The Quarren marched slowly, his gilded black robe gliding across the cobbled path as it dragged gently behind him. He was illuminated brightly by cauldrons of deep orange fire, and candles symbolically on each of his shoulders. Robed figures lined the hall, whispering their chants over a flickering flame held atop a candlestick. He spoke from the back of his throat the Prayers of his burning god over the torch flame he carried reverently.
“The great flame, the birthplace of civilization…”
With each step, the roaring crackle of the fires around him grew.
“The birthplace of the spirit…”
The chanting became more uniform, many voices becoming one.
“The birthplace of the mind…”
Their voice echoed in the chasm, their long silhouette cast their solidified darkness in contrast of the flickering yellows and oranges that illuminated the cavern
“Around the great flame we gathered, we lived, we loved, we lost…”
Slowly the echo balanced, becoming one with their resonating voice.
“Around the great flame we found our souls, longing to be awakened…”
The sound amplified as it harmonized.
“Around the great flame we created, learned, studied, and evolved.”
Before the spire, in the dried fountain, a tower of kindling held aloft the body of the Sith. The one that plagued his nightmares, his ceaseless visions of the woman that would restore order, that would humble the galaxy with their message.
“With this great flame we call for rebirth. Let us be the instrument of your enlightenment! Bring us the champion of your devouring inferno!”
He pressed the torches light to the construction of kindling. The fire took and quickly rose up the grave, engulfing the lifeless corpse.
“Let us burn our path to salvation!”
The chants rose with the fire toward a great crescendo. The blaze roared, burning its visage into the eyes of all who gazed into it. With a burst akin to a solar flare, sparks and ash rose to the ceiling, depositing a thick black soot above the spire. In that moment there was silence, the powerful gust blew cold each and every fire meticulously placed in keeping with the ritual.
From the center of the ash coated spire cracked a blinding light, widening to reveal the shadow of a woman. The black form stepped hesitantly forward into the settling ash. Her summoners knelt silently before her radiance. The Quarren turned, behind him an acolyte offered the crown that bound her to this reality on a crimson silken cloth. He took this artifact, turned back to face the woman and kneeled to her.
“My Queen,”