Exorcising the Past [Witches]

[Sarge Potteiger]

[[OOC Thread for Context: http://starwarsrp.net/topic/3897-exorcising-the-past-ooc-teh-witches/ ]]


Dathomir
Somewhere near the base of the Singing Mountain

Eyes the color of watersoaked dark oak drifted across the thick forests that surrounded him. Somewhere behind him and towards his right, the great peak of the Singing Mountain rose to claw at the sky, while small streams and rivers plunged downward as they cascaded over cliffs.

He could see none of this, however. The world was burning. Smoke clung to the air and forced water from his eyes. Heat that threatened to melt his armor and spontaneously ignite his cloak pressed oppressively against his skin.

But he couldn't look away.

Not this time.

Stretching his arms out to either side of his body as if to embrace the coming death of burning alive, he finds his head snapping around automatically. Someone was here. They were watching him.

Casting his gaze around this clearing that was the eye of the storm, he found a middle aged woman walking towards him. A graceful hand extended, and as he reached to take it, her mouthed opened to speak... and then went wide.

Shrieking a shrill note that drew more tears from his eyes and a trickle of blood from his ears, he recoils. The shriek continued as her face began to melt, and he was soon staring at a skull that was still making that awful noise.

Whispering nonsense words to himself, Sarge flicked his head around and around, realizing he needed to get out of this place. Coming here had been a terrible idea.

A hand on forearm from behind nearly caused him to pull a weapon, before he saw the diminuative form of the young Charal Holt next to him. The Allyan he'd saved centuries ago couldn't be alive... she'd been one of the last of her kind.

She was long dead.

"I'm here to help...", she whispers sweetly with mothers placating tone. "Take my hand."

Tears still streaming down his cheeks without him knowing, Sarge slid his hand into hers.

The scene froze, and his world went black. Snapping his eyes open, he pistons his arms into the ground to scramble himself backwards and away from a fire... that wasn't there.

A breeze filtered through luminous green trees and the sounds of nature found their way gently into his ear, singing the song of a world at peace. Coated in sweat, he suppressed a shiver as the wind found it's way beneath his cloak and hood.

It had all been a nightmare. A horrible, terrible nightmare.

Closing his eyes, he curled his legs up to his chest and let the tears flow. He'd not seen a single soul since coming here, and finding a village on a planet of this size was near impossible, and he knew next to nothing of where they were, historically, to be located.

But not finding anyone meant one thing. He and Shule had failed. Or so he thought.

He'd just not looked hard enough.

 

[Avalore Eden]

In the quiet morning of the Dathomiri jungles, a long figure traveled on soft footsteps. Nimble, bare feet crossed earth, stone, and root with practiced dexterity - disturbing only so much as a breeze might, stopping shortly at the base of a great tree. With fluid movement the figure was quickly ascending the boughs, pausing as a clearing through the canopy presented itself. The branch groaned gently beneath the weight of the figure as it slowly edged outwards towards the edge.

A wind blew in from the south, upon it the acrid scent of metal and fuel. It lingered on the air and danced through long locks of dark umber and wheaten honey, bringing a look of unease and curiosity to the shadowed face. Another ship had landed and with it more off-worlders arrived, both a cause for concern and intrigue. Whispers of war had permeated the forests recently, and not simply between the clans. Machine war, Imperial war, war of vast nations and faraway planets. It was a dangerous galaxy out there, and the Witches of Dathomir were receiving fresh reminders that they, too, were also apart of it. The Windtalker had so far managed to skirt the issue, but, the lone figure mused, fate had steered her directly to it this day.

The wind changed suddenly, referring it's course through the branches until it pressed at her back. The Windtalker took a deep breath for courage and dropped from her perch. This is what she had been born to do, wasn't it? To forge the bridges between not just clans, but worlds. She'd spent all of her short life mending bonds amongst the Witches, now it was time to face the unknown.

As she traveled she found herself on a unusually clear path. Dathomir's jungles were not allowing, nor were they forgiving, but at times they could be helpful ... or perhaps meddlesome. The spirits here were mischievous and often tried to lead one astray, so it was with caution that she navigated; hugging the treeline and the umbrage it provided until she neared a smallish clearing. Here the sun cut down through the shade like giant pillars of light. From the distance she could see nothing, but she stayed quiet and hidden nevertheless. Ysan tried to recall the stories told by the Elders and their encounters with off-worlders - their caution of the aliens traveling in groups at the front of her thoughts.

Something moved suddenly, seizing upwards and across the ground. Ysan immediately paused, hand a foot held aloft, eyes flared and heart hammering. Had she been seen? What was it? Were there more? The Witch pulled in to the nearest tree and took several long moments of silence to watch, wait, and listen. Keen eyes honed in on a strange mass at the base of a tree where, from what she could tell, was a partial ...person? Nothing more happened and the jungle stilled; nature, previously spooked, slowly drew in again with its echoing song. Issuing a shaky release of breath, Ysan steeled herself and quieted her fears. She was skilled at reading the forest and currently all visible signs pointed to seclusion. She was utterly alone with this stranger, but somehow this did not make her feel any better.

The mystery was quite a bit more frightening than she ever expected.

Edging forward again until she had a clear view of the person, the Witch watched her quarry for some time, frowning slightly at what she imagined to be a sign of distress. What are you doing here by yourself? She wondered, passing a glance around the jungle and taking a moment to remember how utterly overwhelming it had been to her as a child. Concern grew in her chest and after a time compelled her to overcome the fear of this unknown entity.

Ysan took a breath and slowly, gently released a call. It wasn't a word of greeting and perchance not even in a language this stranger would understand, but it was low and calm, a song taught to her in her childhood. The first few notes were soft before growing loud enough to announce her presence more clearly without startling the figure. Ysan took a deep breath between words and carefully stood from the ferns where she had hidden herself from sight, watching the stranger the whole time with muscles tensed in preparation to flee. When she was certain he saw her and knew his attention was there, Ysan let her voice die down until naught but the sounds of the jungle continued.

The Windtalker waited on bated breath.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Frozen in place, soul overflowing with the unpleasant sensation of cold terror known as failure mixed with sorrow, Sarge almost ignored the hackles that raised on the back of his neck. Almost. Instinct wouldn't let him, however, and no sooner had Ysanae gotten close then the hooded head began to raise.

Whoever was hidden beneath that hood had a face coated by shadow, but the edges of a thick brown beard, vaguely trimmed, could be seen.

A pregnant pause stretched between the end of her greeting and the start of his response. For reasons he'd never understood, Sarge had always had an ear for languages, and a tongue for them too. There wasn't a language he didn't know and understand, and only a few he couldn't speak for reasons involving vocal chord construction.

The answer to her came in her own language, the man's voice quiet. "It's too cold outside for angels to fly." It didn't make much sense as there was no context, but it made sense to him, and that's all that mattered.

Slowly, he rose to stand, cutting a curious appearance into the air. As he stood, whatever was hiding him swayed and shifted, exposing more of his armor in some areas and hiding others. It was impossible to get a good bead on his size and shape, but he was evidently a humanoid... and a soldier of some kind.

But the beard suggested that, perhaps, he was merely a wanderer.

"Who are you...?"

Around him, nature returned even more, as though the faint sing-song to his voice brought them a feeling of security and comfort. Almost like they had a protector now.

 

[Avalore Eden]

Ysan felt her heart still and her muscles harden as the figure rose from the ground, her own instincts coiling and knotting in a curious fit of wanting to stay and go at the same time. She watched him closely, wondering at the strangeness of his appearance and how it seemed to shift and mold in the breath of the wind. Almost as if standing amongst smoke and the heat of a fire, his image folded and waned and she had the immediate chill of memory from terrors long ago. It caused her to pull back and reconsider this entire encounter.

Why had she come here alone? The uncomfortable quiver of fear took hold of her gut in face of something so strange and foreign until she could not stand it anymore. Ysan turned to flee and was halted in her tracks at the sound of his voice and the words of such familiarity. She looked back at him, utterly frozen in wonder.

"Ysanae Vela," the words cut past her lips so easily she surprised herself and immediately regretted it. Was that wise? It was too late to take it back now - he knew her name, which made her responsible for him. Frowning, she turned to face him again, "who are you?" Perhaps he was a rogue, or an outcast from one of the clans? As the Windtalker she prided herself on being familiar with all their faces, but Dathomir was a large planet and surely there were those out there that remained undiscovered or in hiding. The history of their world was beyond her scope.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The man smiled, a flash of straight, if off-white, teeth between the tangle of hair along his jawline. A hand appeared to reach out and clasped the flying edges of his cloak to pull it in tight around his chest. Now all that was visible was, for the most part, the shadow of his face.

And still the smile.

"What are you...?", he asks, voice a bit stronger now. A silly question to her, but an important one to him. Slowly, methodically, he moves forward, boots visible as his feet kick to propel him closer to her. "Who am I? I'm the man with no name."

He chuckles, "They call me Sarge."

Stopping a few feet from her, it's clear he's about one and three quarters meters in height, perhaps a smidgen more.

 

[Avalore Eden]

What was she? A proverbial question on the minds of many Witches. She was neither Nightsister nor Allyan. She was neither citizen or outcast. She was simply the Windtalker: an entity to be known, respected and honored. Many a night she had pondered his very same question, and over the years it had become less pressing on her thoughts. Time, she found, often healed wounds tangible and not, but couldn't fully rid her of the scars.

His question was oddly painful on such a numb subject, enough that it distracted her upon his approach. Before she knew it he was standing feet away: his shadowed smile disturbing as it hung in the air over a body that couldn't be seen. Ysan's frown pulled deeper as she dipped backwards, coiling away from him to regain some distance.

On Dathomir, men did not approach women so forwardly. It wasn't their place.

She stooped, glancing upwards quickly to gauge various avenues to freedom should the need arise. She could travel through the trees, out of reach, and quickly on foot. Of course there was no way to tell his own speed or strength, Ysan could only assume such things. She'd have to rely on her knowledge of this world and hope to all the Gods that it was far greater than his own.

"I am The Windtalker," her eyes drew back to him and leveled the man with a stare braced with apprehension, "I speak for the Clans. If you do not know me, then you are not one of us. Why are you here, One Known as Sarge?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He watched, impassive, as questions and thoughts rolled through her mind like tremors through the ground before an earthquake. Again, she seemed ready to run, and again she caught herself before doing so. He'd forgotten this was a matriarchal planet.

He'd have to mind that in the future.

There's a faint sigh and a shake of his head. "I'm here to see if any Allyans yet live; but more importantly, I'm here to exorcise my demons."

That wasn't a very good word choice for speaking to someone as spiritual as a Witch, but that's really what it was. A demon. It was something that tormented him, clawed at him. It was untamed and ugly.

"So, have you any news for me...?"

 

[Avalore Eden]

He certainly was not from here, that much she was sure of based on his words alone. This piqued her curiosity and seemed to assuage the tension in her gaze for now. Ysan eyed him as he mentioned demons, furrowing her brow in concern. Demons were not to be bandied with, but she couldn't help the need to care. The Windtalker had seen first hand how dark spirits could ruin a soul, wild and cruel as they could be.

"They live..." she began, unsure of what words to choose. It would be so much easier if he was of another clan, or at least of their kind. This new territory of communication was about as solid as rotten wood bridge and she felt clumsy trying to navigate it.

"They thrive in many clans," Ysan said, slowly rising to stand again. She placed a hand on the bark of the nearby tree, hoping the forest would offer her spiritual support in this, "how do you know of them?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"How do I know of them....? An old good deed." He smiled a little larger, a hint of sadness turning down the upper corners of his mouth. She was cautious and he couldn't fault her, but a part of him wished she would just trust him.

Then again, not many people would openly talk to a man who wasn't from somewhere and clearly adept at hiding in plain sight.

"I wish to see them." Sarge states flatly, all but giving her a command. No compromise was allowed by his tone, and it was evident that if she wouldn't show him... well, he'd just find them himself.

 

[Avalore Eden]

Ysan's expression grew tight at his strengthening tone.

"There are many that do," she returned, her own voice remaining low but clear, "but few who can. Not all who seek may find, One Known as Sarge."

Here the witches were under the protection of their dieties and spirits. Dathomir hid them well and Ysan suspected that this man had been looking for long time, the jungle very likely barring his path and leading him in circles. Curious that it was she who would find him first - The Windtalker likely knew these forests better than any. Her very life depended on it. She could certainly lead him along the quickest and easiest of paths, but she wasn't yet ready to offer such guidance. Unfortunately for him he was fishing for trust amongst a people who rarely took the bait. Yet ... she wouldn't simply leave him.

"Come," she spoke but said not to where. Turning, Ysan stepped off through the trees, keeping a wide breadth of space between them. It would be difficult to track his movements with that strange cloak of his, but her hearing was quite good and the shadow of his smile still floated bodiless to see.


The spring she lead him to was nestled into a quiet alcove of trees and boulders. It was darker here - the canopy above like a blanket, and the scent of earth thick on the air. While waiting him, Ysan stooped to fill the leather oilskin bladder at her side with water from the pool. As he approached she stood back and drank from it, indicating with an easy sway of her hand that it was safe to drink.

Ysan moved away, continuing her distance, and pulled herself upon a boulder where she took a seat, "You have been searching long, One Known as Sarge..." she stated as an observation, "will you tell me of your good deed?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

As they moved, even his face disappeared, and she was alone with the wilderness and it's sounds. He made not a noise as they walked, and it was near impossible to discern where he was at any given time. It was almost as though a spirit of the forest had taken form to talk to her and then faded from view as she left it's place of power.

But he was still there.

She'd know he'd not left.

He had, for the first time in a long time, been lost. Tree's seemed to move of their own accord, and it was like the very planet itself conspired to hide it's people from those not of the world. He was a master tracker, and even he'd not been able to find them.

Not yet, at least. Sarge knew he'd be able to, one day.

When they stopped, he appeared at the side of the pool - he'd been there before she'd even motioned. He knew what was safe to drink and what wasn't. It came with the territory. Cupping his hands in the liquid, he brought it to his lips and tipped it back.

To do so, his forearms were exposed, revealing semi-tanned forearms with only a light smattering of hair across them and some residual scarring from who knew what. "I saved the last of your kind, some time ago. Or at least what I believe to have been. But that is between you and I... and the trees."

Even as he motioned towards the woods with a wet hand, she'd know he was telling the truth; the song of the birds would tell her that.

 

[Avalore Eden]

The Witch tipped her head to one side, wondering to herself just how long ago this good deed came to pass. This made her curious of his age and drew her attention to the exposed skin. It was quite impossible to tell given just that.

"There was a time when the Nightsisters grew powerful and many," she said contemplatively, "and many Allyans died. Those who survived the fire went into hiding. It is possible, what you say, but there are many Allyans now. Whether they came from those outcasted by the Nightsisters or those in hiding is difficult to know. It was quite long ago."

One of the Elders would be much the wiser, but she decided against mentioning this.

"What became of the ones that you saved? Did you take them off-world? Do they live still?" she realized this was many questions, but certainly he would face just as many by the Clan, and likely in much less of a friendly manner. The more she learned of him, the easier it would be to decide her next move.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Three centuries, perhaps a bit more.", he says matter-of-factly before looking back to her. The hair of his beard was the healthy, deep brown of a man in his twenties, so how this had all come to pass was a bit of an enigma. It made sense then, considering he too was one.

Recollections, pulled to the forefront of his mine, sprang up before his eyes. There was Je'gan in his Ithorian body, stuffing the girl into the transport, piloted by a friend. Behind them came a wicked looking blonde out for blood... and a Sith Pureblood come to help her.

Or help them. He'd never quite been sure.

They turned to fight, and as reality snapped back into place, the roar of shuttle engines clawing for altitude faded from his ears.

"She was sent off-world. A Jedi and I stayed behind to buy them time to escape; her village was massacred. She was the only survivor. There was nothing left here for her but death."

 

[Avalore Eden]

Naturally these new facts drew her attention, and of course she noted that some of them didn't exactly line up with what she currently knew... or could see.

"You are quite young for someone so old, One Known as Sarge," Ysan leaned forward, looking at him, and gave a wane smile. There were Elders who knew spells to keep the truth hidden. There were Witches who could take the form of beasts. Some could inhabit plants. This man could disappear completely. It wasn't so hard to believe, then, that through some way or another he could maintain his youth.

"What was the name of the one you saved?" Perhaps it had not been lost to time.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Charal Holt.", he said simply. He wasn't sure if she was dead or not. The Light Side had a habit of increasing lifespans to many times their normal length, perhaps as a reward for those who did good works. It was something that had always fascinated him.

His throat rumbled faintly; the barest hint of a chuckle escaping him for the moment. "Yes, quite young indeed..." Casting his gaze downward to the water, he looked into the tired eyes of a 23 year old man who still felt 17 and was so far from home as to be truly alone.

It dredged up more sorrow as his mind raced, pondering how long he had to live and what came after death - if anything. Thinking about oblivion had always been more than his mind could comprehend.

 

[Avalore Eden]

Ysan sat straight again, eyes trained on the man as his dark face hovered mid-air over the spring. She could not see the tired, world-weary look in his eyes, nor sense intangible waves of emotion, or judge by his unseen body language, but her gut told her he was sad. She wondered for why. Had he cared for this Charal Holt? Had the holocaust scenes burned into his skin and also his mind?

Death could be such a heavy burden.

"Your ...demon," she tested. Like many Witches, she was neglect to use the word, "did it find you in that time?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"I found it later, after having lived months on the run from the Nightsisters who ruled the planet and sought to destroy everyone and everything that wasn't them. Months, gone to ground, with the barest scraps to survive off of."

Standing, he turned to face her, a thin slit of black armor visible from where his face was exposed all the way down to the ground. It almost looked like a lower-case i.

Barely visible within the darkness of his hood sat two dark colored pupils, nearly black, but not quite, bore into her momentarily. "It took a lot of strength to come back here. But I had to know what happened in the interim."

 

[Avalore Eden]

Her smile gone now, Ysan took a deep breath as he stood and faced her. Still cloaked, still a mystery. She wanted to see his face, fully and openly; to know him and see him as well as he saw her. Surely Clan Elders would be offended, perhaps even infuriated by his need to remain unseen. Not only was it rude for anyone, but unforgivable for a man. It is good, she thought to herself, that I am not them. But I am not they, and they will not be pleased.

"I will help you, One Known as Sarge. I will take you to the Allyans. However," the Windtalker stood upon the boulder, looking down at him, "there is a way it must be done. This way is simple and will grant you a welcome pass and favor with the Elders. You need this favor for the task you seek, will you do it?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"If it means getting to my destination, I will do it." She seemed so put off, so offended, and he wondered why. There could be any number of reasons, and the last one to him was his need to remain hidden. "What is it?"

 

[Avalore Eden]

Reflecting on his own experience with the Witches, Ysan did not believe it pertinent to explain to him the nature of her people. They were untrusting of off-worlders; some clans absolutely refused to see them. Others, like the one she planned to present him to, were more open to their presence. But he would need to prove he deserved their welcome, and he would need to earn their respect.

"First, you must bring a gift. Something of use and value to the Clan. Meat will not be enough for a male off-worlder. I suggest something coveted for spells that is difficult to find. The tooth of a Sarlacc would work for this. There are many juvenile buds on our path." Her brow lifted, curious if he would accept such a challenge.