Perimeter sensors were always on her belt and the Mirialan pulled a few
more off as she took a slow walk around the large scouted site. The
pirates who'd escaped the fate of their comrades in the tunnels had
cleared out, the woman checking her HUD to make sure the only life
around was wildlife. One blaster was holstered as she changed the power
cell out, switching blasters around to do the same for her second one,
keeping them warm, safeties off.
The bodies still doting the area were piled up in a makeshift pit,
lighter fluid doused on them all before she ignited it. The bonfire
crackled and Mirisk kept her helm on, counting on the filtration system
to make sure the tell-tale scent of burnt flesh didn't offend her nose.
Rot and decay and blood and sweat were the way of life - but that
didn't mean the scent of scorched flesh was perfectly pleasant.
"A'lor," a voice called out on the comms channel used by the Clan, "--cuyan." Torenth's voice was grave and sedate, belying the manner the Rattaki conducted himself in.
"Who missed their round?"
"New kid, in training," came the calm reply.
"Catch them."
"Confirmed." The comm flicked off then, the bulky man breaking off from
the skeleton crew making the slow survey and heading through the thick
amazon forest. It was impossible to hear anything of the probable
exchange between Torenth and the survivor over the chirp and sounds of
the jungle but in due time Torenth returned, another corpse slung
over his shoulder.
It was added to the still-burning pile.
Later on, before the small crew broke off from the perspective clan home
and returned to their own ships, a campfire merrily burned and almost
rustic shelters were erected. Bottles passed around between the members
of the clan present, helms set aside but armor proudly worn as they
sang and ate. The meal was small and simple, roasting one of the local
lizards (even though the initial party containing herself, Jet, Hawk and
Bear had ridiculed the idea) and discovering they were pleasant enough
on the spit.
They were family, hard and lean, molded by combat and camaraderie. When
they broke camp Mirisk was the last to leave, making sure her people
were lifting off before she headed to her own vessel. Sensors linked to
her console, Mirisk waited until the last ship aside from hers had
become nothing more than a glimmer in the sky before she initiated
liftoff protocols, shouting at the navi-system before making her own way
to the stars.
The clan would thrive here, she thought - enough space to allow the
clan's armortechs the room to refine their craft, the armstechs to
produce the weapons that helped keep the clan in the high ranks. Enough
room to set up training rings for the children, the teens. She
unhooked her helm and set it on the flight console, hitting it on the
hook to stay in place. Enough water and nearby game to hunt and keep
the clan safe if their supplies were cut. And clear access to the stars
from something that'd make a good landing pad. All they'd need to do
would be get a few towers in for communications, move their munitions
in... her mind ran over the checklist.
"Incoming message-" the system chirped, Mirisk fitting her helm back in
place before checking the name. One of her clients, of course.
"Risk, 'ere."
Back to business.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Mirisk Foxun (Aliit'alor Clan Foxun)
Name: Mirisk Foxun
Nicknames: N/A
Bounty Hunter Name: 'Risk'
Clan: Foxun (Aliit'alor)
Clan colors: Purple, grey, and a dash of red - associated meanings purple (fanon, luck), grey (canon, mourning a lost loved one), red (canon, honoring a parent)
Emblem - forthcoming
Age: 38
Species: Mirialan
Homeworld: Akaan
Languages Spoken: Mando'a, Mirialan, Huttese, some Smuggler's Cant, Basic
Status: Single
Children/Adopted Children: ???
Favorite drink: Tihaar
Clan structure- (TBD)
General Skillsets: Ranged combat, hand-to-hand (a style specializing in disarming and debilitating blows coupled with body use for a physical advantage), bladed combat (no-holds-barred), decent pilot (not a hot-shot ace but good enough), battle planning, technologically apt (able to surf the holonet with ease), armor repair and crafting (pretty good/average armorsmith).
As a general rule, Mirisk is good at combat - certainly not an amazing specialist, but well-rounded and adaptable to a situation.
----
A mix of ranged and front-line combat forces, Foxun carved a name for themselves as determined, steadfast, and capable of executing their ends diligently. Clan Foxun went on to continue its banner under the extended contract-alliance with the Sith Empire, setting a reputation as well working warriors and skilled hunters.
Foxun is a few generations old as a Clan, and Mirisk assumed leadership after battling the previous head of the Clan for control. Foxun has taken mercenary work and the individuals of the Clan are free to work as they will but are a bonded and knitted, devoted clan. Their base is traditional - home to the young, the venerated old, and the training grounds of the clan. There are a number of armsmen in the clan as well as 'camp' professions.
(more when I brain it, emblem inc!)
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Molari: Lands of Thedas (Part 2)
Of all the pieces of technology to remain working Molari was most thankful for his saber. It had been the only piece of technology to remain functioning in the strange land he traveled across, the man packing up what few pieces he had and returning them to his ship. The lights were completely off, everything dead as she sighed, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.
He had no words for the creatures he had encountered. He felt their taint though, a grasping evil nature that clung to their flesh, their rotted flesh. He wondered what Sith had twisted them and raised their mangled corpses from the dead for that was a power he had never encountered before. But it was one he knew was possible and yet...
And yet the place crawled with a lower taint, something that left him uneasy at night, uneasy during the day. The sounds of the forest were unfamiliar, the cries in the deep woods were different, the creatures not similar to anything in the archives he had studied since childhood. A few days past he had stumbled on a small creature, rounded and pudgy with hairless skin and towering ears. There was something a bit like a fox, but longer in leg, with larger ears. And there had been a towering shadow that swept across the air like a thranta, but its cry was unlike anything he had ever heard.
And it looked like...
Like a dragon.
But dragons, he knew, were nearly extinct; the monstrous Krayt dragons had begun to vanish and the large ones called as mounts by the armies of old had gone not just out of fashion but seemingly out of existence.
But the recollection, the resemblance, had been uncanny. And it had shaken the man, awoken a primal fear that he had thought he had trained past; when the rumbling cry had torn the air the Jedi had stopped his motions, moving under the cover and letting the beast swoop overhead. It had crested the sky and disappeared towards the mountains and the Jedi had waited until the forest itself had slowly stirred back to life before he found his breath easing.
There were armies and bandits who crawled the hillsides and woods, primitive weapons that made even slugthrowers seem high-tech brandished. The Jedi had slipped unmolested until he came near a town, one enclosed by guarded walls manned by heavily armored Knights. But they bore no lightsabers and their connection to the Force almost seemed...artifical.
Her had no words for the strange feeling they gave him, as if something noble and yet wrong stood tall. And beyond those guards there were bells, an unfamiliar song of an unfamiliar religion. Where had this come from, this song praising Andraste and the Maker? The cries of 'mage' and 'templar' were spoken of as if they were world-shattering forces and there was no planet he had learnt of, Republic or Empire or Hutt or Rim, that had sects called by those names.
What was a mage? What was a templar? What were the green cracks people spoke of, and what were demons?
The last two he found answers to as he watched the small township. For slitting the air a green light coalesced, and from it tore out creatures he had never seen before, figments of putrid nightmares - misshapen forms with hands too long, features too horrific, and a presence he had never encountered. The Knights were prepared, drawing their weapons - but their weapons were plain ones. Against what looked to be demons from the nightmares of even the most stout of Sith.
The demons - for the towns people screamed and yelled enough that he could pick out the names - cackled and roared in exultation. The Knights fought but the air ripped and then squeezed and more demons came from the sickly-green rend in the sky. The Knights rallied against the barred gate, defending valiantly, but... Molari started to run forward.
They were cut down as a boil of hatred poured from the rift in the air. It quaked the ground, claws red with fresh blood as it cut through their armor as if it was cloth and not the metal he could tell it was.
He wasn't fast enough to save them all.
He accepted that, even as he drew his saber, blade hissing through the air as it ignited.
He could save the ones who were left. And he could, perhaps, save this town of innocents.
He had no words for the creatures he had encountered. He felt their taint though, a grasping evil nature that clung to their flesh, their rotted flesh. He wondered what Sith had twisted them and raised their mangled corpses from the dead for that was a power he had never encountered before. But it was one he knew was possible and yet...
And yet the place crawled with a lower taint, something that left him uneasy at night, uneasy during the day. The sounds of the forest were unfamiliar, the cries in the deep woods were different, the creatures not similar to anything in the archives he had studied since childhood. A few days past he had stumbled on a small creature, rounded and pudgy with hairless skin and towering ears. There was something a bit like a fox, but longer in leg, with larger ears. And there had been a towering shadow that swept across the air like a thranta, but its cry was unlike anything he had ever heard.
And it looked like...
Like a dragon.
But dragons, he knew, were nearly extinct; the monstrous Krayt dragons had begun to vanish and the large ones called as mounts by the armies of old had gone not just out of fashion but seemingly out of existence.
But the recollection, the resemblance, had been uncanny. And it had shaken the man, awoken a primal fear that he had thought he had trained past; when the rumbling cry had torn the air the Jedi had stopped his motions, moving under the cover and letting the beast swoop overhead. It had crested the sky and disappeared towards the mountains and the Jedi had waited until the forest itself had slowly stirred back to life before he found his breath easing.
There were armies and bandits who crawled the hillsides and woods, primitive weapons that made even slugthrowers seem high-tech brandished. The Jedi had slipped unmolested until he came near a town, one enclosed by guarded walls manned by heavily armored Knights. But they bore no lightsabers and their connection to the Force almost seemed...artifical.
Her had no words for the strange feeling they gave him, as if something noble and yet wrong stood tall. And beyond those guards there were bells, an unfamiliar song of an unfamiliar religion. Where had this come from, this song praising Andraste and the Maker? The cries of 'mage' and 'templar' were spoken of as if they were world-shattering forces and there was no planet he had learnt of, Republic or Empire or Hutt or Rim, that had sects called by those names.
What was a mage? What was a templar? What were the green cracks people spoke of, and what were demons?
The last two he found answers to as he watched the small township. For slitting the air a green light coalesced, and from it tore out creatures he had never seen before, figments of putrid nightmares - misshapen forms with hands too long, features too horrific, and a presence he had never encountered. The Knights were prepared, drawing their weapons - but their weapons were plain ones. Against what looked to be demons from the nightmares of even the most stout of Sith.
The demons - for the towns people screamed and yelled enough that he could pick out the names - cackled and roared in exultation. The Knights fought but the air ripped and then squeezed and more demons came from the sickly-green rend in the sky. The Knights rallied against the barred gate, defending valiantly, but... Molari started to run forward.
They were cut down as a boil of hatred poured from the rift in the air. It quaked the ground, claws red with fresh blood as it cut through their armor as if it was cloth and not the metal he could tell it was.
He wasn't fast enough to save them all.
He accepted that, even as he drew his saber, blade hissing through the air as it ignited.
He could save the ones who were left. And he could, perhaps, save this town of innocents.
Ciphered Holos: Aran
Disappointment was a bitter feeling to swallow. And it gnawed the same way as guilt but without the possibility of resolution; it ate and it settled in the gut and clenched the throat. And it was hard to even understand - but then there were clear moments of comprehension, clear moments where recriminations were flung at herself. She had been bitter, had been petty. For little reason other than pricked vanity and pride. It had been humiliating to be found so lacking, that feeling coupled with the old and awoken feeling of failure.
Regression. Disappointing Ark, the Pureblood who had become a mentor. An ally. An inspiration for climbing to better, new heights; to aspire to grow to.
A petty drunkard wasting away, a sore and blight with no purpose or worthwhile accomplishments. That'd been what she'd been when Ark had found her - someone courting self-destruction who had found no purpose, no passion. Someone with no dreams left, holding broken shards in bloodied hands. Someone with no future, bleakly facing death and no longer fighting for a place in the galaxy. And she'd regressed, reverted back to that drunkard in a moment of concern; harshly judging Ark and his motives against the mistaken view of someone who'd seen him as not only an obstacle but a rallying point for destruction.
Her apology had been heartfelt, an almost bleak apology as the tone Ark had spoken to her in had set in. She remembered the people who had spoken to her in that tone, the way they'd all eventually thrown their hands up when she hadn't grown more wise, more controlled, more reserved. She remembered the first time Ark had spoken to her that way, when he'd rescinded his offer of solace and protection, pulled his hand back because she had been nothing but a disappointment.
And the dangerous edge in his voice, the growl. A warning, the reminder that although he had been kind he had been kind purely on his whim. A suddenly brutal reminder that crossing him would have consequences, the same way her rash and foolish actions trying to stop him from taking Sverdas had resulted in the death of her pet. The knowledge that she had hit a line, offended him, insulted him.
Ark had been kind. Accepting. Understanding. Encouraging. Inspiring. Protective.
He had given her shelter and resources and a place to study and work, as close to a home as she was likely to ever find again. The space to carve out her own place, find her footing. Become what she had the potential to become. And she'd risked it in a stupid and petty moment.
But how to show Ark she'd meant her apology? Actions, he said. Prove it, he demanded. But how? Offering objects wouldn't prove anything; placating gifts would be worthless to Ark because they were things, not actions. Things could be given without learning the lessons required - she knew that from her own past. Gifts were merely motions, meaningless objects that carried nothing in their acquisition other than the implication of time.
Time wasn't enough. Sinking time into something didn't show she'd really moved past the drunkard wasting away on a worthless moon.
Actions.
Her mind wandered, settling with every centering breath. She was in the little tucked ruins she had found when getting lost, legs folded under her as she'd dropped into a meditative seat.
The doubt and self-recrimination were powerful feelings - but they weakened her. They weren't helpful; they were the sort of dark emotions that crippled a person and destroyed the possibility of their use in furthering her connections to the darkside. She had to accept them though and use them to be stronger, use them to strengthen both her resolve and her dedication. Reject the weakness they invited and turn them around. She could - would - do it. She had to be more than she'd been a scant year ago.
How to prove it.
She let out a breath.
How to show she'd moved on.
Actions.
Doubt and recriminations and disappointment she turned to anger, let them fester. Loathing for herself began, for the weaknesses she clung to. She focused on those feelings, nurturing them the same way she'd once called up peace.
These were useful emotions, feelings that would drive her onwards and upwards and help her climb to new heights. These she could turn and spur herself with, could settle her mind in to and relax finally. Now she could call up the 'gift' Ark had given her, the chaotic images she could barely grasp, the gaping wounds and clawing panic and horrible pain and sudden, inescapable death and destruction. She pulled it up much the same way she'd have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, letting it rise up and enfold her thoughts.
The images pulled up the shattered and grasping memories of her first meeting with Xekseko and Venrirr, the itching and scraping of those horrific eyes. The unintelligible and incomprehensible, destabilizing agony. She still could not make sense of it all - the colors, the shapes, it had been beyond her comprehension. The jokes about colors had been nothing compared to the reality and inability to understand. Paired with the gift from Ark, the swirls of everything he had placed in her mind, she felt a slick sheen of sweat rise.
And yet she continued, feeling it help her find a new avenue of connection and understanding towards the darkside. She turned her mind and thoughts to the pure feelings of it, a sigh of breath as she gave herself over to it.
Regression. Disappointing Ark, the Pureblood who had become a mentor. An ally. An inspiration for climbing to better, new heights; to aspire to grow to.
A petty drunkard wasting away, a sore and blight with no purpose or worthwhile accomplishments. That'd been what she'd been when Ark had found her - someone courting self-destruction who had found no purpose, no passion. Someone with no dreams left, holding broken shards in bloodied hands. Someone with no future, bleakly facing death and no longer fighting for a place in the galaxy. And she'd regressed, reverted back to that drunkard in a moment of concern; harshly judging Ark and his motives against the mistaken view of someone who'd seen him as not only an obstacle but a rallying point for destruction.
Her apology had been heartfelt, an almost bleak apology as the tone Ark had spoken to her in had set in. She remembered the people who had spoken to her in that tone, the way they'd all eventually thrown their hands up when she hadn't grown more wise, more controlled, more reserved. She remembered the first time Ark had spoken to her that way, when he'd rescinded his offer of solace and protection, pulled his hand back because she had been nothing but a disappointment.
And the dangerous edge in his voice, the growl. A warning, the reminder that although he had been kind he had been kind purely on his whim. A suddenly brutal reminder that crossing him would have consequences, the same way her rash and foolish actions trying to stop him from taking Sverdas had resulted in the death of her pet. The knowledge that she had hit a line, offended him, insulted him.
Ark had been kind. Accepting. Understanding. Encouraging. Inspiring. Protective.
He had given her shelter and resources and a place to study and work, as close to a home as she was likely to ever find again. The space to carve out her own place, find her footing. Become what she had the potential to become. And she'd risked it in a stupid and petty moment.
But how to show Ark she'd meant her apology? Actions, he said. Prove it, he demanded. But how? Offering objects wouldn't prove anything; placating gifts would be worthless to Ark because they were things, not actions. Things could be given without learning the lessons required - she knew that from her own past. Gifts were merely motions, meaningless objects that carried nothing in their acquisition other than the implication of time.
Time wasn't enough. Sinking time into something didn't show she'd really moved past the drunkard wasting away on a worthless moon.
Actions.
Her mind wandered, settling with every centering breath. She was in the little tucked ruins she had found when getting lost, legs folded under her as she'd dropped into a meditative seat.
The doubt and self-recrimination were powerful feelings - but they weakened her. They weren't helpful; they were the sort of dark emotions that crippled a person and destroyed the possibility of their use in furthering her connections to the darkside. She had to accept them though and use them to be stronger, use them to strengthen both her resolve and her dedication. Reject the weakness they invited and turn them around. She could - would - do it. She had to be more than she'd been a scant year ago.
How to prove it.
She let out a breath.
How to show she'd moved on.
Actions.
Doubt and recriminations and disappointment she turned to anger, let them fester. Loathing for herself began, for the weaknesses she clung to. She focused on those feelings, nurturing them the same way she'd once called up peace.
These were useful emotions, feelings that would drive her onwards and upwards and help her climb to new heights. These she could turn and spur herself with, could settle her mind in to and relax finally. Now she could call up the 'gift' Ark had given her, the chaotic images she could barely grasp, the gaping wounds and clawing panic and horrible pain and sudden, inescapable death and destruction. She pulled it up much the same way she'd have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, letting it rise up and enfold her thoughts.
The images pulled up the shattered and grasping memories of her first meeting with Xekseko and Venrirr, the itching and scraping of those horrific eyes. The unintelligible and incomprehensible, destabilizing agony. She still could not make sense of it all - the colors, the shapes, it had been beyond her comprehension. The jokes about colors had been nothing compared to the reality and inability to understand. Paired with the gift from Ark, the swirls of everything he had placed in her mind, she felt a slick sheen of sweat rise.
And yet she continued, feeling it help her find a new avenue of connection and understanding towards the darkside. She turned her mind and thoughts to the pure feelings of it, a sigh of breath as she gave herself over to it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)