Ask Nar Shaddaa Copper Blue

[Vossari Khaldun]

Voss hurried behind Nakoa as the senior wrean walked to the alleys. Instantly, Nakoa had them pinned to a wall. Kinky. A high pitched voice squeaked out from the figure. Behind a scared face, the cultist rallied up their courage within. "I'll tell you nothing, miscreant. Unhand me!" Vossari decided to help, by throwing a roundhouse kick into the figure's ribs.

A yelp of pain accompanied the crunch of bone. "You think you can beat the answers out of me?" A pained wheeze accompanied a laugh. "The Noctem is all powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing. We will devour you!" Vossari sighed. He withdrew his blade from its scabbard.

<I dunno, Nakoa.> he started in Tethysian. <Doesn't seem like he wants to talk. You got any...improved ways of gathering information?> The academy had trained acolytes in the use of (and defense against) mental manipulation. But would Vossari be strong enough, finite enough, to use this power effectively?

They weren't sure. They raised a finger and placed it on their quarry's temple, though, to begin the process.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa had to put some effort into not laughing at the cultist's holier-than-thou tone. Although he didn't actually know what 'miscreant' meant. On the other hand, if there was any proof Vossari was a native Tethysian it was that solid kick to the ribs. Wreans had strong legs and their martial arts often abused that fact.

"Yes," Nakoa said, interrupting the man asking if they could beat the answers out of them. They kept talking anyway. "If Noctem's all-knowing, why didn't you know this would happen?" Amberine eyes turned back to Voss; the cultist's resulting rambling was ignored entirely. <Like what?> they asked, keeping up the ruse they weren't also a Force user if only to see how Vossari handled things.

Mildly surprised Vossari themselves had stopped pretending and put their finger up against the cultist's finger, Nakoa mostly just held the cultist still. Vossari would fine: An endless string of Noctem doctrine, most of which was nonsensical gibberish. This person was clearly trained to resist mental influence to some degree. Vossari wouldn't suffer any ill effects other than perhaps rolling their eyes too hard, though.

But it did make the cultist afraid. "What are you doing!? You-" Nakoa pulled a bronze-colored knife. It approached the cultist's lower bits with vicious potential and drew a crimson line across their leg. "ACCURSED HEATHENS! NOCTEM WILL-" Nakoa abruptly threw the cultist down the alley. They skid, stumbled and grasped through the broken ribs, and ran away. Which Nakoa did absolutely nothing about.

Irirangi examined the now blood-coated knife, one obviously of traditional Tethysian make. Bronze didn't rust in the sea. "So," he began, "Who taught you?"

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

There was only one feeling as Vossari's mental manipulation failed: Rage. How dare a weak, insignificant cultist stand against the Sith? Nakoa's warning was not enough. As the cultist hobbled off, Vossari followed. Their right arm stretched out, pulling the cultist's leg behind them. The would-be Noctem fell, helplessly, to the ground.

And then Vossari was upon them. First was another kick to the already broken ribs, amber eyes glaring daggers downwards to their quarry. "You...worthless..." They heaved, their back's injuries flaring as violently fell on top of the cultist. Vossari grabbed them by the collar, curling up their fist to strike. "Little..." Vossari's fist flew into the cultist's face, which in turn snapped backwards into the pavement. Blood flew out of the Noctem's mouth. "...fucking..." Another blow came down, further bloodying the pavement.

Each strike welled with rage so hot they could scarcely hear Nakoa, see anything in front of them except for this living sign of their inferior training. The Sith were meant to be all-powerful. And yet, Vossari, fully grown, couldn't interrogate one cultist? Couldn't handle a single rebel on Saleucami? And all they could do is wander aimlessly with a spray paint can?

Vossari kept hitting. Hitting beyond when they would get any useful information out of the flattened cultist.. The wrean could scarcely tell if the cultist was even breathing anymore. Their fist had left a dent on the skull.

Still, they hammered, angrily, hot breath wheezing. As they tired, their fist became less accurate, striking concrete rather than flesh. They kept the beating going. "...worm..." Unless stopped, they would continue to pound against this cultist's near-lifeless body until the word 'near' was retracted.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Vossari didn't answer Nakoa's question. They went wild, rage alight in every echo and motion. There beneath the artist was fury and in a moment's breath it was out and it was free. Every blow from Vossari's father rained on the cultist. Every foul word, every struggle, every desperate dream and need for power that seemed just so slightly out of reach. Every drop of the cultist's blood was a tear left unshed and unrealized.

It was an impressive and deep-held display of fury. Nakoa watched it happen, unperturbed by the great violence inflicted on some tiny, insignificant being that barely mattered at at all.

Irirangi answered with power burning behind amber-gold eyes.

"Enough," they barked, commanding. The Force shifted strangely around Voss and they'd find themselves abruptly coated in a blue-green energy and thrown to the side as if by caught by ruthless riptides. They'd slam into the alley brick wall, leaving the bashed and battered cultist to choke on their teeth and die. Bricks moved at the Shaman's will, steadily half-burying Vossari in the wall itself. Even gravity seemed warped. Every natural sense would tell Vossari it was a floor they were pressed against covered in brick and filth and blood. Yet there stood Nakoa staring at him with power glowing in his palm and a disappointed glare.

<No forethought, all instinct. False Sith? Some other?>

With eyes like fire. Long and slender fingers waved toward the alley entrance. The Black Current surged and rent light fractal for a second's time. After, any who passed by and looked into the alley would see nothing unusual past the illusion Nakoa cast. Vossari had needlessly complicated the task ahead through unleashed rage. Were they Sith? What they'd tried to do wasn't something an untrained mind could accomplish. Certainly no Jedi.

Golden eyes fixed on Vossari's face.

<Who. Taught. You?>

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

The wounds on Vossari's back screamed in agony as the Acolyte was slammed to the wall. The alleyway seemed to swallow Vossari up whole, leaving him trapped, wounded...afraid and angry. His eyes shot, frenzied, to the alleyway around them. The too-still cultist. The swirling vortex of illusory magic the wrean had conjured. The wrean himself - stern, sharp, severe. They struggled to break their restraints, to do anything but answer the question, but it was all futile.

Hot, salty tears formed in the corner of Vossari's eyes as rage festered. Why was it like this? Why could they never succeed alone? Again, they were trapped by a superior power, completely at the mercy of another's will. It was a horrible position, a humiliation. He felt on display, like a zoo creature, having to bleat sadly for his own proverbial providence. He felt like a prisoner in the world, a prisoner to the whims of the Living Force, who always seemed to constrict herself around him.

He coughed out a response, venomous and honest. <Sith.> It was a word uncommon in Tethysian, just a literal translation of the characters into the language. He repeated it, again, this time using the allegory of a common wrean tale. <The legacy of the 'sea-witches.'> Bogeymen who haunted the night, used evil incantations to control the minds and spirits of men, eater of flesh and children.

They were in no position to negotiate, but the desire to speak overtook them. <And you? You can do all this? Who are you?>

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Physical agony this time? Was this person running around Nar Shaddaa injured? How interesting. Fear, rage, shame, grief, frustration. It all became tears that left clean streaks through the dust. They struggled against a shaman's will as heavy as the benthic abyss. Vossari's venom sputtered and drowned against the sea.

Nakoa chuckled with dry amusement, each graveled breath like footsteps on a stony beach. <Your Order are not sea-witches.> Why that comparison was funny wasn't mentioned. Singh stuck with the literal translation. <A Sith, then.> As suddenly as power had rushed in, some of the shaman's severity seemed to fade out again, an unpredictable tide. It was to Vossari's credit that, as much as they hated everything about the current situation, his need to know still won out over self-preservation. How interesting.

Fingers rested casually against Nakoa's belt-laden hip and tapped a languid rhythm across the leather while a sibylline smirk curled his lips. <Obviously.> Their other hand curled its fingers strangely. The bricks around Vossari smoothly shifted and clitter-clattered into a shape reminiscent of a chair. Nakoa sat on a similar seat that formed behind him.

<I'm Nakoa. Didn't I say?> A cigarra was retrieved and lit between Singh's lips. <What I am is a shaman.> The shaman exhaled smoke and inhaled it again through his nose. He gestured at Voss with his cigarra-wielding hand. <Your turn. So!> he began, indicating the so-very-dead cultist.

<Why've you eaten our bait?> A bit of Wrean slang meaning, 'fucked things up with foolish behavior'. Nakoa's demeanor seemed somewhat more at ease. But those golden eyes of theirs were still sharp and never seemed to leave the younger Wrean's face.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

Vossari plucked the cigarra from Nakoa's lips and puffed, blowing smoke into the acrid air of Nar Shadda. A shaman. Of course they were. One of those tradition-obsessed freaks from the homeworld; that would explain their strange behavior. At the mere mention of the word, Vossari's mind flooded with dreams of a past long-gone, a world deep beneath the ocean's surface.

He remembered days spent swimming through caverns alight with coral. Exploring the edges of the tribe's waters, near the edge of the enormous maw of the abyss. They remembered the teasing. First from other youth, where he first learned he was poor. His shells inadequate. Then from the adults, who, in secret, mocked his father and passed their mockery down to Vossari. The fool, the clown, the butt of the joke. That was why he had eaten the bait. None of these credits would belittle him again.

Another puff before he cuffed the cigarra and placed it back into the fellow wrean's hands. While the wheezing that followed lay heavy on his on his lungs, the smoke helped to clear their mind. <He didn't give me what I wanted. Better question. Why the fuck are we meandering around Nar Shadda?> Vossari coiled the force around the leg of this cultist, dragging their sullen body between their brick-made chairs. <We have the gift of power. Of the Force. The ability to harness and control matter and energy themselves.>

They relaxes defiantly back into their seat, crossing their arms. <If you're so interested in playing private eye, why don't you search them yourself?> Vossari kicked the body, nonchalantly, before continuing. <Maybe we'll both learn something.>

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa appeared more enertained by Vossari's punkish antics than anything else. The younger Wrean's attitude felt almost nostalgic. When he got the cigarra back he rubbed his thumb over the mouth end before placing it back between his lips and taking a long, steady puff.

Nostalgic or not, they were unimpressed with Vossari's choice of words. Singh waved a hand breezily. <Then you should have taken it. The failure is yours.> Blunt, straightforward, and without mockery. He spoke it like truth. A finger pointed at Vossari. <Do Sith give up so quickly?>

They chuckled again and raised their bloodied bronze knife. <I'm not meandering. Are you?> Two fingers pinch the blade and slowly swept across the blood. Crimson fluid gathered and began to spark like hot metal. <You were gifted a hammer. It's for more than cracking skulls.> Nakoa's fingers swept off the blade as crimson flashed behind amber-gold eyes.

Blood and sparks coalesced into the shape of a moth that carried the scents of burning rust and fear. It fluttered down the alleyway to where the cultist had been beaten to death, then came right back to hover directly over the corpse. The shaman was originally just going to track the cultist back to its den, but there were other methods. Singh fixed Vossai with an enigmatic stare in response to their obstinance, marked only with a brief smirk of amusement just before

<Maybe we will.>

Without another word, Singh reached down and grabbed the dead cultist by the hair. He lifted the head off the ground. Then they meticulously sliced the knife through the muscle, sinew, and bone of the Noctem cultist's neck. Wet tearing and sawing sounds filled the alley. With a final slice, the torso fell back down and Nakoa raised the head, grip tightening. The Black Current poured into it like an empty vessel.

Dead eyes snapped open, aglow with red. Its shattered jaw snap-cracked open as if screaming in silent terror- or pain. Blood that dripped down ceased and glowed the same, becoming a subtle crimson fog that resembled nothing so much as a mantle of ethereal chains where the head's neck and shoulders should be. The eldritch moth flit circles around it as the cultist's eyes stared directly at his murderer. Then the ethereal insect fluttered off down the dark alley, tracking some invisible trail beyond mortal sight.

Nakoa indicated the path forward with their bloody knife. He smiled in a friendly sort of way, fangs and eyes bright in the half-light.

<After you?>

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

Such Wrean magics were uncommon in this part of the galaxy, but Vossari couldn't help but feel uplifted at the sight of the shamanic powers of his homeland. Vossari had learned of it mostly in tale and legend, only occasionally consulting the shaman for spiritual matters. Prophecy and divination were the worlds that his tribe's shaman worked it - someone he kept in touch with regularly. He could respect the spiritual, the magical, because he, too, was chosen for the gift.

Vossari stepped the corpse of the cultist beneath him, following eagerly as the butterfly flapped. While Vossari wanted to beeline, the butterfly, instead, took a meandering path around alleys and garbage. Vossari had a million questions, but he would start with the most burning one. <Why have you left Wrea?>

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

It flittered to and fro, that little red butterfly, following some metaphysical saccharine scent only it seemed to understand. In its wake, the rust and copper of fresh blood wafted. The shaman's bootfalls tracked behind, neither hasty nor languid. Just enough to keep up.

Singh heard Vossari's question and glanced over at them. <Fate called elsewhere.> It was said in the tone of a joke, though, and he had a more real answer afterward. <Fate is written by the willful. I wanted to leave and explore the galaxy. So I did.> Their free hand waved vaguely at their surroundings. <Wrea is a beautiful place. But flawed and limited. There's always more to see and understand. Don't you think?>

The butterfly eventually winged a path down a side alley, down a short half-hidden stairway, and bonked against a closed door. A stylized eye was carved in the brick beside it. <Why have you?> Nakoa's eyes narrowed at the door, a brief flash of color backlighting his gaze. <Oho.> They turned to Vossari, expression enigmatic.

<Ahead, we will be patient. Store your anger like a dragon hoards treasure.> The shaman breezily tossed the head over his shoulder into the alley. It rattled and slowly disintegrated into dust as the power that animated it consumed the dead flesh and bone, leaving only a red-stained skull. Nakoa's placed his palm on the door and dragged it left. A symbol appeared that they began to erase in a plume of sparking smoke.

His hand twisted, like turning a key, and the door unlocked.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

The door clicked and slowly creaked open in front of the pair of Wrean. A darkness pervaded the entire alley - a darkness they could feel. Whatever was inside here pulsed with the familiar power of the Dark Side, the primordial force of passion and power that Vossari had clung himself to. Slowly, tepidly, Vossari took the first step inside the wide-open door. Silent steps led down a long flight of stairs.

Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of incense and the flickering light of countless candles. The walls were adorned with tapestries bearing esoteric symbols, and runestones oozing with the power of the Dark Side were displayed on locked crates stone pedestals. A central altar dominated the room, whereon a massive, tusked skull sat, dripping a viscous blue ooze onto the floor. Cultists in dark robes sat, chanting in unison, around the puddle of ooze. From here, snaking passageways intersecting and dove deeper into Nar Shadda's underbelly. This cult's headquarters had a surprisingly large reach beneath the ecumenopolis. Perhaps these cultists truly were lurking in all shadows.

Vossari and Nakoa's path quietly flanked the outer edges of the worship room - moving gracefully, the two of them passed by unnoticed into the deeper sanctum of the cult's headquarters. Vossari flashed a raised eyebrow, silently, before passing forward. Eventually, they reached an empty chamber where cult robes sat, disused, on the ground. Vossari immediately put one on, pulling the hood down to obscure their face.

<This place is spoooooky right?> They whispered to Nakoa. <I feel like 'Kill Them All' isn't on the table.> They were so curious at this point, curious to unlock the secrets of the Cult. <You think we could blend in?>

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa picked up one of the stupid little robes and layered it over his existing clothes. They flashed an amused smirk over to the other Wrean. <Eh. I've seen creepier. Never visited the Abyss, have you?> Suffice to say, between his upbringing and where he'd lived, Nakoa had seen some shit.

<It might be. Just not first on the list.> After a bit more skulking he peeked around a corner. <Sure.> Blending in wasn't hard. For Nakoa. They eyed Vossari. <Probably. Just act like you belong, but not like you own the place.>

And so he left the room and strode, with an air of humility, down the hall. Eventually, a small group of cultists approached the opposite way. Nakoa lowered his head and moved to simply pass them by, muttering some vague prayer-sounding thing without a single hint of his native accent.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

Vossari followed suit, slipping into the robes and following behind Nakoa. Instead of speaking, Vossari chose just to hum as they strolled down the hall behind Nakoa. The tunnel network that connected their territory was extensive. Perhaps formed from old maintenance passages, long-since fallen out of repair and use. Now, these tunnels were dotted with the alien and eldritch artifacts of a strange group of worshippers, whose goals and methods were still enshrouded in mystery. Vossari was curious to learn more.

Eventually, another large chamber opened up, to a room stuffed to the brim with hooded cultists prostrating before a massive, flaming skull. It looked like a hydra, the sea-monster myth of Wrean legend. Its jaw was open, rows of teeth menacing, as a large, hooded figure stood in front of it. A deep, elegant voice emerged from beneath the hood. "It appears our final two brothers have joined us." Cultists closed the doors behind Nakoa and Vossari as they stepped in.

"You have all been selected for a humble mission. A noble mission. For too long, Nar Shadda has been drenched in filth. Whoring, drug use, and all sorts of depravity have become common place. The people are hopeless and miserable. But the Noctem Cult?" The hydra skull's eyes glowed with blue fire as she spoke. "We are STRONG!"

The cultists raised their right fists into the air. They seemed to represent almost every different species and culture on the planet, if the variety of fists raised could be trusted. "This is because we are united against a common enemy: Nor'Baal the Hutt! The repugnant Lord of the Armies of Darkness that drown our people." Cries of, 'Boo,' 'Shame,' 'Death to the Hutt Cartel,' came out from the crowd. Vossari tried to play along, hissing at the mention of the Hutt. He'd been picked on by oversized Gamorrean thugs his whole life, but at this juncture, Voss truly had no antipathy towards the Hutts. They hadn't really, personally, wronged him or the Order in a way that hey could remember.

"We must destroy the Hutts bases of power. Take to the streets. Identify their locations. Mark them with our symbol. And on the day of judgement, we will rain FIRE on them!" The cultists erupted into whooping and cheers.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

There was a solid attempt by Nakoa not to make a face at the flaming skull. They managed to just turn it into a vague facial twitch. His expert poker face stayed intact throughout the speaker's entire speech about Hutt depravity. It came off to the shaman as hilariously self-righteous, considering the circumstances.

Stronger beings than Noctem's cultists, and just as stupid, had gone against Nor'Baal and lost everything. It was ridiculous- unless they had a really good plan. Maybe.

The speaker spewed more fire and brimstone and Nakoa joined in with all the cheering with convincing enthusiasm even if he really didn't give a damn. And the cheering was too loud. Eugh. But Nakoa's eyes weren't even on the speaker, but a shorter being somewhere behind them, shrouded in shadow and an oversized cloak.

As the rally carried on, that's where his eyes largely stayed. Nakoa lightly elbowed Vossari to draw their attention to the being, subtly indicating them with a chin nod. If the Wrean shaman was correct, though, Vossari wouldn't have noticed the cloaked mean was there at all until he'd been pointed out. And even then, focusing on him would be difficult.

Cloaked in the Force.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

Vossari barely perceived the existence of a cloaked figure, murmuring from the shadows. Their instinct was to launch right at them the moment they noticed, but they knew better. It would be more conducive for them to focus and actually think through this. Why would another Force User be in the mix? Vossari supposed that a Sith and a Shaman were already in the mix, might as well make it a free-for-all. Probably could rule out a Jedi, at the very least.

Vossari decided to test the situation and call attention to the would-be cloaked one. "Brothers and Sisters of the Cloak! Look upon the corner - an infiltrator lies within our midst!" Vossari pointed a finger directly at the cloaked figure, who did not falter. For a brief, shining moment, those cultists looked right in the direction of Vossari's hand. But after a moment, they all turned on him. The lead cultist spoke again.

"It seems you are the infiltrator, interloper! Guards, seize him!" Vossari couldn't protest quick enough before cultist hands snapped on him, carrying him out of the room. Well, hooray, captured again. It wasn't Vossari's . They shouted out in Tethysian before they were carried off, hoping to communicate to Nakoa directly without giving way his disguise. <Keep your eyes on the Cloaked One! These idiots can't hold me!> Meanwhile, in the midst of the commotion, the cloaked figure began to slink off, out of the room.

Vossari bounded about, trying to break free of his restraints, before eventually cooperating with the cult militiamen. Long steps wound deep into the heart of this facility, to makeshift cells with bars dotted with carved bone and duracrete. Voss has unceremoniously tossed in.

"The Sergeant-At-Arms is preparing to interrogate you, infidel." A Quarren cult guard nodded, sagely, as she spoke. Vossari looked around the room for a means of escape.

roll to influence the crowd: 2/20

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Vossari Khaldun]

Vossari's hands stretched out of the bars of the dank cell. The guard only laughed as Vossari feebly reached towards her tentacled mane. Her laughter caught in her throat, turned to gurgled cries, as Vossari pulled her in through the force. He caught her against the bars and slipped his arm around her neck, locking her in to a tight, unrelenting choke. Her struggles only drained her energy, and she was quickly out cold.

Vossari plucked the keys from her pocket, guiding them into the keyhole using the force. The door clicked, and the bars flew open. Vossari slid out of the jail and ran as fast as his feet could carry him out of this. cultist hideout. For now, the mystery of the Noctem Cult would remain unsolved. The strange Wrean mercenary he had met on this excursion, too, would remain a mystery.

Perhaps, in the distant future, this would all mean something. At the very least, as Vossari made his way back into the thick, hot air of the Nar Shaddan streets, he knew that a seed had been planted. Even here, at the center of the Hutt's empire, an organization operating against them existed. Absolute devotion to a cause was a powerful weapon in itself: The ability to lure people into a clandestine network guided by ideals and under the strict supervision of a charismatic leader. There was a lesson in this, somewhere, even in failure.

The Noctem were only one such cult. In the shadows and corners of each society, there were outcasts who wanted a different society, a different life for themselves. Vossari knew because he had once been one of them: An outcast. Outcast on Wrea, on Nar Shadda, and even in the academy. He knew the lengths to which loneliness could inspire one to action. And he knew that, no matter what, he that these feelings of loneliness could be used to manipulate, impose, and dominate others. Soon, he would learn how to that himself.

For now, he was off to the academy. Alone.

/thread exit

@Mr. Teatime