The Halls of the Dead

[Progflaw99]

"Fear not Death for the hour of your doom is set and none may escape it."​

- Volunga Saga, c.5​

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Reverent footsteps echoed in the silence, each shaped stone smooth from the many years of use. Kohlma, one of the many moons of Bogden, was home to this place. Informally they referred to it as The Halls of the Dead. Constructed long ago, the citadel had been home to the Bando Gora under the leadership of a woman named Komari Vosa - the name meant little to Balthor however. What mattered was the here and now, the present not the past. *Ironic* he thought. That the fates would send him here - to a place that served as little more than an ancient graveyard. The boots upon his feet disturbed a thin layer of dust as he approached the long winding path to the ancient citadel. *This is going to need some work.* the Bando Gora warmaster thought to himself. Officially, he was known as "The Hand", the hand of the Priestess of Shadow. A weapon of both mind and body, used to effect the sacrifices to their father, Death. This was their holiest of sites, the graveyard where so many had been interred, their souls released to chaos. It was here that a rebirth would occur, rising from the ashes of their former selves. It was upon Kohlma they would reconstruct the decrepit citadel and forge it into a place of immense power, power overwhelming.

Unfortunately at the moment it reeked of dust and bones, a state which Balthor sought to change. Kohlma would continue to be their most holy of sites, undisturbed by the gears of industry, away from the meatgrinder they would put their followers through. Kohlma would once again be a symbol of power, a symbol of Death, and perhaps one day the place where they would summon Death his person again. Only time would tell.

Ascending the stairs unto the Citadel's aging walls, Balthor spent hours examining their near empty halls and corridors. Seeking out every weakness, every bit of damaged structure, and planning expansion for the facilities they would house here. There were many aspects missing from his finished vision and there was no doubt that the Priestess of Shadow would have machinations of her own which she wished to endeavor towards. He would account for that, but only after the security of their existence was secured. Too often had the Bando Gora been extinguished before their truth had come to fully bless the galaxy, before sufficient sacrifice could be made to effect their goals. This time they would build from the ground up - and they would do so here.

[member="Ilya Cardonne"] | [member="Garnik Verita"] | [member="Ara Zambrano"]​

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[Progflaw99]

Days had passed since his initial inspection, crates of supplies slowly but surely beginning to arrive. There was much to be done, much to be renovated and reconstructed. The Priestess of Shadow had been indisposed, it was why Balthor now found himself in charge of the rebuilding of their citadel. Droids, trade workers "Hired" by the Bando Gora, and slave laborers were now hard at work. Raw materials and building supplies lay scattered about the ruined citadel, large groups of workers doing their best to follow the instructions of their taskmasters. Balthor was pleased - the work had begun and while there yet lie a long road ahead, they could say that they had begun their journey. The construction of the citadel however was not his primary focus. The first time he had set foot on Kohlma he had felt it, gently tugging at the edge of his mind. The second time he knew it was there. No doubt.

Balthor had left the foundations of the Citadel, his footsteps leading him down an ancient path of stairs carved into the stone of the mountain. Worn smooth over time and use he had to use caution - the fall from this height would be fatal. Jagged rocks and steep crevasses would slice any poor victim to pieces before depositing their remains deep into the ground never to see the light of day. With each descending step The Hand could feel the tug on his mind grow stronger. Each step brought him closer to the valley floor and to whatever it was.

Wind near whistled through the jagged stones on either side of the archaic stairway. Runes and strange etchings along the path caught Balthor's eye but they meant nothing, words of an ancient time long dead. *But this... this power, is very much alive.* He could feel it lurking down below, writhing as he drew nearer and nearer like an eel along the bottom of the ocean floor. There was something ancient about it, primal, base - he could feel the presence drawing him in and it took significant energy to keep his footing. By now his curiosity was piqued. *No turning back now.*

 

[Progflaw99]

It had taken him the better part of an hour to reach the final descent he would need to make to the valley floor. A half hour longer and his feet had finally settled at the base of the precarious mountain path. Labored breaths created a gentle mist as Balthor took a moment to observe where he had arrived. The ground beneath his feet was wet, moss and lichen covering the stones, the damp smell of rot rising to his nose as he shifted his weight. *What is this place...* He could feel something here just as he had during his descent but now he was so close. He needed not to look, but to see - it was right there, bubbling below the surface. Voices filled his ears... or was it just the wind?

Careful steps forward carried the Bando Gora warmaster further into the valley. Everywhere he walked he could feel the once subtle presence now threatening to overwhelm him. Across the valley hung a silence unlike anything he had ever heard, a whisper so faint he couldn't be sure he had heard it at all. What he did next would look odd to any outsider, but to him it felt natural, as if he was being instructed. Coming to a stop his eyes searched for what he somehow knew to be there. A solid patch of ground which gave very little when stepped upon. The moss and lichen had grown up to a point, then suddenly stopped - a large stone not unlike a table rose from the earth.

Elevated from the valley floor, the table formed what almost appeared to be a bed of stone, a pyre. Beside it a stone pedestal, an empty resevoir in the shape of a bowl. Deep etchings in the stone became visible as he neared, the ground almost seeming to shake with each step. *This is... * His thoughts became clouded, harder and harder for the man to think, to process. Instead he moved as if by instinct. Stopping just before the bowl his eyes caught a glimmer of light reflecting from beneath a stray clump of moss. Like a moth to light he was drawn, hands hurriedly peeling away a thin layer of dirt and plant to reveal the source of the shimmer.

As the plants were pulled away, the hilt of a dagger was brought to light. The gilded hilt gave way to a tri-edged blade, terminating in a point. Balthor's eyes widened, a twitch of his lips the only indication of pain as he tested it's point. A speck of blood pooled. The sight of it brought a wide grin to his face. Unwavering, unhesitatingly he rose to his feet and held his hands over the surface of the stone basin. With a smooth and rapid motion he let the blade bite into his left palm, dagger held in his right. He didn't cry out in pain nor flinch as the ichor of life dripped from his now closed fist and into the small bowl. Squeezing, the blood spread between his fingers as more continued to fill the basin. To fill the basin would have killed him, though that was not his intent, nor was it required. As if compelled by the murky presence lingering in the valley Balthor reached down and gripped the edge of his tunic, tearing free a strip of the coarse fabric. Balthor's wounded hand did not hold his attention long, an overwhelming wave of ethereal power washing over him as he finished tying the strip of fabric across his palm.

Whispers in an unknown language filled his ears as his vision faded. His hands reached out towards the table, catching himself to keep from falling over. The voice echoed, drowning out all other whispers - it bored into his very soul.

 

[Progflaw99]

He couldn't recall how long he'd been there, stood there, knelt there in the overwhelming presence. His mind had been consumed by something, a thought, an image, a feeling. It was a feeling of conviction. This would be where they would begin their rise, this was the place of rebirth, a place of great power. Through images and flashes of emotion Balthor had begun to understand what it was that he had been drawn to.

Long ago, this place had been a graveyard - the entire valley little more than a deposit for the dead. Years upon years had passed in silence, in quiet reservation, until one day something changed. What it was that caused the presence to become as powerful as it was, Balthor had not been told. What he had been told is that it hungered. Thirsted. Wanted.

*What is it that I want?*​

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The raspy echo sounded in his ears.

"Blood."​

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Balthor's barely audible reply was lost in the whistle of the wind as he said it, the voice again asked the question.

"Blood." he said louder this time.​

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Again the voice inquired of him. Again he responded, this time raising his voice to fill the valley as he flicked the gilded dagger across his left wrist and held it over the small repository.

"Blood!"​