CholmisTyr
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2017
- Messages
- 14
- Reaction score
- 6
Tund
From halls of blessed shadow in the Black Basilica, into the biome of knotted fauna and trees, where giant mushrooms sheltered golden flies and empty-bellied parasites that delighted in the flesh of the great beasts that ground thickets to a leafy pulp underfoot. It was a strange contrast in Cholmis' opinion, to step from desolate halls to be confronted with messy optimism of an alien jungle, a canvas where no square inch isn't without some oddity buzzing or glowing or whining to ensnare the unwary explorer. The Sith was still a stranger to the planet, but there was no apprehension found in carapace of flesh and matter that must have lurked beneath the glower of his mask, only the serene confidence of a faithful man -- or creature.
Cryptic thoughts became as tangled as his surroundings, for Cholmis was still coming to terms with the vastness of knowledge now available to him at the Basilica, and he hoped to find some clarity in the chaos of the jungle, not expecting another to be as gutsy as to venture out alone. Armored fingers were as resplendent as his mask, and their cruel edges fit snugly when they came together across his midriff in half-prayer. It would have been impossible to discern where he true gaze was set, but from the manner in which he sailed along -- ignorant to roots and predators -- it was forward. The wildlife was clever enough to avoid the zealot.
"Behold the savage garden, where the Dark's disciples are tempered for a higher destiny." He recited as if testing the statement on the tip of his acrid tongue, serenading the growth-clinging critters that spied on him. "Are the miscarriages of faith crushed with coldsalt? Is the bud of personality pulped, perhaps even irrigated by purposes of a new origin?" For those that listened on the Sith spoke of nothing particular, merely thoughts he seemed to believe could be answered better by giving them a voice.
Coming to a clearing, thickset trees fell away to a grove of sorts, where an inky rivulet ran through its center carrying a noxious liquid that would make the nose of any person wrinkle. The burning sky above was tiered with dark-bellied clouds, and the humid air threatened the senses -- Tund was a hostile world, and it bred just that.
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