Scar-Faced Hag
The mountains of Lorta
In the distant past - though, perhaps not too distant - the warlike Lortan Fanatics had carved a bloody path though neighboring sectors. In the end, their genocidal fury had led to their eventual purge.
Centuries later, whispers of a possible resurgence had reached Alliance ears. The information was sparse; it could've been little more than cantina talk, or a misheard story.
But it warranted investigation.
The mountains of Lorta were dotted with crumbling structures, places of worship that religious extremists retreated to during their extermination. Many of the temples had disintegrated underneath the weight of time, leaving behind little more than chunks of stone. If there had been any carvings or decorations of note, they'd been weathered down to nothing.
One sanctuary, partially built underground, had largely withstood the ravages of time. It was by no means pristine, and some decaying sections had collapsed entirely, but it was one of the few buildings that housed any remains of the Fanatics culture and beliefs.
At the surface of the decrepit ruins, Cora pressed a hand against a thick green vine that had woven its way around a broken pillar. Life surged into the verdant plant, urging it to elongate and grow down the length of a hole that lead deeper into the underbelly of the temple. Winding her leg around the vine, Cora shimmied her way into the darkness.
A glow rod lit her way through the puzzling corridors. It was far cooler underground, but the unkempt stone walls still reeked of mildew. Her nose wrinkled, reminded of the brief time she'd spent in the dungeons beneath the royal palace of Ukatis.
The passage spilled out into a spacious chamber with a remarkably high ceiling. Various implements, perhaps once used for ritualistic purposes, lay scattered about the floor. What caught her eye, though, were the murals painted along the walls.
Ancient brushstrokes depicted the Reslian Purge in all of its brutal glory. Images of Lortan ships descend unto Tunroth villages, razing homes and murdering civilians. One particularly grisly scene illustrated a Tunroth hunter being stabbed, shot, and having his skull caved in by a club at the same time. Cora winced, but held the glowrod closer as her bare fingertips skimmed over the composition.
The Lortan Fanatics of old may have been long gone, but the air here held a distant charge of zealous energy.
She couldn't help but wonder what had gone on in this room. Her nose curled at the probable answer.
“Disgusting.”
Sinestra
In the distant past - though, perhaps not too distant - the warlike Lortan Fanatics had carved a bloody path though neighboring sectors. In the end, their genocidal fury had led to their eventual purge.
Centuries later, whispers of a possible resurgence had reached Alliance ears. The information was sparse; it could've been little more than cantina talk, or a misheard story.
But it warranted investigation.
The mountains of Lorta were dotted with crumbling structures, places of worship that religious extremists retreated to during their extermination. Many of the temples had disintegrated underneath the weight of time, leaving behind little more than chunks of stone. If there had been any carvings or decorations of note, they'd been weathered down to nothing.
One sanctuary, partially built underground, had largely withstood the ravages of time. It was by no means pristine, and some decaying sections had collapsed entirely, but it was one of the few buildings that housed any remains of the Fanatics culture and beliefs.
At the surface of the decrepit ruins, Cora pressed a hand against a thick green vine that had woven its way around a broken pillar. Life surged into the verdant plant, urging it to elongate and grow down the length of a hole that lead deeper into the underbelly of the temple. Winding her leg around the vine, Cora shimmied her way into the darkness.
A glow rod lit her way through the puzzling corridors. It was far cooler underground, but the unkempt stone walls still reeked of mildew. Her nose wrinkled, reminded of the brief time she'd spent in the dungeons beneath the royal palace of Ukatis.
The passage spilled out into a spacious chamber with a remarkably high ceiling. Various implements, perhaps once used for ritualistic purposes, lay scattered about the floor. What caught her eye, though, were the murals painted along the walls.
Ancient brushstrokes depicted the Reslian Purge in all of its brutal glory. Images of Lortan ships descend unto Tunroth villages, razing homes and murdering civilians. One particularly grisly scene illustrated a Tunroth hunter being stabbed, shot, and having his skull caved in by a club at the same time. Cora winced, but held the glowrod closer as her bare fingertips skimmed over the composition.
The Lortan Fanatics of old may have been long gone, but the air here held a distant charge of zealous energy.
She couldn't help but wonder what had gone on in this room. Her nose curled at the probable answer.
“Disgusting.”
Sinestra
