The Cathedral's forge was illuminant with the crackles of orange and yellow sprays of fire light. Warm and welcoming, the sunny colours flickered and played among the naturally forming cave and teased at the hand-made additions to the cavern. Wembley the Tuk'ata pup whimpered under a pile of raggedly hewn firewood, his paw bent awkwardly to the side and pinned under a fallen stack of heavy iron ingots and bars.
The sole kiffar occupant of the Cathedral sprawled halfway in the retaining pool she'd dug to take baths and siphon the aggregates of her industry away from her fresh cistern. The fire licked and lapped at the hand hewn table where the girl kept her alchemical tools, brushing against some objects with relative distain, while others were engorged hungrily by the consuming fire.
Wembley yipped and whined, calling out to his mistress through the Force to try and tug at her mind like he often tugged at the low hanging tree branches he pulled off for the fire's consumption.
Ginnie stirred. "Rrrrrrrrrrgh." What had happened? She felt a burning warmth crawl up her arm and blurry mahogany eyes peered at the orange and yellow licking at her linen tunic. "AH!" Rolling into the retaining pool, Ginnie smothered the flames around her body and sputtered.
"Wh-what. . ." There was another image in the flames, a tandem pair of hands grasping through the fire to reach her just as the man in the flames had tried in that Sith Prison she burned down. Coughing and sputtering, the child swung her arms around in defence, splashing backwards as the hands of flame and fire continued to pursue her.
'What is that? What does it want!?' She thought, projecting out in her panic.
Back against the wall, Ginnie pushed up on her knocking knees until she stood leaning against the rapidly heating rock.
A body in the flame reached for both sides of her head and the fingers of crimson fire dove at her eyes. Ginnie's scream rocketed out of her as the heat burst inside her lungs, settling beneath her skin.
'She is not ready.'
'She was never meant to be. Let her go.'
'We were invited.'
'Let her go.'
'You are no Master here, Metus. The girl has potential. We will use her.'
'She's not ready. Let her go.'
Weeks before the fire began to talk, a terrified and life-shattered little girl watched her father cry on a bio bed. Ordo had been incapable of drying his own tears and Ginnie had promised that she'd figure out a way to fix the whole mess. Old habits were hard to scathe out of a child's experience and it was to the passions of her fallen and lost brother Isley that Ginnie searched for the answer to signs and wonders.
Isley used his rage, pain and hurt to make miracles out of metal. That's what the Alchemical arts were, wasn't it? Packaging up her fledgeling knowledge of beskar smithing and all the items she could find, Ordo's youngest ad'ika had attempted her first serious reach into the horrifying dark of Sith Alchemy. This cave had once been the arena of deep and insidious battles. The dead lied ill in their graves, called upon by the Dark Energies of the planet itself. Ginnie had chosen her spot wisely, if petulantly.
The forge fire sprouted deeper and hotter than she'd normally lit it, burgeoned on with the smells and sights of the sheets of fire she used in the rescue of Preliat Mantis. It had felt like progress to a thirteen year old, but what a dangerous progress it had been. Unleashing powers she didn't nor could not understand, the girl had in her infant craftsmanship tried to alchemically treat the wrong alloy and it did not merely blow up in her face, but in Wembley's face and across the last remnants of Isley Verd's library the girl spirited out of Castle Ne'tra before its' demise. "Wembley? Wembley!"
As she fell to the sloshing pit of liquid ash and bitter water, Ginnie saw the journals on the alchemical table burn. "No. . . No don't!!" She yelled, tripping over her own ankles to see the crackle of the fire spit and pucker in torrents of multi-coloured flame.
Ginnie hit the dirt, diving beside her hound pup as he shook off the debris. Wembley snarled and howled, limping up beside the girl and wrapping his growing bulk around her. The flames began to die down, in no small part due to Ginnie Ordo's rising unconsciousness. The girl acted on instinct and hit the 'panic' button on her comm unit. Had she hit it in time? Did it still work? The child didn't know, "Daddy."