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Reisier
The Ninja of SWU
269 posts
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last online Dec 27, 2015 12:33:45 GMT -5
Padawan
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Apr 23, 2014 0:22:06 GMT -5
Post by Reisier on Apr 23, 2014 0:22:06 GMT -5
“Strange.” The voice listlessly breathed against the bitter cold, the rumbling an odd, rich tone. It was a sound that reverberated gently against the silence, a sound created and destroyed in a fleeting second. The ghastly touch dragged along the walls, slender fingers tracing gentle lines against the stone in quiet abandon as the abrasive surface kissed gently at their pads. Her body swayed, carefully weighted steps following one another in a steady progression, the rhythm with which the witch moved marked by the gentle clinking of beads and wood like, the feathers across her breast fluttering gently with the slightest of provocations. “A curious quelquechose...”
This world was so strange. Foreign. Odd. Full of stench and decay, and quivering earth; of soured breaths and ghostly calls that sent electric shivers running across her skin. The ground beneath her feet felt dead beneath the female’s provocations, silent to her inclinations. Cold. A lifeless body that crumbled within her hands, her tightening grasp causing it to filter all too quickly, to vanish all to soon. It was a world that no longer wanted to live, who wished to no longer taste life and which, instead, sought their bodies to rot. To fade. To be left in the nothingness of space, where silence reigned and the void cradled their mind in listless rests.
The line of her body traced the halls as she moved, a display of vibrant colors and lines standing amongst the monotonous tones. Wild like their owner, vivid shades that were foreign in image and spirit compared to the solemnity around. The play of light and shadows cut through the female’s body indiscriminately, the shy bend of muscle visible underneath the exposed flesh of her arms and the expanse of her neck.
The air tasted like nothing as it did on Felucia. It was stark. A crisp, biting cold that filled her lungs in painful bursts, causing the woman’s frame to shiver at the sudden intrusion. It was wild and untamed. Beating wildly in her ears. No gentle songs of bebettes, no gentle callings to be heard, just a pulsing that swayed her body. It’s touch was painful. Unwarranted; but a sensation which caused life to surge through her with unexplained vigor. Life. As dead as the planet was, as wretched as the Force’s graze was upon her golden skin, so to was it sought, to did it bring the woman to life. Her skin was alight under the unwanted ministrations, craving the new sensation that this Force’s mal pris brought.
It had gripped her so suddenly at first. Raked its hands roughly in the depths of her chest - painfully tightened about her diaphragm in a snare. Her breathing had faltered then, her lips tightened and gaze flickered, before it left her just as quick; just as Mama Berangere’s intrusions had. Now, the sensation was waning; pleasant, muted throb of what she had first felt. Never gone, but neither fully there. But, perhaps that is all what this place was - something that neither existed nor left, that was strange but familiar, that was neither alive nor dead, neither wanted nor renounced.
Like she, it just was.
It existed without reason, lived without purpose, but something which grew unrestrained. Like a fire fueled by droughts, so did it continued to grow - to change and evolve. It was molded, taught by age and molded by experience.
There was a pressure in the back of the female’s mind, a gentle scratching that begged for her to stop - to listen. Vashti’s motions faltered, the seamless display coming to a sudden end. Her robes shifted under the sudden motion - or the lack thereof - pooling listlessly against her body. Her sight flickered, golden eyes searching the hallways for the movements of which the Force had already foretold. It was in the darkness that she saw it - a diminutive movement. A flicker of shadows and darkness that under most circumstances she would have ignored. A carefully turned head examined the seeming nothingness of space, the motion causing her braided hair to skim past the gentle curve of her collarbone.
She seemed hesitant, if only for a second, as her head turned lightly to the endless walls again, “Dese ‘alls,” Vashti spoke seemingly into the nothingness, lips gently parted unto a smile, “...dey always so silent, yes?”
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Rugs
The ring-dang-doo, now what is that?
6,347 posts
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last online Jan 12, 2024 11:24:20 GMT -5
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Apr 29, 2014 23:55:31 GMT -5
Post by Rugs on Apr 29, 2014 23:55:31 GMT -5
(I haven't posted in like a a month >> So kinda having to fight the rust off)
Ziost was very different place than Korriban.
The obvious differences were there for anyone with a pulse to see, of course. Ziost lacked Korriban's general brownness. It lacked the heat and was, instead, rather cold at times. It lacked the machinations and politicking that choked the sister world of Korriban. Mostly—those things would exist wherever two or more Sith gathered.
But it was a quiet place, the somber forgotten sister behind Korriban's craggy public face.
Nieraan did not mind these things. In fact, he actively sought them. Sith Lord or no, he could only stand Korriban for so long before he had to leave, and he'd had his fill of the desert world. So he was on Ziost. Alone, with only his thoughts and the quiet, haunting halls to keep him company.
The Sith had built a new fortress on the world. How could he forget, with the celebration he'd been dragged to to commemorate the occasion. He peered out the frost-misted window and could make the fortress' flags lazily flapping in the distance, a loud crimson, stark against the world's whites and greys.
He could spend his time there, but there were attendants and the occasional Sith or aristocrat that passed through, none of whom he felt like dealing with. He just wanted some time alone.
So he found an old, broken citadel nestled in the rise of a splintered mountain. He'd camped out for a few days, using the solace to train and sit and think. The citadel's lone tower stood in a part of the building that remained mostly intact, offering some shelter from the driving wind and the cold.
He sat at the top, looking out. Wondering, watching. The world was changing, or rather his life was, and often. It seemed as if a number of forces were converging to try to turn it upside down every time he seemed to force things to settle. The Firrerreo wasn't certain he liked that.
The Force stirred below and snapped him from his thoughts.
Someone was coming to his little shelter, it seemed. Of course, he thought with an annoyed exhalation, misting the air beneath his nose.
He rose, joints popping stiffly from sitting so long, and worked his way back down the tower. He stayed high, moving like a jungle feline in the shadows along the old supports that crisscrossed above the hallways.
The Force drew him along, toward the presence that tugged curiously at his senses. He felt that something was different about this in the back of his mind. But what, he could not say.
A figure slowly materialized in the hallway, and Nieraan slowed his motions until he sat above, waiting for the person to approach.
He thought he'd approached relatively unnoticed, moving quietly and with his presence drawn down, but not completely hidden. That, it appeared, was not the case.
Dese ‘alls,” the figure said, voice strange and lilting, “...dey always so silent, yes?”
Nieraan paused, staying where he was crouched on a support beam. His yellow eyes narrowed in the darkness, trying to make out more about the woman below.
“Only when you don't speak,” he answered dryly. “Then they're as loud as any other.” His voice trailed to silence for a moment as he tried to place the woman. He didn't recognize the voice, nor did he the presence. That didn't mean she couldn't be Sith, though.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
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Reisier
The Ninja of SWU
269 posts
5 likes
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last online Dec 27, 2015 12:33:45 GMT -5
Padawan
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Jun 4, 2014 13:11:11 GMT -5
Post by Reisier on Jun 4, 2014 13:11:11 GMT -5
"So many questions for one dat equally creates dem and 'oo 'as no need for any words dat I may spare." Vashti's tone lilted, lips curled into a devious simper. So many questions, so many thoughts from one whose presence was palpable within the Force - one which resonated willingly to their surroundings and who echoed similarly in that of the male that had brought her away from Felucia. Her reality had spiraled, transformed into something that she could no longer recognize but which she did not shy away from. What curious thing this was.
A curious 'ing 'e is indeed.
But the witch was, if anything, accommodating to her current situation and her curiosity, for better or worse, compelled an answer from the woman's lips. "I 'ave come 'ere as I was called. Da pris in dis world is sin'in an' I 'ave come to 'ear'." It sung, it called, it beckoned. To listen, it told her, to feel a Force unlike any other that pricked at her skin before. A flicker of a phantom, she called it, the ghastly reflection of a sensation that only Mama Rere had lilted with before yet one which was vastly different at the same time. It was stronger; unrestrained, tainted with something she didn't quite recognize. But how she cherished it, how did Vashti love the way the unseen power danced at little provocation, biting and licking at her fingertips, singing in silent tones that could be felt though not quite heard.
Vashti regarded the unseen male with the same degree of admiration and quiet detachment in her honey eyes as she did the halls, measuring something that she had yet to comprehend. The woman tilted her head slightly, craning her neck briefly towards the shadows and their inescapable grasp, her face reduced to sharp shadows and snippets of olive skin colored by the flicker of light. She smiled then, her lips curling lightly as an amused breath brushed across her lips. Then, just as quietly, she slipped forward, following with the motions as she had done before.
"I was brought 'ere as you were, to lis'en, to learn..." Her voice continued casually, its richness shattering the otherwise unperturbed silence. Sith, he had called himself, Vashti recalled, those who were unafraid to explore what so many wished to ignore. So much potential in the Force going undiscovered for a fear of what may be encountered along the way and yet, the Sith sought it, they embraced it wholly and now wished to share the impossible possibilities that pulsed in those very walls. The witch's gaze faltered, the golden tone tracing the smooth expanse of gray towards a small indentation that ended the monotony of the room. Her fingers caringly thumbed at the line.
"'Ere, I 'ave purpose; 'ere, I 'ave a need." The witch breathed in the crisp air, "Yet, I fin' myself in da company of one who seems to take 'ese 'alls as if dey are 'is for da takin'."
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Rugs
The ring-dang-doo, now what is that?
6,347 posts
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Friendly neighborhood CEO
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last online Jan 12, 2024 11:24:20 GMT -5
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Jul 2, 2014 22:29:05 GMT -5
Post by Rugs on Jul 2, 2014 22:29:05 GMT -5
"So many questions for one dat equally creates dem and 'oo 'as no need for any words dat I may spare."
Nieraan’s brow furrowed and a small frown subtly creased his face. That doesn’t answer my question at all, woman, he thought. He held his tongue, though waiting what else the strange woman might have to say. But most of all just watching, trying to get a bead on the strange woman and her purpose, her power.
To determine, ultimately, if she was a threat, Sith or no.
The strange woman spoke again, this time of something about the cold, forgotten world that drew her to it, of a call in the dark that begged an answer. The words she used to describe the feeling were mostly unfamiliar to Nieraan, but the desire itself, the force of the Dark Side’s call on his soul… Those were things he understood, even if his reason for visiting Ziost was less reverent.
He shifted silently in his position up among the metal rafters, fingers wrapping around the cold metal beams to steady his weight as he turned to watch her move again down the lifeless hall. "I was brought 'ere as you were, to lis'en, to learn..." she said.
She spoke of purpose, of need, but without saying what those things were. Nieraan felt his brow furrowing more. The Firrerreo was many things, but cryptic was not one of them — he did not speak in riddles himself and he didn’t much enjoy being spoken to in riddles or other similarly-roundabout ways of speech.
“Perhaps I do,” NIeraan said, voice carrying through the corridor as he spoke from his hidden perch. He spoke loudly, more forcefully as he stood and hopped from the shadows to the ground below. He landed with a solid thud, disturbing a layer of dust from its silent rest and into the frigid air. “And perhaps I already have,” he muttered as he rose, stretching his presence out into the hall. A show of easiness here, in his little private sanctuary, even as he couldn’t shake a nagging wariness in the back of his mind. “And who’s here to stop me from claiming this place as my own, anyway? Some dust? A bit of snow?”
Nieraan snorted to show what he thought of that.
“But you talk of purpose and need and being called,” he went on, walking after the woman. The white cloth hanging from his waist flowed with his steady motions. The trio of lightsabers at his waist clank-clanked quietly against the steady silence between his words. “But what purpose could you possibly have here, other than speaking riddles?”
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Reisier
The Ninja of SWU
269 posts
5 likes
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last online Dec 27, 2015 12:33:45 GMT -5
Padawan
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Dec 19, 2014 17:32:15 GMT -5
Post by Reisier on Dec 19, 2014 17:32:15 GMT -5
So similar to a bird, she found herself thinking of the ownerless voice, a little pop chok. Small, frail little thing, flittering from one rafter and to the next, calling out in phantom tunes that echoed briefly in one’s mind. Like them he moved, in the shadow, just out of sight – discernible enough to catch the glimmer of her amber eyes as it perturbed the dust from its restful slumber and caused it to flee, yet faint enough to cause to witch’s gaze to give – to lose interest and return once more to the cold walls beneath her fingertips. Like them he rung through the darkness, a simple, forlorn sound that was quickly formed and equally fast silenced as their eyes fell from one another and to the creature that loomed beneath.
And how the chat waited for this most of curious companions, this little bird, to see the breeze push him, the see the moment when a breath would tug and pluck him out from the shadows and into the light. But the little pop chok would chirp louder than before, forceful to bring context to the words he spoke. Vashti turned her head slightly, as if considering briefly before giving a soft bark of a laugh. “No, not da snow, not da dus’ but dere are many oders ‘oo mite not agree wit dat dah you ‘ave taken.” This place was not his for the taking, not for her claim. It was there for its own will, there for its own purpose. Just like the tree was not for the birds’ to take as theirs, this place was not for the pop chok to tame. He was there so long as it allowed him to be, there to protect him so long as it deemed it wise. But once the walls had tired of his presence, once they had grown tired of his tune, so it would allow the breeze to push, the breath to tug, and let the chat what it had once secured.
Except that it was not the walls that now willed the little bird to stumble out of its perch, not the tree that tore the pop chok from its care, but its own decision. The air was stirring before the figure landed, hastily parting way from the bird who now stared the nexu face to face. Vashti was moving, turning enough to see the man was he took the space that she had previously occupied – and how the force seemed to move desperately away, keeping the man at bay, something that echoed oddly similar to the red skinned male that had plucked her from Felucia’s warm ground. A gentle swaying motion caught the woman’s eyes before any thought was made, drawing away from his sharp features and towards his waist. There, they lingered watching the cylindrical objects she had once found herself using for her father’s sake. Her lips fell open briefly, only just, before they were pursed, pulled into a barely there smile.
“’Oo are an odd din’.” She admitted aloud, eyes flittering from the sabers and to the man’s gaze. “Askin’ questions ‘oose answers are not for ‘im. I ‘ave said once ‘oo ‘ad no need for dese words of mine, but still you insis’.” And she would entertain him if he so chose. She turned to him fully now, the beads of her body following with sound before Vashti continued, “To see if dese defan, dese sith are worth da effort dat Kailash may brin’ or dey are nothin’ more dan a clever a chic to be forgo.” Her voice dropped, the richness of her voice now turning acerbic and raw. “Tell me den, pop chok are dey?”
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