The sun had set hours ago, yet the heat radiating across the arid expanse was stifling.
Smoke wisped at his feet, as the soles of his boots burned with each step. A hellish landscape, the land scorched by the day and smoldering through the night. It was desolate. Unforgiving. And, yet, the power and majesty of the works of the spirits were on full display. From the native Chubbits to the migratory herds of droffi, the spirits revealed themselves in the miracle of life that transpired even in an environment such as this one.
There was power in creatures that endured in places such as this.
"Lora toth I'shuree senne." The words, uttered in Dathomirian, seemed to linger on the wind like a haunted prayer. Bringing a hand up, a greenish light seemed to appear in mid-air, as the boy inscribed a mystic symbol in the spirit ichor. "Yema pu taildanȃt pareva naletnit," he uttered, as the rune seemed to pulse softly. The spell was cast. The rune seemed to collapse in on itself, compressed into a will 'o wisp, which circled around the youth's form before darting away into the hills.
A low rumble rose from the ground. The familiar gave off a faint glow of its own, as the twilight seemed to be both captured and reflected by the shards that dotted the spine of the diminutive krayt dragon.
The pair continued on, trudging through the rolling hills of the midnight desert. The ethereal orb dimly lighting the way, though seemingly always just out of reach. As the boy and his dragon crested one of the dunes, the hellish glow of a lava fissure appeared, spreading a burning scar across the landscape.
It was a strange thing to stand along the edge of a lava flow. Such destruction. Such power. Within the molten rivers of Aridus, the boy could hear the roars of the Fanged God. Closing his eyes, the young Nightbrother reached up a hand, rubbing the rancor tooth that he wore around his neck, as he whispered, "Nȃkah meni Gȃyita Ameeno azza tozu het Gȃyita Ameeno."
Feared is the Fanged God and the name of the Fanged God.
He stayed like that, observing a moment of silence in which he merely focused on breathing. He was listening. Listening to the world around him. The dying gasp of the molten river's flow. The song of the searing breeze. And the skittering of insects that labored along the ashen river bank.
Kneeling down, the boy opened his amber eyes. In the darkness, he could see small forms moving through the ash. Hard, insectoid bodies with a multitude of legs crawling in the shadows.
Reaching out a hand, he winced as one crawled up into his palm. Holding the small beetle aloft, he might have sworn that he were holding a hot ember in his hand. The heat radiated by the lava beetle belied the power contained within the small creature.
With his free hand, the youth dipped into the satchel he carried in order to pull out a glass jar, into which he deposited the beetle. As he knelt there, there were now several crawling over the tops of his boots or up his legs, which made the task of plucking a few more all the easier, as he dropped each, one by one, into the container he carried.
"Tlesu," the boy remarked, returning the contained with its softly glowing beetles back into the satchel that he carried. Raising up to his full height, the horned youth looked around for a moment, before giving a whistle. The greenish head of the familiar poked itself up at the crest of a dune a moment later. Motioning for the dragon to follow, the boy said only, "M'ralu," as he turned back toward the way that they had come.
Dawn was starting to paint the horizon in hues of pink and yellow when the pair had arrived back at the wing-shaped transport. Silently, the dark figure of the young Nightbrother traveled up the loading ramp and into the vessel, as the krayt dragon bounded along after him.
"Welcome back."
Jerek Zenduu
had offered to program the droid to speak Dathomirian, but the idea of a machine speaking in the language of Dathomir was... disquieting. Likewise, he was told that a droid should have a name, but to have a name was to have an identity. To be a someone rather than a something.It was a measure of being that the Dathomirian felt uncomfortable affording to something so artificial. A droid was not the work of the Gods, it was the labor of man. To recognize its individuality seemed to equate construction with creation.
One was sacred, the other was not.
Nonetheless, the boy gave a slight bow toward the diminutive pilot droid.
"Shall I set course for Alaris?"
It was, indeed, like speaking with another person. If he had, it likely would have stood up along the back of his neck in that moment. A slight shiver of discomfort ran through him, before he recovered to answer, "Yes, but..." the youth answered, hesitating as he adopted the universal tongue that was known as Basic. Gesturing at the control panel along the left side of the cockpit, the boy said, "Help me send a transmission first."
The small droid fiddled with the buttons and knobs, none of which made much of any sense to the Nightbrother. Though, when his face and torso had been illuminated by a faint blue light, he understood that the mechanism was now recording him.
Crossing his hands at the wrists, palms facing inward, the boy dropped his gaze as he bowed deeply at the waist. Holding that pose, he spoke in Dathomirian as he uttered, "Shaol'maka, ci dyn tanelejal. Taildanȃt jidite hai chu."
With that, he straightened back up and looked over at the droid. "End the transmission."
The droid reached back a stubby arm, toggling a switch, before returning to the console in front of the pilot's seat. Flipping through different projections on a central display, the droid noted, "There's reports of ion storms moving between Cularin and Wann Tsir. We'll have to travel up the Corellian Run to Nubia, then we should have a safe path to the Kashyyyk System."
Jorah did not speak Basic as a first language, and only marginally got by with it as a second. Even still, there was much the droid had said that was incomprehensible to him. He understood what a storm was, but he did not associate space with weather.
Could space have storms? "I place myself in your care," the boy noted finally, electing to simply remove himself from the cockpit.
With that, the young Nightbrother stepped out of the cockpit. Unslinging the satchel, the boy began to unpack the spell regeants that he had collected while, around him, the ship seemed to possess a life of its own. The airlock locked itself, as the loading ramp was retracted and the vessel brought to life while the pilot droid in the cockpit prepared it to take off. There was a noticeable tremor as the ship lifted off, the boy bracing himself as he secured the sample jars while he could feel the ship in the air.
Thankfully, the voyage seemed to smooth out quickly. Though, he avoiding glancing toward the cockpit. The black void was not a pretty sight. Already, he could feel the spirit realm growing distant. It left him conscious of the sterile metal, the stale air that was recycled through filters.
This was no way to travel. And, yet, it seemed the only way to travel.
Stepping to the rear, the boy washed his hands. When he had finished, he washed his face, before finally rinsing out his mouth. It was a ritual cleansing. He needed rest. And probably a bath. But, he was behind on his obligation. That would need to be remedied first.
Stepping into the area that had been set aside for cargo, the youth seemed to pass into a different world. The ship around him seemed to disappear, as the stars of Talay's night sky shone overhead. The sounds of the swamp echoed faintly in the soft chirp of crickets, as the youth knelt down. The familiar nestled up beside him, circling around the boy before finally lying down at his side. The Nightbrother drew in a breath, letting it out slowly. Then he began whispering softly in Dathomirian before he bowed all the way to the floor.
Blessed be the Winged Goddess and the name of the Winged Goddess.
Straightening back up, the boy paused a moment. Again, Dathomirian passed from his lips in a softly whispered, sacred melody. Then he bowed to the floor a second time.
Feared is the Fanged God and the name of the Fanged God.
As he returned, upright, he crossed his hands at the wrist as he had done during the transmission. Holding that pose, he continued to whisper in Dathomirian as he finished the sacred mystery of the faith.
Honor upon you, spirits, named and unnamed, known and unknown. Though I am not worthy, I offer myself as your servant.
When he had finished, the boy scooted forward to pick up a leather-bound book from where he kept his texts. Thumbing through to where he had left off, the boy made a symbolic gesture, touching his forehead, ear, and mouth before he began to read.
A reading for the 38th day of Molach, in the season of alms, from the Epistle of Old Daka to the Sisters at Aurilia...
The krayt dragon pressed up against him, the Nightbrother was drooling onto his pillow, blissfully unaware of the passage of time as the ship traveled through space. It was designed for that, really. The holographic environment and ambient soundtrack fostering the illusion of sleeping under the stars on his homeworld. An escape from the harsh reality of hurdling through the sea of stars at velocities that defied comprehension.
Except, there was something else.
The boy's eyes fluttered open. He was confused for a moment. Something was out of place, but it was a minute before his brain seemed able to connect his waking with the sound of an alarm through the ship.
He sat up, startled, and then found himself disoriented. The room seemed to spin, as his mind felt numb. As though his brain were stuffed with cotton balls. Finally, the boy was able to push himself up to his feet.
Staggering into the cockpit, the Dathomiri collapsed into the seat next to where the pilot droid was located. "Is... pro... problem..?" The boy was finding it difficult to form his words. The phrases in Basic were there, they simply did not seem to be working for him. "Dou s'lajsika?" he asked finally, lapsing into Dathomirian.
"Atmo pump's off-line," the pit droid responded immediately. "Carbon scrubbers are showing red. Must be a malfunction in the environmental controls."
"Chu selat shar?"
"Yeah, but we need to set down before the air inside the ship becomes toxic for you," the droid answered, before leaning over to again flip through the screens on the center display. "We overshot Bogo Yagen, but we should be approaching Denon."
The boy's head rolled to the side. His mouth was agape as his body seemed to become incredibly heavy.
"I'm re-calculating to...."
The cockpit began to spin. He could hear the droid still speaking, though its words began to become distorted and fade as the boy's eyes fluttered shut.
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