he happened upon a small restaurant – a hole in the wall sort of place that one could easily miss. It was a trivial sight, a restaurant that seen far too many better days, with broken windows and rotten floor boards. The tables, if one could even call them that, swayed under the weight of mismatched plastic plates. There were no chairs as far as the Jedi could tell; boxes, barrels, and crates serving as seats to the lucky ones to get their hands on one. But no matter the questionable ambiance, people flocked the place as if moths to flame. The Jedi, intrigued by its popularity, went in nonetheless.

??What he found inside was the oppressive heat of the fire, of laughter and talking, and the drowned sounds of a radio in the background. The inside of the so-called restaurant was hazy, filled with smoke, ash, and steam from the meals being cooked. And there, in the back, drenched in sweat and with her hair pulled back, stood a woman by the stove. She worked the round-bottomed pan with ease, flicking its contents as they cooked. In stature, she was a head shorter than he, with a soft round face and equally round eyes. Even with exhaustion present on her golden features, she smiled brightly and eagerly. She laughed with her customers, smiled as she handed them their plates, and not once did she look at someone with disdain. Even when the Jedi approached the counter, an unfamiliar sight upon the area, the woman smiled at him kindly, and spoke to him as if she had known him his entire life. As the crowd died down, and the Jedi was left on his lonesome by the woman’s side, they sat together and shared a meal. They spoke, though it was mostly her that did the talking, and listened to what the other had to say. Rasheem learned that the woman was alone in the capital, that she inherited her mother’s shop shortly after her passing. That it was hard work, but one that she neither disliked nor regret. In fact, Hediyeh seemed content with what she had, wishing nothing else from her life.
??
After that meal, Rasheem returned to the restaurant once a week, though he quickly increased his visits. In fact, as the years came and went, it was an odd day to not see the Jedi at the restaurant. When asked what compelled him to visit every day, Rasheem would say that he enjoyed the food and the kind company, but he knew there was much more to that. Part of the Jedi wanted nothing more than to see the woman, to make sure she was safe and sound. At first, the feelings were misunderstood, seen by the Jedi as a friendship, a close relationship between two friends. With time, however, he recognized those feelings as something different, something more. Unsure what to make of them, of the desire to be near her, Rasheem often meditated asking the Force for guidance. But no matter the days and nights he spent in quiet contemplation, he found no solace for his problems. Even sleep did little to appease his confusion; in fact, the more he slept, the more he dreamt of her golden skin, and of her touch on his. He would wake up with a start after every one of these dreams, curse himself for his inability to drive the feelings away. But at the same time, part of Rasheem was glad that her ghost touch lingered on his skin. ?

?He yielded with time, seeking out the comfort of her company. At first, Rasheem would use the excuse of helping rebuild her restaurant whenever the Jedi had free time – to repair the broken windows and change the rotten floor boards. Then, he looked for excuses to return again and again – whether it be a meal or painting the stripped walls. When he found no excuse, he would create one instead – to look for something he had forgotten, or helping someone else in the area. Rasheem would do anything to catch even just a glimpse of her face. It was in one of these excuses that it finally happened, their first kiss. Rasheem was not even sure of what led to that fateful moment of intimacy, what made them graze their lips against one another. He remembers them speaking, of nothing in particular, and how their bodies drew each other near. He remembers how Hediyeh looked up at him with her bright, gentle eyes, and how his hands cupped her face. The Jedi remembers leaning in, the warmth of her breath wafting across his face, and the softness of her lips on his. And just as suddenly as the intimate touch had come, it ended.

??Had his training as a Jedi not prevented it, Rasheem would have ran out of the restaurant doors – face flushed and heart threatening to burst through his chest; but the Jedi left, a small bow lingering, his back to her as he made for the door. For months, the Jedi did not return. Rasheem spent his days working elsewhere, busying himself in whatever task was brought. In the evenings, he meditated without fault, all to try and drown those feelings that simple gesture brought. But no matter the hours spent in solitude or how he forced himself to forget that moment, the memory kept coming back – the warmth, the softness, the comfort. He, the Jedi that had been trained to fight, to face dangers unlike any other, and give himself selflessly, now stood unable to forget that kiss. It nearly drove him mad, trying to forget, that is, until finally Rasheem accepted his defeat. That woman had bested him; she had defeated the Jedi.

??Part of Rasheem thought it best to never return, to keep himself away from the woman, but no matter how he tried, he could not stay away. After months of keeping himself at bay, he returned to the restaurant once more. The meeting with the woman was awkward to say the least, drenched with nervous glances and uncomfortable words. It would not take long for the friendship to resume. At first, they would meet only in the company of others, attempting to prevent any more behavior the Order would deem indecent. As time came and went, however, the more difficult it became. It would be five years of tenderness and a courting akin to that of young ones that their love finally would blossom. At first, there were only small smiles exchanged, inside jokes that only one another could understand. Then, there were only chaste kisses, hugs, or a gentle brush of a hand. It was as they neared their sixth year of knowing one another, that finally Rasheem would pledge himself to her and her alone. After that day, there would be no other but Hediyeh. They married in secret one year and a day after that, a ceremony reserved to her and him alone; they laid together that night, two bodies becoming one, everything that they had felt in the past ten years bubbling over. ?

?Their married life was imperfect – interrupted with the duties of a Jedi and a need to keep it secret from prying eyes. But no matter the hardships that would come, or how they were forced to remain away from one another’s company at times, knowing they were together was all the Firrerreo couple could ask for. Once reunited, however, all difficulties melted away – in that short time alone, there was no world around them, no Galaxy, no Order, just the comfort of the other. It took two years for Hediyeh to come with child. At first, the news terrified the female, if only for how society would meet her. She was a woman bearing a child outside of marriage, without a named man. Rumors started to run around, of say how her bastard child was the result of a relationship with a married man. Hediyeh met the rumors with a forced smile, knowing well that Rasheem was there to support her, no matter the cost.?
?
Pregnancy fit Hediyeh much to Rasheem’s surprise. Where he had expected doubt or hesitation, he found unusual gentleness. Hediyeh never knew of how Rasheem watched her in bed, hair a mass of tangled tresses that slid past her neck. She sang to their child, hand pressed against her womb, a gentle melody that rolled from her throat – she was never a good singer, but to Rasheem it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Every day, Hediyeh’s belly grew fuller and along with it did the Jedi’s love for her.?

?Months later, as winter began to stretch across the Firrerre sky, Hediyeh went into labor.?

?It took close to a day and a half for Hediyeh to give birth to their child – a small, wide-eyed girl. Vashti, Hediyeh called her, named after her mother. Rasheem sat next to Hediyeh as she fed the babe, who suckled on her mother with unrivaled appetite. Hediyeh smiled weakly at the Jedi next to her, he took her hand, gave a gentle squeeze, telling her that she had done good – she now deserved to rest. Hediyeh nodded softly, mouthed an ‘I love you,’ to the male as she drifted off to sleep. The Jedi stayed there in the room, child in arms and wife to his side, and felt his whole world was complete. A couple of days passed before mother and child were released, but once it was done, life returned to normal once more. Rasheem, while still not living with his wife, visited the woman and child often, making sure that they had everything they could possibly need. Once Hediyeh had returned to work a month later, the Jedi helped find someone to take care of the child. ?

?Over time, the asylum that they created began to dwindle, to deteriorate with the passing of each day. The love they once felt and that filled them, had turned to desperation. They fought often, screamed themselves hoarse, before Rasheem would throw his hands in frustration and make to the door. There were times Hediyeh expected that to be the very last day she would see the Jedi, that this would be how their marriage would come to an end, but every night just as she had drifted off to sleep, Rasheem would return. He would brush a hand against her forehead, whisper an apology to the night, before Rasheem would lean in and plant a kiss on her forehead. He would sit there then, fingers running to her hair, apologizing again and again, until the sun would break through the sky. And while an odd sense of normalcy would return, not a week later they would fight once more. ?

?His duties to the Order did little to aid their already brittle situation. The disappearances that were once met by determination and fervent desire to return to his lover’s arms, now accentuated the frivolity of their marriage, especially to Hediyeh. While she knew Rasheem loved her and their child, it was difficult to raise a child on her own. There was never enough money – something was always going wrong – some bill needed to be paid. Her youthful features began to leave her – a result of keeping the restaurant open late into the night and opening it before dawn, and the stresses of life. She felt alone. In the vastness and fullness of the Galaxy, the woman felt as there was no one else to help her. In one of Rasheem’s expeditions, one that had already lasted well beyond five months, that she called him.

It was desperation that finally drove her to seek out the comfort of another after placing her daughter to bed – a man she had known all of her life, Gaein. It was not intimacy what she needed, no torrid love affair, she needed to open up, to let every feeling, every desperate thought to be let out. For hours, Hediyeh spoke and Gaein listened -- he never uttered a sound, he simply let the woman to bare it all. She spoke of the Jedi she had come to love, of their secret marriage, of the child they had produced, and the prospect of Vashti being taken to the Order. Hediyeh explained how she had thought in multiple occasions about leaving it all behind -- of leaving Rasheem, of taking Vashti and simply starting anew. But, again and again, it was her love for the Jedi that stopped her from doing so. She was desperate, stuck between a rock and a hard place, and without the slightest idea of how she could move forward.

Gaein tried his very best to appease the female -- to rub her back tenderly and assure her that everything would be fine. To have faith, everything would be fine in the end.

The Jedi are never meant to fall in love, it is an experience that can cripple their unbendable nature -- and that night proved it to be true. To curious onlookers it would have looked like nothing more than a tender embrace, one meant to soothe a torn soul, but to Rasheem, finding his wife in the arms of another was an act of betrayal. Rasheem never was sure of what happened that faithful night -- of what happened shortly after he opened the door to their home. He remembers being exhausted -- beyond mentally and physically drained, his body broken and bruised. Rasheem remembers the sound of voices, of hushed talking and fervent whispers. He remembers rounding the corner towards the living room, of seeing them close -- their bodies tangled, his arms cradling her, and his Hediyeh holding unto him as if he were a life preserver.

After that, there is nothing but darkness -- a persistent nothingness that claws at the back of his mind, though perhaps he was simply desperate to make himself forget. Rasheem is vaguely aware of the bitter hiss of his lightsaber, of how he cleanly cleaved through the man. Rasheem remembers her screaming - a high-pitched noise that echoed through the room - the warmth of her body as he held her near, drowned in the amber light of his saber, of how she uttered his name only last time, ‘Rasheem.’

Then came the chaos.

Neighbors pushed through the open door, urged to aid the owner of the scream. There was yelling as Rasheem began to move, as he pushed across the apartment and towards Vashti’s room. Voices ordered for him to stop, others called him a murderer, but all continued to utter the word as Hediyeh, ‘Rasheem.’There were only seconds for the Jedi to grab the terrified girl in his arms, and even less for him to crash out the window in hopes of escaping. Glass and splintered wood showered the alley below, crunching under the male’s weight. Rasheem then ran -- away from the place he had come to call his home, away from the lifeless body of the woman he had loved, away from the place that had destroyed him.

For the next four years, Rasheem would continue to run; from Firrerre, to Abbaji, to Thanium, and, eventually to Felucia. It is in the jungle planet that Rasheem and his daughter would remain, a shell of the family that they had once been -- desperate to recover but aware that it could no longer be.

DEY SAY A WITCH LIVES DARE
To Enter Da Forest Is To Look For Trouble

There is not much Vashti Tohrein remembers before her time in Felucia and what she does come in wild sequences – flashes without beginning or end, and which ended as quickly as they had come. What little she does remember, however, centers around constant travel – years spent without having a place to call her home. Her father and she traveled constantly, days spent in cold freighters from one place to another, the monotony of travel broken up by a prolonged stay in a dingy motel. She remembers how her father always seemed restless in those early years of travel, waking up at the slightest of sounds and constantly peering through a closed window. Vashti remembers the name he gave her, a new name she should always use amongst strangers – Kailash.

What she does remember, however, is her life on Felucia.

She remembers the warmth – a heavy, oppressive heat that invaded her senses and squeezed her lungs shut. It was a heat that rolled across her skin, burning and biting, and one which left her skin raw after long hours underneath it. Vashti remembers how Felucia’s sun made the insects buzz – an incessant tune that begun early in the morning and only ceased late at night, only to be replaced by the croaking of some unknown amphibian outside. The heat lasted throughout the year, leaving only for the rain season when muck and water became all she knew. Vashti remembers the feeling of the muddy ground beneath her feet, how the mud squeezed between her fingers and how the texture felt when she wiggled them. Vashti remembers sitting on the porch of their small home, covered with thick mud up to her knees, watching with curious eyes as the torrential rain fell from the sky. She remembers how her father’s rocking chair creaked against the wooden boards, a pipe secured between stern lips, his eyes lost in the distance and the memories that clouded his mind.

Vashti remembers how her father rarely spoke – that he was a stern, impassive figure that stood off to the side, arms hooked behind his back, watching as time simply passed by. She remembers how his once handsome face began to decay – his full cheeks becoming gaunt and his golden skin becoming blotchy and dry. Vashti remembers that his father rarely spoke of anything aside from what happened that day – and the child could not remember a time when her mother was mentioned. It was, Vasthi would say, as if the man simply did not want to remember – a man that forced his memories to fade before time could take them from him. The witch remembers how the man would rise early in the morning, before the sun would rise, how heavy steps would take him across the shack and into the wilds. Her father would not return until late in the afternoon, a thick layer of sweat and dirt darkening his skin, a couple of fish slung hap-hazardously over his shoulder. He would greet her with a single word, her name, and a nod of his head. The man would turn to the kitchen, grab a cutting board, and with his daughter at his heels would return to the outside once more. On the porch, he would proceed to clean the fish, scales bathed in light and the knife scrapped the fish’s skin. The guts, Vashti distinctly remembers, were placed on a cream bucket that had once been white and were kept as bait for the next day.

She always cooked with her father – a memory that remains fresh – gumbos and stews a major part of their daily meals and the one thing that seemed to unite them. Only once does Vashti remember feeling the warmth of a hug—feeling her father kiss her temple softly late one night before turning in. More than once after that, the girl would force herself to stay awake – hoping, wishing, and partially begging for that one display of tenderness to come again. But night after night, her room would remain still, the silence broken only by the sound of crickets besides her wall. After a while, the girl stopped waiting for her father to return, and instead would fall back into that single moment. He loved her, she would tell herself; he cared for her just as he cared for her mother.

While the stillness of night allowed Vashti’s mind to wander away, the days brought reprieve.

During the long days underneath the oppressive heat, there was no time, no need to think. To the young child of seven, all that mattered was the ventures that awaited her in the Felucian wilds. While her father never allowed her to stray far from their home, Vashti remembers exploring the forested lands. Buckets and bowls were her constant companions, a forgotten branch her weapon of choice, and the small critters she found beneath the security of a rock the trophies she brought back home – her bebettes, she would explain. In the forest, her imagination would run rampant, taking her to places she could only begin to dream of. She would wage battles against unnamed monsters in the security of the foliage, escape life-threatening missions besides the rumbling river, and was granted awards for her bravery by princes and princesses of exotic lands. The wilds took care of her, the gentle bends of the branches of trees curled around her in an embrace, the buzzing of insects and croaking of frogs a lullaby that soothed her soul. The wilds were the warm hugs she missed from her mother, the reassuring words that went unspoken by her father, the perfect family she once desired.

Vashti remembers how she would return home after her many ventures, worn and tattered sandals carelessly abandoned on the porch, the plastic cups she filled with critters set to the side, and as she smelled the spices that hung above their door, reality would set in once more. In a matter of seconds, all the wild things she had dreamed fizzled, and instead was replaced by the monotony of the day – awaiting for her father, cleaning the fish, cooking a meal. Father and daughter would exchange careful words, as if afraid of voicing something they couldn’t quite face. Vashti would break the tense silence only as the meal neared its end, announcing to her father that she needed to show him her newly acquired bebettes. He would follow his daughter’s footsteps outside, heavy steps drowning her happy pitter-patter, where the two would sit side-by-side on the porch. Without invitation, Vashti would set the containers in her lap, lifting them up only to show her father what she had caught. She would poke and prod the shiny, green insects restlessly, talking her heart out as her father simply listened. When Vashti was done talking, she clearly recalls, the man would grunt as he came to a stance, a calloused hand resting momentarily on her head. ‘Good.’ He would say simply, his voice as gruff as his appearance, before he made his way into their home. Vashti would sit in silence, eyes set on her trophies, lips pursed into a straight line upset – though whether it was because her father’s lack of interest or her undying hope to see a different reaction, she wasn’t entirely sure.

With time Vashti stopped her futile attempts of drawing a reaction from her impassive father’s façade, instead reveling in those quiet moments they shared. When a conversation was spoken between father and child, Vashti would commit the scene to memory, to visit them again in the solitude of night.

MOST DAT LOOK FOR 'ER ARE COUYONS
Nobody Smart Go Lookin' For 'Er

The first time the feeling came Vashti remembers that her body froze.

It was a cold, oppressive sensation that blossomed at the pit of her stomach and spread through her body like wildfire. It was a sensation that the child could neither appease nor ignore, and which made her look over her shoulder uneasily. It was a bad feeling, an evil feeling, Vashti would say, a mal pris. The feelings came quickly, suddenly, out of nowhere – throbbing relentlessly in the back of her mind. It was like a juju, a curse, something that struck out of nowhere when one least expected it. But as quickly as it had appeared, so too would the sensation disappear, swept away by the breeze as if it were the midnight mist. Vashti recalls the sensations, how vicious they could be, how they could last anywhere from a couple of seconds to hours at a time. And while the witch does not remember the uneasiness she felt, how her stomach would sour, and her head would throb, she remembers what would always follow this sensations’ wake – an accident. It was never anything of particular grandeur that followed next, nothing of earth-shattering proportions that haunted the child; quite frankly is that these accidents could easily be dismissed as a mishap by an untrained eye. Nicks, cuts, a fall, or even a stubbed toe, would follow without fail.

By the age of nine Vashti learned to read these tell-tale signs, feeding off from them and expecting what was once unexpected. She would reach for the bandages when the sensation would come, ready antiseptics if it was a particularly persistent one.

It was a year after the feelings started that her father learned of her ability to recognize the juju’s presence. It happened late one afternoon during the torrential rainy season -- Vashti remembers she had been sitting inside their home, she fed the fire to begin a meal and her father sat a breath away sharpening his hunting knife on a waterstone. The feeling came in softly before hitting her like a wave, making Vashti freeze during the motion. She stood silently, without any words, going for the clean bandages her father kept in a cupboard. She said nothing as she took a couple out, following with the antiseptic -- namely a bottle of alcohol. It was as Vashti continued with her silent preparations that an audible curse rung through their home, followed by the sound of the waterstone crashing into the floor. The child rose to her feet, items in hands, and walked calmly to her father’s side who now sported a relatively deep gash on the palm of his hand. She smiled, Vashti recalls as she took her father’s hand in hers, ‘Da juju got you.’

Her father looked confused, Vashti remembers, for the lack of a better word. He asked her what she meant by the a ‘juju,’ and she replied with a shrug - it was a curse. It was odd to see how her father’s eyes grew wide, his lips agape, and he asked if she knew that the accident would occur. Vashti nodded her head, a bit sheepishly. He asked how and she answered with the same resignation -- it was because of the mal pris, the bad feeling. Vashti remembers explaining to her father for the first time what the mal pris was, how the feeling overcame her before an accident would occur. By the time the child was done explaining the multiple times she had felt it, how long ago they had begun, her father sat with his palm bandaged and his eyes closed.

‘You mad, pere?’

Her father looked at her, his strong gestures drowned behind something she could not quite place. His hand reached out to her, his lips grim, as he cupped her smaller face. ‘I am not mad,’ she distinctively remembers him saying, thumbing her full cheeks. ‘I just had hoped I was wrong…’ he trailed. It was the first time, Vashti recalls, that she heard her father falter in such a way – the first time she saw him fully exposed, unable to shield the emotions that danced across his being. To this very day, Vashti is unable to say whether it was sorrow or fear that muddled his façade, or even it was a combination of both. He said nothing more, the witch remembers, he simply stood and moved towards the porch. The child waited for no invitation as she followed her father’s steps – cautious, tentative, but curious nonetheless. Vashti remembers that her father settled on his rocking chair, unable to meet her gaze. He said nothing for several minutes, fumbling with a crooked pipe that was eventually pressed to his lips.

That was the first day Vashti heard him speak more than a couple of carefully stringed sentences. It was hard for him to begin, the young girl figured, watching him open and close his mouth for a few minutes before he finally found his voice. What he said changed everything the girl had known - as well as the life she would come to have.

The Force, her father said, was a difficult thing to explain -- complex, unpredictable, and defiant until the end. It did what it pleased, when it pleased, and was difficult to contain. There were creatures, he continued, born into the Galaxy with an uncanny ability to bend the Force to do their will. It was something that took years to master -- perhaps even a lifetime -- and something that should be fostered. The Jedi, her father said as the child listened with eager eyes, strove to reach peace and serenity through their interaction with the Force. Long ago, her father admitted, he had been one of them. His expression hardened at that revelation and fighting every ounce of her curiosity she refused to push him further. She watched for a minute as the man grew silent once more, his attention shifted from the pipe on his lips to the child at his feet. Under different circumstances, her father continued, she would have been taught under the watchful and patient eyes of another. Her training would have begun when she was much younger, in the care of another, and her life would have been much different. And while the circumstances were less than perfect, their lives less than ideal, it had once been his duty to ensure that the Force would be understood and respected - and for her, he would take on this duty again.

Tomorrow, he said, was the beginning of a new chapter to their lives. That night Vashti was unable to sleep, spending the late hours lying on her back, staring unblinkingly at the inky-black ceiling. Her mind was racing with unrivaled bravado trying to put into images all that her father had explained.

The routine they had known throughout their life in Felucia suddenly vanished, the tempo set shifting into something entirely new. No longer were they father and child, though that relationship had never truly existed, instead they were student and teacher. His teachings, Vashti noticed, were difficult and relentless. Not once did her father seem to realize he was talking to a child -- he expected hard work, self-improvement, and above all maturity. When her father spoke of meditation, the child was expected to follow without question -- to lose herself entirely in the Force’s embrace, to open herself to it. After hours of silence, her mind would begin to throb, and she would throw her head back in exasperation. Her father, would turn to her sternly, his face tight and his eyes grim simply telling her to try again. And she did -- without hesitation, she tried again.

The concept of controlling something that was virtually unseen confused the child of eleven, but a desire to find acceptance under her father’s gaze forced her persistence to flourish. Vashti trained whenever time would permit – moments reserved for her recovery ignored and spent practicing instead. The witch remembers standing by the bubbling rivulet that had made her asylum in more than one occasion – hands stretched before her, face scrunched up in exaggerated concentration, as she tried her best to pick up a pebble to her hand. Time and time again, she failed. It would be months of practice before a pebble would move under her command -- wiggling and rolling pathetically to its side - but once it did, she hoped it would ensure her proficiency in the Force’s manipulation under her father’s eyes.

To Vasthi, the success she saw in seeing that simple object roll to its side at her small command pushed her to continue. Years would come and go; the days of training becoming a natural part of her. She learned to work past her exhaustion, to feed from the Force to push herself a little more. Vashti saw the admiration in her father as she used the Force to manipulate the world about her - to move an object to her, to move it back, to concentrate the Force in her hands and move the object farther than she had the day before. Other fathers would have swelled with pride at seeing his daughter’s success, but it filled Rasheem with a cold dread. He feared not only at being found if a Jedi in Felucia could feel the growth in his daughter, but also at handing her the same skills that had brought them to this particular situation. But, what was worse - teaching her so that she may not commit the same mistakes or leave her untouched for someone else to mold and teach whatever they want? It was with difficulty and after assuring himself that his daughter could manage whatever life would bring that he began to teach her Force Concealment. At first Vashti was unsure as to why – or for that matter how – she could make herself invisible in the eyes of the Force. But with her father’s encouragement and push, the twelve year old began to try and apply the daily lessons she learned from her father.

The skill and promise she showed in the Force, however, did not translate well to lightsaber combat. The first day Vashti was introduced to the accursed weapon, she memorized its weight - a heavy, burden-filled thing that hindered her movements and unevened her stance. It made her uncomfortable, the way it sat idly in her hands and was unbiased to all it touched. Her dislike for lightsaber and lightsaber combat was only increased when her father began to train her in it. When the training in the Force had felt natural, if demanding, this one felt as if it had been created for the sole purpose of driving her past exhaustion. The witch remembers well the night after they had begun to train -- the way her lungs burnt, desperate to catch air, and how every single muscle in her body throbbed in pain. She looked forward to going to bed that night, to having her dreams numb the pain away. But once morning came, the burning came back in a tenfold. And while she groaned - and her body throbbed - and she hoped that her father would let her stay in bed, she found no escape. She was taken out of bed to train with the saber again - and again - and again. Day after day, the training continued. Her body adjusted, grew stronger with every passing day, her abilities along with it, as did her hatred for lightsabers.

Whether it were a result of constant training or natural talent, one could not be sure. But her father could not deny that for still being a child of eighteen, Vashti showed promise in the Force. Where he had struggled in his training under the constant watch of his master, his daughter flourished without difficulty. Force concealment, an ability he had perfected in himself only after rising to a Knight status, she had learned in six short years. While still far from being able to fully conceal herself from trained Force users, the eighteen could fluctuate the flow of her Force with seamless ease, diminishing her presence in the Force to the level of a Force sensitive without apparent difficulty.

While Vashti grew increasingly stronger with years, the once childish endearment she held for her father began to waver. No longer was he the man she tried so hard to impress - he was the man that drove her, the one who pushed her past her breaking point, healed her back only to break her once more. What she had once assumed to be love in his eyes for a daughter that followed after him, now she recognized as merely therapy. In her, her father was fixing everything that was wrong with him - it was never about her. Vashti never voiced her concerns - never once spoke out of place. Perhaps, she remembers thinking, it was desperation; a desperate hope to be wrong. But as the Firrerreo grew from a child with eager honey eyes and a cheeky grin to a young woman with a knowing smile and a devilish lilt, it became difficult for her to hold unto that hope.

Vashti never raised her voice against her father’s teachings, never wavered from the eager student image she had developed over the years, her rebelliousness was clear. Like in those early years when the wilds had been her family, the witch sought the forest for company. Waking before her father had risen from bed, Vashti would sneak away. Amongst the trees and bebettes, she saw herself released. Vashti reveled in those hours of solitude, where the thoughts she had were only her own – and not the reflections of the older Firrerreo. For weeks she enjoyed this new found freedom, but it wasn’t long before her father intervened.

It was a late afternoon shortly after her twentieth birthday that her father finally approached her, his arms crossed and his eyes set on her. Vashti sat on the wooden porch when his father’s steps broke her silent reverie, her eyes dragged from the distance and to the man to her right. She said nothing save a single ‘Pere,’ her attention to returning to the distance again. Vashti remembers that her father made no move to sit himself besides her or to lock her gaze to his. In fact, the man remained still for several minutes, his lips tight and eyes boring unto his daughter’s head. When he finally opened his lips to speak, Vashti never lifted her eyes or made any indication of reaction to what he said. He spoke clearly, bluntly, his displeasure clear in every synapse and syllable he formed. He spoke of a desire the young woman had once expressed, a wish to learn and master all that he had to teach. Vashti was unmoved as her father said that this young woman had promised long ago to absorb all he had to say and how she now failed to see it to the end. A failure of character, her father had called it, a weakness in spirit. When he was done after that short exchange, her father returned to the still frame of their home for the night.

Vashti did not follow the man in, her eyes never wavered even as they narrowed into dangerous slits. But while she remained as still as ever, her mind ran wild; curses were strung together in the recesses of her thoughts. It was not a lack in spirit that had driven her away from learning, she recalled thinking, no lack of desire to excel. He knew this well, Vashti was aware, he simply looked for a way to bring her back again. And she bit. Even knowing that is was all a ruse, Vashti bit.

The next morning as the man pushed sleep away from his eyes, he saw his daughter waiting for him by the door.

‘Le’s see what else you got to teach.’

The knowledge she showed in the area of the Force is what inspired her father to teach her Ataru. A technique he had learned from his master, the Aggression form seemed relatively fitting for the young Firrerreo. While lightsaber techniques had never been a favorite of Vashti, she took easily to Ataru. The fast footwork and bladework, aided by the manipulation of the Force, seemed like second nature to her. When Vashti had never enjoyed the strenuous hours she spent under the Felucian sun with lightsaber in hand, it seemed that she didn’t mind.

DOSE DAT STILL LOOK FOR 'ER DO SO FOR TWO REASONS
Dey Be Lookin' To Get Killed Or Dey Want Somethin' From 'Er

Normalcy returned to father and daughter, at least at first sight. Together they trained each morning, every day techniques perfected and new lessons introduced. But the air was thick with tension. It seemed impossible for Vashti or her father to let their guards down in each other’s company, for their eyes to linger away from each other for prolonged periods of time. The emotional distance between them continued to grow with each passing day, father and daughter becoming strangers that shared a home. Vashti’s ventures in the forest never ceased, even if the training with her father had resumed; in fact they only seemed to increase. Those nights they had once shared together cooking, now replaced by her returning to the wilds. In the forest, Vashti would see the day turn to night. Farther and farther away from familiar lands Vashti would be taken and towards new territory.

It was one of those very ventures that would shape the rest of her life. Though, she often wishes it would have been in a less eventful way.

She was no older than twenty-three when it happened. Night had set and along it its inescapable grasp. Vashti had been traveling south that day, her body and mind tired from an extensive session, to the point she didn’t see the creature huddled to her side. That is, until the sound began. The sound was soft, low, and drawn – it rumbled oddly in her chest. Vashti froze instantly as the sound grew louder, snapping and cracking echoing behind it. Time seemed to stop as Vashti turned, her eyes wide and her lips agape. Honey eyes were swallowed by bitter black eyes and their gargantuan owner.

There were not many things the Firrerreo feared in the forest, few beasts that would make Vashti freeze, but as she recognized the Bull Rancor, it became impossible for her to move. Even as it screeched in the air and Vashti’s muscles suddenly seemed to cooperate, she could not move out of the way. It charged, head swinging wildly, tusks connecting along the length of her chest. The pain was immediate. Sharp. Unbearable. One that she remembers to this day. Her head spun as her body collided against a tree, the air knocked out of her immediately. She grasped unto the tree with desperation, her mouth hanging open as she desperately tried to recover her air.

The Rancor lost sight of her for a moment, and for those short seconds Vashti begged for it to lose interest. But it turned to her almost immediately, nostrils flared and head low. Vashti scrambled up the tree as the creature charged again. She was barely able to cling unto the abrasive surface as the tree shook with the collision. She slipped and yelped in surprise as the second collision came. In minutes that seemed akin to hours, the Rancor berated the tree. It swung its head to the side, husks gashing deep marks into the tree. Groaning and moaning at what it endured, the tree shook with each blow it took, but it still stood.

Again and again the Rancor came, but Vashti held on. Her hands were raw and red, fingernails broken as she clung unto dear life, but it was becoming painfully difficult to do so. It was in a particularly strong swing by the Rancor that Vashti lost her grip. She fell, her body colliding once unto a lower branch - which broke easily under the foreign weight. The collision on the ground dazed the Firrerreo, leaving her breathlessly curled in the ground. Realizing her sudden helplessness, her eyes snapped open and she cursed at herself to move. She dug her arms to the ground, desperate to look for an escape, but immediately regretted it. Her arms buckled under her, a cry caught in the back of her throat. Every muscle of her body cried in agony, but none quite as much as her side. She glanced down quickly and was met by a dark liquid seeping through her skin, but was unable to examine the damage. Again, the Rancor charged and this time, there was nothing to prevent her demise. Vasthi expected death, she expected nothing but darkness, but as Vashti forced her eyes to open all she saw was red. Behind the slack jaw of the rancor, barely noticeable behind the wall of saliva and teeth, there sat a red light. There was a hiss and the light quickly ended, and all that there was left for Vashti to see was the Rancor standing still. The Rancor fell to the ground in a thunderous crash, a pitiful whine echoing in its death. That is when she saw it, a mass standing triumphantly in the creature’s head.

Part of her thought the figure to be a figment of her imagination, a wicked image conjured in moments of fear. But the hardened golden eyes that met her behind a carefully pointed nose made her blood run cold. For years, tales of an ancient soul had surrounded the forest, of one that could control the very creatures to her bidding. A witch, some had called her, a beast others had said, but Vashti had often regarded them as stories told to keep unruly children at bay. But as she stood before the figure – her tall posture and regal frame, she could feel as the weight of every single tale crashed down on her. The witch of Felucia was real.

Her heart drummed madly in her chest, each beat threatening to burst through. Had she been able to, Vashti would have screamed, but at that moment she found it impossible to make anything above a squeak. The young woman could only watch as the witch drew upon her, her head low a sneer present in her lips. The ringing of the jewelry she wore sounded foreign to Vashti’s ears, muddled with whispered breaths that echoed within her head. The witch’s head lolled slightly, her eyes drawn to the beast before returning to Vashti. Her voice, Vashti recalls, was otherworldly. Voices upon voices strung together and singing as one, ‘You are not one who seeks the aid of Berangere.’ The witch greeted, ‘Say now child, what is your name?’

Those years of calling herself Kailash took over Vashti and with pained breaths uttered the name thoughtlessly. The witch looked at Vashti with her brows raised, before her attention refocused on the gash that stretched across the young woman’s ribs. ‘It is unwise to lie to a witch. Remember that.’ There was no invitation for Vasthi to refuse as the woman grasped her arm and pulled it above her head. Vashti grunted as searing pain took her, but the witch seemed unmoved. In a moment of gruesome curiosity, the witch wiggled her fingers into the wound, causing Vasthi’s knees to buckle and for her to heave. Then just as quickly as the intrusion had come, it ended with a scoff, her body supported against the much older female. The witch’s actions would have seemed as one of morbid fascination to most, and at that moment Vashti would not have disagreed, but an odd sense of tenderness stained her momentarily as she hoisted Vashti’s arm over her shoulders. Without words, the witch led the young Firrerreo through the forest, never once letting her stumble or fall.

In the feverish waves of pain that took her, Vashti was vaguely aware of how the forest air suddenly changed - how the crisp scent of broken leafs and moist earth was replaced by a dank, heavy air - or how the foliage seemed to bend away from the woman’s path with ease, twisting and turning at the slightest of indications. The earth beneath her suddenly became impossibly difficult to walk in, a thick mud that clung precariously to her feet, but the witch seemed undaunted. In fact, while Vashti struggled to keep without falling, the witch floated with grace. It didn’t take long for the witch to finally bring Vashti to her intended destination - a small makeshift house that leaned to the side.

Her hut smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and spices she couldn’t quite place. It was a gentle, earthy scent that pulled Vashti into an odd embrace as soon as they broke through its threshold. The floor was wooden, Vashti recalls, littered with pelts, rugs, and cushions of every imaginable color. The wood creaked slightly as Vashti was led across a room with mismatched furniture before being settled besides a roaring hearth. Vashti’s head lolled on the back of the chair as the witch moved about the room - herbs collected within skillful hands. It didn’t take long before the witch was again by her side, fingers pulling the torn shirt from her frame. A cool surface touched her side, making Vasthi cry - but she could not react much after that. The witch drew her nails across Vashti’s brow, a single order uttered in her ear, ’sleep.’

Darkness took her.

The darkness was oppressing – constricting, an exhilarating and equally terrifying experience. It was something that spoke to the most primal instincts – to a desire, a fear, a terror to lose control. It was a vertiginous experience, nightmarish. It was something that pulled and clawed at her very core. Every synapse was fully awake in the darkness – every nerve alight with dread. Everything passed through Vashti’s head in an instant –recognized, understood, and forgotten at the same time. It was an endless haunting, one that coiled and uncoiled in the depths of her mind. Part of her, Vashti remembers, wished to find release from the darkness, to see the endless silence come to an end. Part of her wished to find release from the darkness, to see the endless silence come to an end. Part of her wanted to be lulled into the nothingness in death’s sweet embrace, to fade away. But the witch’s voice reminded Vashti that this was not meant to be the end – she was meant to wait, to sit in silence, to see the darkness fade. Hours, days, years, it didn’t matter how fast or slow time progressed. In the darkness it was all the same.

What she remembers next is a vague impression of light. There were no shapes, no forms, only the endless extent of white. The first thought that crossed Vashti’s mind as she stirred from the darkness, from the deep sleep that had ruled her body and mind, was the vague impression of buzzing – an ephemeral thing. As her sudden wakefulness exorcised the thoughts that burst through her mind and the fiendish details that had commanded her imagination, she became aware of her immediate surroundings. She could make a grass roof that stretched over her head, slinking downwards and meeting an uneven wall. She found myself lying on a makeshift bed – all tangled limbs and tousled hair. Vasthi pushed herself up with quivering arms, but she quickly regretted it. In an instant, a sharp pain erupted through the depths of her side and rolled through her body in furious waves. It took every ounce of will to not cry out in pain, to instead find relief in gritting her teeth. Steady breaths were taken in an attempt to regain some composure – several minutes and an audible curse later, she finally did.

Vashti pushed herself up from the comfort of the skins, pillows, and blankets that made her bed, and with a groan bit-back, she managed to stand. With unsteady steps she crossed the small room and made her way out the door. Vashti was immediately met by a quaint abode – a brick and grass house that smelled of herbs and rich earth. The crackling of the hearth was noticeable through the house, disrupted only by the humming of a voice.

‘Back in the world of the living, I see.’

Confusion was clear on Vashti’s face as she recognized the woman before her - the golden eyes, the rueful sneer, and the wild gray hair weaved with gold and beads. Even in light the witch was as intimidating as the first time Vashti had seen her in the night, with the shadows exaggerating her pointed features. Vashti didn’t know quite what to say at first, so she stood idly watching as the woman crossed the room towards the hearth of the kitchen. As Vashti watched the woman work a pot, she couldn’t help but ask why -- why her? Why save her? Pity, the witch called it, though Vashti doubted the woman had any of it to spare. But as the bowl was passed to her without further explanation, the Firrerreo did not pursue the topic further. Something told Vashti that the witch would answer no more even if she had pushed the topic. Vashti was unsure as she took the plate in hand, a spoon swirled in the brown swill. Unconsciously she wrinkled her nose at the contents, eliciting a chuckle from the woman before her. ‘Had I wanted you dead, poison wouldn’ be my preferred method. Eat.’ She had been out for a couple of days, the witch informed her during the meal, the old woman never moving to take her own plate, time which she had used widely to heal Vashti’s wound.

For the next couple of days, Vashti helped in small tasks in Berangere’s home, the witch never trusting her to do much on her own. She cooked mostly, other times she swept the floors, and sometimes Vashti found herself sent off to the garden to retrieve a handful of herbs that were 'crucial,' as the witch would put. They would speak often, conversations often revolving around Vashti and her upbringing. When Vashti refused to answer, the witch would lean on her chair and a knowing smile would cross her lips. It was odd. Everything Vashti did, everything she said, seemed almost expected to Berangere, as if she already knew the answer before Vashti had even heard the question. At first, Vashti had felt exposed under the witch's incriminating stare, but as days came and went, she became accustomed to it. It was not something she particularly enjoyed, but nothing she particularly despised either. However, it would be the day of her departure that Berangere would become imprinted in the young woman's mind.

A week had passed since she had awoken in the the witch's home. Her bruised and battered body had healed, the gash reduced to nothing more than a discoloration that wrapped around her side. Vashti had readied a small meal to last her for the day. She had said her last goodbyes to the witch of Felucia who sat by the door, her head propped lazily against an open palm. ‘You have promise in you.’ The woman uttered as the Firrerreo moved to leave, forcing Vashti to stop mid step. For a few seconds, Vashti did not move, her brow knotted with the witch’s words. A curt smile curled on the Firrerreo’s lips as she dipped her head towards the older woman. Thanking her, she left the hut and its inhabitant behind.

Hours came and went unnoticed as Vashti crossed the witch’s lands, always looking over her shoulder half-expecting to see the woman behind. But every time Vashti turned, she was met by nothing but endless green. It was impossible to escape the toned words the witch had spoken of a promise yet unfulfilled. It clawed gently at the back of the woman’s head, the whispers soft but persistent. More than once Vashti found herself coming to a stop, her hands clasped on the bridge of her nose, desperate to find reprieve from the ghostly whispers in her mind. Then, just as eager as they had been in clawing the depths of her thoughts, they stopped. The sudden release came as a breath of crisp air forcing itself down her lungs – painful but welcomed. And at the same time, an odd sense of loss overcame her, a disconnection Vashti had never quite felt before. Her footing faltered as she turned to look at the area she had left behind – at the shadows and unrestrained plants that seemed to respond at the witch’s gentlest calls. Vashti remained unnerved as she turned on her heels, trying her very best to leave the wretched place – and its inhabitant – behind. But the further she was taken from Berangere’s hut, the more Vashti realized that this would not be the last time she saw the woman.

Nightfall took the skies before the outline of her home came into sight – small, rotting, cast in an orange gleam that flittered through the broken canopy. Bare feet carried her towards familiar sights, down the jagged road she had built with spare rocks. It wasn’t long before she found herself walking up the porch – and across the wooden planks that had begun to rot. A soft collision stopped Vashti from entering and forced her eyes up. At first, she could barely recognize the man who stood there, if only by his disheveled appearance – the matted hair, the fuzz in his chin, and deep bags transforming her father’s face. He looked worse for wear, as if in those few days he had simply stopped caring. They stood in silence, neither moving, neither uttering a sound – just locked in each other’s eyes. Vashti pursed her lips before she averted her gaze, greeting her father as if nothing had occurred. ‘Evenin’ Pere.’ The simple phrase brought everything in motion, her father on her in a single step.

A pang of guilt hit her as she found herself pulled into her father’s arms - his features seemingly aging overnight. He held unto her desperately, saying nothing as he breathed a sigh of relief into her hair. The man of few emotions, the one that always seemed in control, broke down as he held his daughter in his arms. For those few seconds, the man Vashti had come to recognize as nothing more than a stranger with whom she shared a home, became her father once more. Like all those years ago late that summer night, Vashti felt her father’s fleeting expression of love once more. When her father finally managed to pull himself away from Vashti, he did not let go. As if afraid for her to vanish into the forest again, he held unto his daughter’s arms, looking down at her from behind a prominent nose. He asked to know what happened, why she had decided to stay away – why she had done that, why she had put him through that, what had possessed her, and all Vashti could muster was an apology. Her father sighed, grip slackening and hands falling to his sides. His request was simple, to never do that again. Vashti agreed.

It confused the young woman her absolute need to ensure the man felt reassured by her words. How for weeks following her arrival, she abandoned her daily escapades to the wild. In fact, when presented with the option, the young woman responded by a listless shrug of her shoulders – the forest would be there tomorrow. She awoke early every morning, trained with her father as they had done so for many years, and would cook together in the evening like they had once done. Vashti had for many years forgone the relationship of father and daughter for one that was less than ideal. She cared for the man, yes, ensured his well-being. Perhaps, Vashti even loved him to an extent, but never once had the woman thought she would still wish to ensure his emotional sake. They never became close, that is Vashti and Rasheem, no matter how much they tried. It simply seemed as if all those years of silent resignation had built a wall between them that was impossible to shatter.

While she was hesitant to see what else her father had to teach, Vashti continued to follow him restlessly. What she found was that her father, for one reason or another, had been far too reserved when it came to his lightsaber techniques. Her father explained that it was necessary for her to grasp the basics of combat that Shii Cho provided before being introduced to other forms. Part of him, the man admitted under his daughter’s scrutiny, had often doubted that teaching Vashti another technique would be wise; though, perhaps a calm, non-aggressive technique as Soresu would tame Vashti’s nature. The Way of the Mynock, as her father referred to it, was a technique specially created to maximize the users defense in tight, efficient movements. Unlike in Ataru, Vashti often found herself forced to maintain a calm center, undisturbed by internal conflict. Yet, no matter the days she spent practicing the damned technique, it never quite grew unto the Firrerreo. She learned the basics well, gained a decent hand in it, but it was never a technique that she mastered.

AND SHE DON' GIVE DA SECOND WILLIN'LY
She Always Want Somethin' In Return

While Vashti’s feelings towards her father became renewed, the wedge that had been built was never overcome. Over the months that followed, Vashti’s frustrations to the man’s teaching methods and his drive vexed the Firrerreo. She became irritated at his slightest provocations, would lash out if confronted. It was not her father’s fault, Vashti would come to admit over time, but rather it was her own anxiety bubbling within. She felt confused, overwhelmed, as if everything she had known - or thought she knew - came crumbling down. So she reacted the best way she knew how - keeping it inside until it bubbled over and exploded in her face. Her father did not take well to Vashti’s lashing out. Unlike the stoic man she had come to know over the years, he would meet her head on - he would raise his voice when she would scream, her cool remarks met by quiet stoicism and a flippant snort. When the woman would walk out in exasperation, arms thrown in the air, he would sit gruffly in his rocking chair, unwilling to acknowledge her return. The faith the father had once placed in his daughter, a hope to fix everything that he had failed in his person, was beginning to dwindle. Part of Rasheem regretted ever bringing her down the path.

And yet, no matter the fights, no matter how every muscle in their being was vexed by the other, they never left. Vashti thought about it often, leaving, that is, but perhaps she had grown used to her father’s ghostly presence to abandon him altogether. So she stayed with him for several more years, she trained under him even if he showed his concerns, and continued their lives as if nothing was wrong. But things were changing; Vashti could feel it in her bones. Everything she knew was eroding and being replaced by something new. Even the teachings her father had taught her from an early age had begun to feel foreign to the Firrerreo. The more she learned, the less Vashti seemed willing to embrace it. She needed something different, something new, a new perspective. Perhaps it was this that finally drove her back to the witch Berangere two years after their fateful meeting.

Vashti was unaware what she expected to find that morning as she left her home. Granted, the Firrerreo wasn’t even aware of where her feet carried her to until she was met by the stench of the wild lands. Her footing never faltered under her, never did Vashti hesitate as she moved forward. The path she had seen only once in her right mind burned in her memory. The hut of Berangere seemed stuck in time – not a thing had changed in Vashti’s faint memories. But what struck her most was not the familiarity of what she saw, but rather it was the witch waiting silently at the door. Golden eyes met those of Vashti, and she suddenly felt small. But she walked forward, a moment’s breath asking what she had meant all those years ago – why she had promise. Berangere smiled her a knowing smile, a hand gesturing to the hearth of her home. ‘You will see with time.’ She motioned for her to enter her home and Vashti did so. She never once answered her question, Vashti recalls, though it was for the best that she didn’t. It would have lost that certain charm, Vashti figured, that kept her coming back.

Mama Rere was a woman of beauty even in her old age. She was a woman that in her earlier years could have captured the imagination of men and women alike, and one that continued to do so but for different reasons. Whether it was with or without Vashti’s company, Mama Rere never had an empty home. There was always something going on, always someone visiting the witch. Most times these visitors were clients – both old and new – others were friends, but there was no day without a gentle rap disrupted the silence of Berangere’s home. It fascinated Vashti how many flocked to the woman like moths to flame, crossing the harsh landscape for hours seeking the crooked home of Berangere. Some came to her looking for answers, others came to her seeking aid in some matter or another, but all came to Mama Rere for something. When met by the witch’s presence, Vashti noticed, people met her with an odd sense of reverence, their eyes cast low and always referring to her by a self-imposed title, madam Berangere. Gifts were always presented to the woman before she would consider extending a friendly hand, jewels and fine fabrics amongst the preferred ones. It was only then that Mama Rere would lead the desperate visitor into her home.

The air was electrifying when Mama Rere would work - Vashti’s body would tingle and her mind would run. Every muscle twitched in the charged air as Mama Rere placed her hand on her visitor’s head. Her eyes would narrow, the dual tones in her voice would sing, and the Force seemed to dance wildly about her. In those seconds, the world seemed to still – all that mattered was the herbs Mama Rere burned, the jingling of her bracelets, the sweet calling of her words. Sometimes the sessions were simple, quiet, ending as quickly as they begun. Other times, they created haunting images that stayed with Vashti for several nights. These sessions, the latter ones, she would call a nightmare – the thing of legends. Under Mama Rere’s hands people would scream, they would beg, and call, and fall apart. Nothing stopped Mama Rere in those fateful moments, nothing made her restrained. She tear apart at their minds until nothing was left untouched. In a matter of seconds, all they had known, all they had reserved for their mind was brought to the open for all to see.

It was enticing and oddly beautiful sight to Vashti, unlike anything she had ever seen or felt. More and more Vashti would find herself drawn to the older counterpart, curious to understand – desperate to learn – how the witch managed to bend the will of another without difficulty. So she continued to visit day after day without failure, getting closer to the woman as time went by. An odd sense of friendship developed between the two of them, tough it sometimes bordered on admiration. With time Vasthi found it within her to dare to ask how Mama Rere managed what she did, but she found no answer.

She didn’t watch the witch work every day, sometimes they simply enjoyed one another’s company in the most mundane of things. They cooked together, just like Vashti and her father had once done, and spent listless afternoons talking. When weather would not allow for customers to come, Vashti and Mama Rere would play cards, a game the older woman seemed to be particularly fond of. When they played poker, Mama Rere would look at Vashti with the same pointed indifference with which she met her clients. She was sly, Mama Rere, Vashti could never tell what was going through her mind – and when it came to bets there was none that could outmatch her. When it came to talking, Mama Rere showed the same shrewdness as in the games. She never answered questions, no matter how much the young woman pried. There always seem to be a loophole to even the simplest of inquiries. It was a year into this routine that Vashti finally came with a proposition – a game. A question for the victor to voice and an answer for the loser to reply with. Mama Rere leaned back in her chair with a bemused grin and motioned for the game to start.

The cards were dealt and the game begun. Short conversations danced between the witch and Vashti, though none seemed to last. Vashti was far too eager to get distracted. One card after another she felt her beat quicken and her breath hitch. Nervously, Vashti would glance up at the witch and her stoic façade. Time and time again, however, she lost. The questions were quite basic at the beginning, her true name was one, her age, the location of her home. But soon enough the questions got more serious, with intimate details she had never thought she would share – as was the case with her father trainings and the usage of the Force. They had been playing for an hour when the opportunity finally came – a full house. Vashti could barely contain the smile that threatened to stretch across her lips. They talked a little, exchanged a laugh, but soon enough the cards were laid – Vashti won. While Vashti had expected a rueful smile to dress the witch’s lip, she instead found an odd satisfaction on them. She told Vashti to ask her question – to ask carefully. Vashti tested her lip for several minutes as she tried to choose what to say, but finally decided on what exactly the woman used to do what she did. The answer was unexpected for the Firrerreo. ‘The same thing that allows you to do what you do. That which you call the Force, sha.’

But the teachings she had learned from her father never spoke of anything like this. She was eager to keep pressing and quickly begun the last game. The cards were flipped and Vashti´s heart sunk. She had lost. She had nothing. Vashti glanced up ay Mama Rere and her unbreakable gaze. She knew, there was no point in denying it, the witch knew. But Mama Rere eyed Vashti with unusual warmth. Berangere pressed the cards unto the table, her eyes never leaving Vashti’s own. Her words were low, drowned by the roaring fire, and yet rung clearly in Vashti’s ears. ‘Would you like to learn it?’ The question was brazen, to the point, and it drew a similar answer from the Firrerreo’s lips, ‘I would.’

Drain Knowledge, the name was as violent as the technique proved to be. Unlike what her father had taught her, it tapped the surface of what the Force could offer. Mama Rere’s practices too were more ‘hands on,’ as one would say; she taught by example. More than once Vashti was encouraged to press her fingers against the witch’s brow, to take by force thoughts that were not meant to be seen by her. There were countless of times when Vashti failed, when she was met by nothing but darkness, by coy whispers. When she would pull away, the witch would react in turn, and Vashti would feel what so many had before her. There was no pain – just an inescapable pressure that would build in the back of her head. When she tried to fight it the pressure would increase, her head would drop, and her lungs would squeeze shut. Then, it would end as quickly as it came. Mama Rere would watch as Vashti sat in the chair, brow drenched and eyes wide, heaving. With the same carelessness she would simply say, to try harder next time. She failed more times than she succeeded at first; the witch came to know her better than she knew herself.

As the years passed, Vashti’s relationship with Berangere was cemented and all the while, Rasheem grew weary of his daughter’s demeanor. In the blink of an eye the girl he had known had changed completely – her palpitations on the Force seemed erratic at best, maybe even violent. Rasheem tried to reason with his daughter in more than one occasion. He begged for her to stop whatever nonsense she was doing. But Vashti would hear nothing of it. To her, her father was scared that she had replaced him. That the child with the wide devotion he had gotten used to was not there anymore. ‘’E taught a child to speak and told it to utter no sound. Mama Rere taught dat child to sing.’

[Reisier]

IF YOU DECIDE TO GO LOOKIN' FOR 'ER, LISTEN CLOSE
She Always Be Watchin', Always Be Listenin' Dat She Do

Vashti never wished ill fate to befall her father; never once did she sought him harm by her hand or that of another. They disagreed, yes; and life had taken them down different paths, but Rasheem was still her father. When they came, Vashti could not help but feel responsible for what befell him, for not being able to aid him. Then again, could fault really be found within her? To this day, she is yet to answer that to herself.

They came during the rainy days; none had expected them to come, not Vashti, not the witch, not Rasheem. That day Vashti had left early to aid Mama Rere with the collection of some herbs she needed for a client after which, the witch had promised, the lessons would continue. Vashti had crossed the threshold of their home like she did every day. She took a piece of bread, cast a glance to the sleeping lump that was her father, simply saying that she would return later that day. Vashti hesitated slightly as she crossed the door, a hand placed longingly against its crooked frame. She thought about staying for a fleeting second, of telling Mama Rere that something had come up. But with a flippant sneer and a roll of her eyes, she overthrew the thought and Vashti continued to walk down the road she had committed to heart.

The day seemed normal enough, went off without a hitch. The herbs were easy enough to spot, a shy green tone that peeked from beneath a bed of soaked brown leafs. Training went well, thoughts reached easier than times before, a pleasing sight to the old witch. As the rain had turned torrential, the curious duo had returned to the witch’s home. They shared a meal afterwards - a gumbo that the old woman had insisted on making regardless of how much Vashti had refused. Vashti had been in the process of picking up the table when it finally happened. A sharp pain that erupted in the back of her skull. Vashti staggered, the plate she had been holding clattering loudly on the floor. Her hands clenched. Her stomach soured. A bucket of icy water seemed to be dropped in the pit of her stomach. Mama Rere was immediately on the woman’s side, holding unto a pale Vashti. The witch asked if she was fine, but the Firrerreo did not answer. She didn’t know. It had been years since the juju had shaken Vashti like this. A long time since a cold sweat was forced from her and her stomach turned. Something was wrong - very wrong.

And so she ran without a word from the witch’s arms, out the doors, and into the wilds. The rain struck painfully against her skin, her feet slipped with the thick sludge that had become the forest ground. But she couldn’t stop, not now, not when every muscle in her body begged for her to move. So the Firrerreo listened and bent willingly to its request, running even when her body was beginning to feel faint. She lost track of all direction, of time, all she remembered was the clacking of her feet against the ground. When she found their home, she found it still. No fires roared, no smoke danced from the fireplace. There was just an odd stillness in the air. Her footing came to a stop, her mouth open as it gulped down air.

Vashti stepped forward, her foot silently connecting on a smooth, cold surface. The Firrerreo glanced down, her eyes golden slivers. Steadily, Vashti sunk into her knees, fingers reaching out to the surface. The saber that had been her father’s, the one she had trained with for many year lay hacked in half, its pieces still hot to the touch. Vashti held unto the broken hilt part as she rose to a stance, without uneasy steps making her way up the wooden porch. Vashti grasped the door frame as she peered inside, hair sticking to the side of her face. What she found made her heart drop. Inside the house they called their home was nothing short of chaos. Deep gashes crossed from one side of the room to the other, glass littered the floor. Tables had been turned, furniture destroyed, nothing escaped unharmed. Vashti hoped to see her father well, well even amidst the chaos. But she found no sign of him.

It was hard for Vashti to pry herself away from the door; harder still to think clearly. Vashti tried steadying her breath as she ran her fingers through her hair. She was moving again, zigzagging through the forest with desperate steps. It did not take long before her feet carried her to the edge of the forest, where the vast lands of a farming town stretched. A silver gleam caught her eyes in the distance. Her heart stopped as a familiar figure fell upon her eyes - the golden skin, his tired eyes. ’Pere!’ She made to move, but found herself yanked back. Vashti struggled against the unseen figure, her voice barely audible in the rain. The figure urged Vashti to stop, a familiar voice that she recognized as Mama Rere. But she didn’t stop, she couldn’t. Vashti continued to thrash helplessly against the woman as she watched her father disappear behind the metal door.

The back of his head was the last thing Vashti saw of her father - a dark, messy mass that clung to the side of his face. Two figures stood at either side of him, clad in shades of brown and creme. Not once did the figures turn back as they boarded the ship, not once did they see the witch and the Firrerreo in the distance watching as Rasheem was taken away. And just like that, he was gone.

Years later the Firrerreo would meet a man, a client, that would speak of seeing an arrest happen in a small town in Felucia. A renegade Jedi, one that had killed two and stolen a child had been arrested there. He was taken back to Coruscant, a planet far away, to the Jedi Temple where he would be tried and receive punishment for his crimes.

Their home had never been more silent. Granted, it had never been a place of welcoming laughter, of music, or vivid conversations, but never had it sat as still as it did after Rasheem was taken away. Vashti didn’t have it within her to revisit the place. Perhaps that is why Mama Rere did not let her return to that place that day. Instead, Vashti was led to the witch’s home, a reassuring arm around her shoulder, gentle words spoken to the Firrerreo. She would stay with her, Mama Rere would say, until Vashti could find it within her to move back. Yet as months came and went, it seemed that neither the witch nor Vashti wanted to abandon the other.

There was a side of Berangere that Vashti never noticed until she began to live with the old woman. She was warm, caring in her own way, though perhaps she never showed it. She never treated Vashti different after her father was taken by the Jedi to Coruscant, never became soft or protective. In fact, in the years that came after, Berangere continued as if nothing had changed; she taught Vashti with the same pointed indifference of the years before, though perhaps she included more guidance to the thirty-one year old.

But the years did not pass in vain and even the witch of Felucia began to feel their weight. She was tired all the time, listless the other part, and her connection seemed to fail her at times. No longer could she pull the thoughts from unwilling visitors with ease or fill them with fear. Her clients became fewer and fewer, some passing from old age,

There was a side of Berangere that Vashti never noticed until she began to live with the old woman. She was warm, caring in her own way, though perhaps she never showed it. She never treated Vashti different after her father was taken by the Jedi to Coruscant, never became soft or protective. In fact, in the years that came after, Berangere continued as if nothing had changed; she taught Vashti with the same pointed indifference of the years before, though perhaps she included more guidance to the thirty-one year old. When Vashti began to excel in Drain Knowledge, Mama Rere would beam, a bemused smile in her lips, before telling the Firrerreo that she had done well. The odd friendship that the two had once shared blossomed, turning into something that Vashti never thought she would find in another. In Mama Rere she saw the mother she never had, the tender hand that allowed her to grow, to blossom. The more the years passed, the more Mama Rere became everything she had sought for in a parent but which she had never found until her later years. Vashti grew stronger with the years that came, flourishing under the watchful eyes of Mama Rere.

But the years did not pass in vain and even the witch of Felucia began to feel their weight. Mama Rere was tired all the time, listless the other part, and her connection seemed to fail her at times. No longer could she pull the thoughts from unwilling visitors with ease or fill them with fear. Her clients became fewer and fewer, some passing from old age, others finding the witch to be less successful than she had been in earlier days. The world had changed around her and now the changed found itself at her door. While most would have been horrified by the prospect of loosing everything they had created, Mama Rere seemed indifferent - it was a change long overdue. But the witch of Felucia was eternal and she would continue to exist even if the world she once knew crumbled around her, and Vasthi would bring the change she sought.

Vashti never expected to be approached by Mama Rere with the offer - frankly, it seemed like an odd, humorless joke to the Firrerreo at first. But the witch was insistent, she never wavered in her stance or cracked a bemused smile - she would be passing the title of witch to her. It was an unspoken tradition that had existed for as far as she could recall, Mama Rere explained, going back centuries from her understanding. When the witch would reach a later state in life, she would pass the title along her teachings to a chosen ‘child.’ The child, in turn, would give life to the story of the witch, continuing the lessons and the life of solitude within the wilds. There was a reason for it once, the witch explained, though it had been forgotten long ago; now, they simply repeated what they had learned - a cycle that never seemed to break. There was a time when Mama Rere had thought of letting the legend die with her, to have the witch be forgotten in the sands of time. But Vashti had shown promise in the Force, she had shown promise in character, and soon it became impossible for her to deny the Firrerreo of the title.

But there was still much to do, much to learn before the witch of Felucia could be reborn. She needed to instill fear into others with the same ease with which she stole their thoughts - a task that proved to be not only difficult but oddly fulfilling. Force Fear was much more invasive than Drain Knowledge had been, though perhaps it was merely because it combined the two. Not only did Vasthi enter the deepest part of a mind to wreck havoc with capabilities of her target by turning their thoughts and memories against them, but they also were filled with hopelessness and regret. Every ounce of hesitation and self-loathe that they had felt once would sweep across them in a tenfold. At first, Vashti never practiced in the mind of another sentient being, she was far too inexperienced, but Mama Rere found the wildlife in the forests to be a suitable substitute for her. Animals would squirm under her as Vashti practiced, the bebettes would twist and turn as if screaming when she would pry. The weaker Mama Rere seemed to become with the months that followed fueled Vashti to learn quicker. The practices continued a year before the witch would allow to take a more challenging mind, but when a young woman, a new client, entered the home of Berangere, Vashti’s reign begun.

It was odd at first to take a seat in the witch’s chair, to be adorned in jewelry and fabrics as the woman came to the door. When she asked for the witch Vashti nearly faltered, though a carefully turned nose and a condemning smile erased all self doubt. Like she had seen hundred of times before, Vashti extended an inviting hand to chair across from her. The young woman shifted uncomfortably under Vashti’s scrutinizing gaze, the way she said nothing as she tilted her head. When the woman finally spoke, nervously commenting on Vashti’s youthful appearance, she merely ignored it with a dismissive scoff - was the witch supposed to look like a hag? It took no invitation for the Firrerreo to begin her work - merely a reading. To tell the woman exactly what she wanted to hear when she wanted to hear it.

It was quite surprising to Vashti how easily it was to take the money of another with careful words - people truly were pliant if the right pressure was applied. Vashti would always speak softly to whoever came to see the witch, her eyes never parting from those of her clients. She would smile often, a dainty thing that seemed to make visitors squirm. The Force aided her in her work, showing her how her clients were reacting - whether they seemed unnerved, anxious, or perhaps even excited with what they heard. It was always easy to tell them what they wanted to hear, to make them do what she needed. And when the meeting was done they were more than willing to part with a substantial part of their riches.

There were a rare amount of people that visited the witch with more desperate requests. Fearing that they had been subjected to witchcraft or the ill wills of another, they would seek Vashti in hopes of seeing the witch of Felucia destroy the jinx. It was then that Vashti would apply Force Fear to extract the hoodoo they faced. Vashti took no pleasure in the pain of others, in the fear that stained their eyes. She never enjoyed their screams or begs as the images clouded their mind. What she did enjoy was the release, having every anxiety exorcised from her body as she tore through the mind of another. It was exhilarating and while she never quite voiced it, part of Vashti came to look forward to those rare moments.

DON' TRUST YOUR EYES IN DA FOREST
You Will Regret It If You Do

It surprised Vashti how easily she took to becoming the witch. She never once wavered in her decisions nor regret the things she did. Taking things from another, parting them with what little they had did not move her. It never caused her pain or discomfort. Everything she had learned and prepared for, whether it be from her father or Mama Rere, fell into place the very moment she took the title of witch Kailash.

But all was not well for Vashti and four years after becoming the witch of Felucia it became clear.

Dreams had never haunted the Firrerreo in her thirty-five years of life. They never clouded her golden brow, nor did they hinder her thoughts. Those rare dreams of youth were full of pleasant memories built with time, of adventure or fanciful flights. Never once did the Firrerreo recall a moment that the nights brought fear - for nightmares to keep her awake until daylight broke the sky. Vashti was unaware of when the dreams first began - they happened so subtly that they went unnoticed at first. Perhaps it was darkness that first brought them, gentle whispers that went unheard. Perhaps the dreams lay hidden between flashes of color and light that ended as her eyes fluttered open, but once they came it was impossible for Vashti recall a time when they had not existed. They came in the dead of night to the restless spirit. In the dead of night when bodies were meant to rest and weary minds were to recover, Vashti’s would run.

There was nothing concrete within the shadows, only pure and irrefutable powerlessness. In those fiendish dreams, Vashti could feel as her lungs squeezed shut. Pin needles seemed to pierce her skin, her body thrown in the endless dark. She would scream - or try to at least - before darkness filled her mouth. As her mind spiraled out of control, it would all end with a warmth placed in the nape of her neck. ‘Come,’ a voice would whisper into her ear. ’Come.’ The shadows always spoke sweetly, they always sung gentle words. It was never promises, it was never threats, just a simple request - to go, to follow. It was a command so gentle, so small, but still one that shook the Firrerreo to her core. It was that voice that always had Vashti bolting up straight in her bed in the dead of night, her body clammy and cold. Vashti would sit there, she says, hand clasped over her mouth and eyes closed, all while trying to convince herself that it had all been a dream.

Morning would do little to exorcise the horror she felt.

Daylight meant remembering, placing the broken words together, and bringing context to otherwise foreign thoughts. It was in the early hours of a new day that the guilt she had felt would return with renewed fervor, forcing her to sit idly in a chair - gaze low, lips tense, deep breaths trying to still her beating heart. Mama Rere did not take long to note the woman’s changed disposition, how the Force seemed to crackle erratically about her being, or how she always seemed to be on edge. But while Mama Rere expressed nothing but genuine concern for Vashti, the Firrerreo was less keen to share what she felt every night. With a listless wave of her hand and a shake of her head, Vashti would assure the old woman that everything was well. Though, she knew well that Mama Rere would never believe her. Instead of letting the conversation develop, Vashti would chuckle, a callous sneer on her lips, ‘Worry not. My mind is no one but my own. Of dat you can be sure.’ But those moments when Mama Rere would look away and Vashti was left on her lonesome, she doubted that would be the case.

Desperate to escape the dreams she could not come close to understanding, Vashti took more clients - less time to think, she bitterly thought. But even when her days were spent in meetings with men and women alike, the voice was always insistent. It scratched at the back of her head with unusual fervor repeating he same request again and again. It never varied or wavered, it was always the same. It vexed the witch constantly, making her taut her muscles and grind her teeth. She ignored it, or tried to at least, but would find no solace.

The dream became more insistent, clearer with the passing of weeks - figures now visible within the dark. The images were fragmented, they never seemed to be anything of substance, but they were far from the flashes of color they had once been. Within the darkness Vashti could now make out a figure, a man. He spoke to her as always, his voice gentle, muddled with promises upon promises, but the command clear as always. She could not see features upon his vibrant red skin, no eyes or mouth discerned within the shadows, but his gaze could be felt. It chilled her to the bone, made her breathing falter, and froze her where she stood. ‘Come.’ Sleep became a rare thing for the Firrerreo, her fine features becoming fatigued. Dark bags now hung beneath her eyes, her lively smiles becoming difficult to come by. Mama Rere took change of the woman’s demeanor almost immediately, the way Vashti seemed to always be on edge. The collected demeanor she had once exhibited now replaced by the nervous shifting of her eyes. Mama Rere approached Vashti in more than one occasion, but the woman’s mind had been set. She could handle the dream on her own - it was nothing Berangere should worry for. Instead, Vashti suggested that the lessons be increased, that she be challenged by Berangere. Thankfully, the old witch reluctantly accepted.

There was never a night when the dreams did not come and with time Vashti became used to its presence. She never enjoyed the company of it, but Vashti seemed more keen to accept it. Perhaps it was this familiarity that finally allowed Vashti to openly talk of what she had seen, even if it took her two years to do so. When Vashti spoke of her dream, she described it with the same indifference as if it was a comment on the weather. She spoke of the voice earnestly, she did not hesitate to let Mama Rere know of what he said or how, for that matter, the voice filled her so easily. When she finished speaking, Vashti turned to the woman, but her reaction was not one of mild amusement. Berangere’s expression was something that Vashti did not quite expect - the color had drained from her face. For once, the woman who never let her body betray her thoughts was as easy to read as a page in a book. Vashti watched as Mama Rere slumped in a chair, her golden eyes wide and her thin lips a tight straight line. For several minutes Mama Rere said nothing, she simply sat in complete and utter silence. The woman tested her lip carefully, a wrinkled hand pulling gently at her lip. Her eyes, Vashti says, were glazed. While the witch’s body was poised before her, it seemed that her mind had traveled somewhere far away. For several minutes, Mama Rere said nothing, and Vashti made no move to break the silence.

Mama Rere spoke after several minutes of silence - a pipe pressed precariously to her lips. A cloud of smoke escaped her as she began to speak, but her dazed eyes never rose to meet Vashti’s. The Force was something that not many could master, Mama Rere would say, it took many years of hard work and sacrifice. Many, the majority, never even skimmed the surface of what the Force could offer. But while rare, there were beings far across the Galaxy that made the witches seem like untrained children. The Force listened to them and their every bid, turned pliant in their careful hands. But they were feared, misunderstood by most, and through the Jedi they had been forced to retreat long ago. They were a thing of legends, something that Mama Rere had once believed too, but it seemed they had now become palpable. Mama Rere shifted unconsciously as she turned to look at her younger counterpart. Something was coming, someone was calling, and Vashti had caught their eye.

BUT DA FOREST, IT IS QUIET NOW
'As Been Silent For A Lon' Time

The death of a loved one is something that one can never quite prepare for, no matter how long one may have seen it coming. Mama Rere had never been a picture of illness, as far as the Firrerreo was concerned she always seemed to be perfectly healthy. In the years that she had known Mama Rere, never once had she seen the witch ill. But life is a fickle mistress and not a week after their conversation, Mama Rere passed.

Mama Rere woke early that morning, moved about the kitchen with the same noiseless steps Vashti had come to recognize. Vashti had been stirring when Mama Rere told her to sleep in, she would be tending to the herbs that dawn. Normally, Vashti would have protested, insisted that they could end the work faster the two, but she didn’t that day. Mama Rere left with a reminder to prepare a meal for them that morning, to meet her once it was done. She also said to take the red wine she kept hidden behind the fireplace, that she felt like indulging herself that day. With that said, Mama Rere left. Vashti slept undisturbed for several hours more before she awoke to the routine she followed every morning - she washed her face, dressed in silence, and made her way to the kitchen to prepare a simple meal. Vashti worked silently as she filled a bag with salted meats, bread, and cheese, nearly forgetting to grab the bottle Mama Rere had told her to be mindful of.

There was nothing that shook Vashti as she made her way out the home, as she turned to the small garden patch that twisted to the right. Her sight immediately searched for the older woman, but she found no sight of her. Vashti called out to Mama Rere several times, but found no response. She called many more times, but with every sound Vashti was met by irrefutable silence. Vashti grew steadily anxious, her voice becoming louder as the bag slid from her fingers. She moved closer to the garden, her steps faster, her voice becoming progressively louder. When her sight finally fell upon the crumpled figure that was Mama Rere it was far too late. She lay face up on the ground, hand clutching her chest - her eyes wide and her jaw slack. Vashti was unaware of how quickly she rushed to the woman’s side, how she pulled her into her arms. Vashti cried feebly in disbelief as she shook the woman’s shoulders, demanding her to wake up. It was a desperate act more than a rational one, Vashti admitted later in life, she knew the witch was long gone. Her heart had given. After a long life, her heart could no longer go on.

She laid Berangere to sleep on the feet of an evergreen tree that day, there was no time to mourn. Rather, she could not bring herself to do it.

It took a while before Vashti found it within herself to accept the visit of a client. Frankly, after the death of Berangere part of Vashti considered leaving it all behind. What was the point? Sure, the old witch had spoken of Vashti being there to replace her, to becoming the witch Kailash, but the title lost its spark. But the new witch could do little to hide from the life that had been trusted upon her, two weeks later Vashti resumed her work. It was the first and last client Vashti would have for a year. The first and last man to fully endure the wrath of the witch.

He had done nothing to Vashti, never wronged her in any way, but it suddenly became impossible for her to bottle her rage. When her fingers skidded past the soft skin of his temples, her heart fluttered. Vashti was unable to stop herself from letting every wicked thought fill him, for all her sorrow to flow. His mind was forcefully filled with wicked thoughts - of maggots wiggling through his veins, of spiders coming up his throat, of centipedes rolling behind his eyes. In those rage filled minutes, nothing stopped Vashti from filling the male’s head with fear of her bebettes, of their forceful intrusion. Never once did the witch stop as he cried in horror, as he begged between sobs; Vashti did not even waver as his desperation drove him to claw at his face - for the welts to begin to raise and bleed. In those very minutes all that mattered to Vashti was to escape - to forget the woman that no longer stood by her side. To forget the mother that she had lost. To forget, Vashti hoped, that she was utterly alone.

By the time Vashti’s frustrations had been sated and her hatred released, the man was a bloody mess. His face was gnarled, raw, swollen, and red, looking hardly like the man that had entered her home but a few hours ago. The witch ignored his strangled sobs as she lifted her hands from his brow, how his wobbly feet picked him from his seat almost immediately as she pulled away. Vashti had little decency to wait for the man to leave her home before she slung a clay pot across the room. She snarled as her arms swept over the table, its contents spilled unceremoniously across the floor. Fueled by the sound of crashing, she continued her unrestrained onslaught. Whether it be by hand or the command of the Force, Vashti acted like a caged Rancor. She swung, she hit, she threw. Glass and pot showered from one wall to another, bitter smelling contents splattered across the walls. There was nothing that stood protected from Vashti. The woman could feel as her muscles cried out in protest, how her body was ready to give, but Vashti ignored it. Her knees suddenly buckled under her weight making the Firrerreo stumble and reach towards a chair for support. Vashti clung unto the chair in desperation, her knuckles white in the exertion. Her once easy breaths came in as sharp, erratic gasps. She pressed her sweat-drenched brow against the back of the chair and stood like that for several minutes.

Once her breathing had settled, Vashti pulled away from the chair reluctantly, turning it on the spot. She slumped in the chair Mama Rere had called her own for so many years, her brow knotted and eyes closed. She cried that day. Every feeling she swore to have buried deep within her, to have forgotten over the years, bubbled up and swept through her in a wave. Little could Vashti do to stop the tears from rolling down her face or for her shoulders to begin to quake. Her lips parted and the small sound started, the desperate call of a child searching for her mother. No tender embrace stopped the Firrerreo from crying, no gentle words eased her pain. All that met Vashti’s desperate sounds was silence marred by the occasional sound of wings or the crawling of bebettes. She was alone, felt alone; but why should she? All her life she had been alone, even with her father by her side. Vashti had always looked out for herself, enjoyed the stillness of the forest and the company of no other but her own. When Mama Rere had come, all of that had changed. Suddenly, the lonely Firrerreo found love in the eyes of another, she had found a mother - family. Just as suddenly, the person she had come to love and cherish as her own had vanished, taken suddenly by life, and Vashti had been unable to do anything to stop it. The company and camaraderie she had come to enjoy ended the day she buried Mama Rere under the tree. Once more she was alone - by the void did she hate it and how she hated Mama Rere for it as well.

But it seemed the Force had willed a different path for the Firrerreo and her solitude would not last long. The faceless voice came to Felucia not a year later.

Vashti had thought it to be a dream at first, a wild vision brought on by an overworked mind. He came late one afternoon as Vashti had settled in a chair, with noiseless movements that seemed more fitting of the dead. At first, he said nothing as he moved about the room and Vashti simply found it fitting to observe - it had been long since she had gotten a visitor considering how her last meeting had come to an end. But whether the male had yet to hear - or chose not to heed cautionary tales - Vashti still found it curious.

The witch watched as the male entered the hut; tall, broad shouldered, and regal in demeanor. It was not his vibrant golden eyes that struck her, neither was it his once handsome face. Vashti took no interest at the twisting black veins that snaked around his eyes or the snarl that curled his lips. Vashti cared little for how the Force seemed to be oddly still around him, as if it avoided coming into contact with him. The scent he brought with him in a wave wrinkled Vashti’s nose, a thick, heavy scent that was oddly reminiscent of a fetid wound. In fact, Vashti never once drew his eyes upon him as he poked about her dried spices or the shells that decorated the room, all she cared for was his vibrant red skin. It was he that finally broke the tension in the room - a sweet, melodious sound that she came to know well over the years. ‘I came for an answer,’ the man said without interest, glancing momentarily to the Firrerreo across from him. ‘The one you have yet to give me.’

There was nothing more left for her there. No one for her to stay for. Vashti stood silently, ‘To you, today, I say yes.’ The witch’s reign in Felucia had come to an end.

[Dutch]

OMGVASH4ME *tackles and noms on her* >D

Name-Weight fine, but that's to be expected.

Appearance: ... so good ._. I just dig this concept too much XD

Personality: *fails* I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE HER INTERACT WITH OTHER SITH OMG

No lightsaber? interesting... matches the concept.

Saber Forms: Numbers are right on, curious about the no lightsaber thing. Guess the bio will tell! =D

Force Abilities: Two eights and a seven... that's a little heavy duty m'dear. I'd say keep on eight (wherever you want) and dock one of them to a seven. Since she's clearly a Forcie I'd say that'd work *nod nod*

Specialized Skills: Now I know you know they gotta be mentioned in the bio, but I'm sure you did. Interesting group here, def builds up more on what Vashti does. Am approve

Attributes:

From how you describe her, I see her more having a 4 in strength. A 5 is normal for a human male in good shape. Otherwise these are perfect.

RP Sample: ... I could read your writing all day Amiga XD

Bio: Here we go!

THAT INTRO WAS SO COOL OMG ._.

... the witch was born of a love story this sweet? Just f'ing kill me.

You really nail how an experienced Jedi would react to this. These feels. I just... I... *keeps reading*

Mrrr... feels...

OMG WHY YOU DO THIS TO ME

._.

This poor kid, dear freaking lord. Why you doing this to me?

HOLY CRAP RANCOR O_____O

ermahgerd swamp witch

DON'T EAT THE WITCH'S FOOD OMG

omg post two of bio welcome to the club

IIII had no time to comment on anything, I just devoured that second half ._.

---

That was outstanding and so worth the wait amiga. Just the couple stat related fixes and that's it!

[Faeruy]

Oh, Dutch reviewed the bio already. Was gonna start something, but no need I guess anymore. It really is fantastic writing, very interesting style.

I do have one question though -

Where did the Cajun accent come from?

You have her using it when she's seven, but at this point you never mention her interacting with anyone other than her father; since he clearly doesn't use the same language (like him not knowing what she means by juju) then I have to wonder why she has a completely different vernacular than he does.

[Reisier]

dutch; OMG yay, review for Vash! [/jigs] Glad to hear it was an enjoyable read - loved your reactions though, definitely a fun read! Anyways, changes have been made, Telekinetic has been moved to a seven since Vash is more of a telepath anyways and physical strength has been lowered [/I have no idea why I even put it as a five initially] If you have any more concerns or want me to change / edit anything else, please let me know :3


fae; Hehe thanks, hon, glad you like it! Anyways, onto your question -- brace yourself, I like talking XD

The Cajun [or play on Cajun style] came from the idea of language that kids usually create to refer to something they either don’t know the word for or language that is sometimes used to facilitate pronunciation for them - not that I am for it, but seen several examples. Anyways, while her father was her caretaker in a way, he really didn’t interact that much with her and didn’t get to correct her language as a child. As a result a lot of the expressions she used [/Juju and mal pris referring to force sense, that bad feeling that jedi sometimes get] stuck with her even as she grew older. The witch does use some form of cajun in her language, but isn’t as noticeable as it is in Vashti and simply increased the thick, characteristic vernacular she uses - something I sorta, kinda tried to emphasize in the inserted quotes I used.

As for why I used Cajun as a base of inspiration for the language was a) it fit the whole voodoo mother, witch doctor vibe I wanted to create in Vashti / Berangere and b) I really, really, really, REALLY wanted a Sith with a Cajun accent ^ - ^’’’’

[Faeruy]

Hey, I totally understand that just wanting a Cajun accent; tis cool. But here's the thing; people just don't have a completely different accent and vernacular than their parents or community. It doesn't happen. Kids make up words, yes, but not generally out of whole cloth and unless they have someone to share that language with, they lose it as they grow older; if they don't it's usually a sign that something is very wrong with the child. (There's actually studies that show that children who persist in using a made-up language fare poorly in intelligence exams, for example) Besides, you have her learning the correct terms at a young age as well, why would she continue to use her made-up ones when nobody else understands them? Unless, somebody does understand them, in which case, who is that she interacts with uses it? I could understand if, growing up on a backwater planet, she picked up a local dialect by interacting with others more often than she interacts with her father, but what I read in your bio suggests that isn't the case.

[Reisier]

The word you’re looking for is generally fare poorly in intelligence exams, meaning that it is not always the case. And again, children lose those speech patterns if they are corrected as they age or if they receive the necessary outward stimulus, this case being hearing the proper use of language. If they aren’t they do retain certain qualities to their speech that sounds quite different from that of other people. In fact there have been cases when even siblings who grew up in the same household vary in their speech patterns, words, and yes, vernacular -- it is extremely rare, but it has happened I believe it was in England but I would have to look up the case for you. Anyways, it is not necessarily that she picked up the accent when she was in Felucia, is just that her lack of interaction and speech with others, including her father, made Vashti develop her speech pattern that way. Again, I just decided that Cajun felt fairly natural to Vashti since it developed as a result of combining different idioms and introduced them to archaic french.

TL;DR Version However, if you do feel that her speech pattern is going to be an issue or if it generally bothers you, I will be more than happy to change it / add on to its development :3

[Faeruy]

I only have an issue because you're still making it sound like she's picking all of this out of thin air. Siblings who grow up in the same household may sound different yes, but they also interact with people outside of their household; if were locked into a household with only each other to talk to and yet STILL sounded different, than I can see where the argument could be made. I'm just saying that it doesn't make sense to me that a child would persist into adulthood in speaking in a manner that nobody else understands unless it was so deeply ingrained that she cannot speak otherwise. And communication patterns don't get built unless there's SOMEONE who shares them, be it friend, teacher, parent, sibling, or even some wild animal they find in the woods. And if it's a lack of interaction that causes her speech patterns, that begs a whole lot of other questions about how she functions in society: like how does she manage to manipulate people? To do that requires being able to read, understand, and communicate with people; which would be extremely difficult for someone to do if they lacked proper socialization in their early childhood.

This is all very quibbling, I know, and not all that important in the scheme of things, I just brought it up because it caught my eye, and occasionally I can get a bug up my butt about very minor things. I like the Cajun, I think it fits for her. I just feel that the development of it doesn't feel very organic to me, and considering the rest of your bio feels much more so, I just thought I'd bring it up. Anyway, that's my two (or three or four or fifty) cents, I'm not a mod, just an enthusiast, so I'll leave it up to the Powers that Be.

[Dutch]

And the powers that be deem this app:



Accepted stats:

Faction: Sith
Rank: Initiate

Previous Faction: Dark Jedi
Previous Rank: Master - Prophet

Lightsaber: --
Color: --

Practiced Lightsaber forms:

Shii-Cho 5
Makashi
Soresu 2
Ataru 4
Shien / Djem So
>>Sub-form Backhanded
Niman
>>Sub-form Jar-kai, or Dual Wield
Juyo
Double Bladed Combat


Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices:

Telekinetic: 7
Telepathic: 8
Body: 4
Sense: 6
Protection: 0
Healing: 2
Destruction: 7


Specialized Skills:
Drain Knowledge
Force Fear
Force Concealment

Attributes:

Physical Strength: 4
Intelligence: 5
Speed: 7
Leadership: 5

Unarmed: 4
Melee Weapons: 0
Ranged Weapons: 0

[Neology]

Moved to inactive.