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Telperiën Ar-Pharazon

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About Telperiën Ar-Pharazon

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    Padawan
  • Birthday 12/26/1991

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  1. Amethyst eyes narrowed in anticipation The Apprentice listened to her master’s words. The pale pink eyes flickered from his dark ominous form to that of the girl that knelt beside her. She was underwhelming and wholly untested. With a firm nod, she drew her knife from its slim leather sheath and flicked it across the other girl’s neck, letting the blood mist across her fingers. It did not cut vital arteries but slashed through throat and vocal cords with ease. She put a pale hand on the girls head and shoved her to the ground. Speaking without a voice. Your first lesson is this young Melodie. Do not die. Fix yourself up and learn to speak without words. If you have questions you will ask them of me telepathically or not at all. She enunciated these words with a savage kick, before tossing a strip of medical gauze and the cauterizer from the kit on her belt which landed in the pooling blood. Follow us then. Or don’t. “Thank you My Lord.” She spoke for the first time, acknowledging the promotion before striding after the Spider. She had what she needed, her wits, her bow, and her sabre.
  2. The great doors opened before Telperien, the hinges whining against the strain of the heavy doors as the wto women walked through the high arch of the dark doorway. Telperien’s eyes were wide and amethyst as she brought the woman before her King, and when she felt his presence before her she fell to one knee, dragging the girl down beside her. Her voice was thick with accent and gravel like. The last vestige of the disease that had claimed so many of her previous bodies. “My lord, all Dathomir bows before you. My people, once lost, now have begun their journey into your shadow.” She upturned her face and opened her eyes. “I bring you one I would wish as my apprentice should you allow it.” She turned her head to Eve. “Speak child.”
  3. “He is master of this universe and his ships carry his visage to the ends of the Galactic Rim.” With speed that came from coild muscles and the force, Telperien grabbed the wrist of the Melodie and brought the Bodkin down until its razor sharp tip caressed the soft white skin of the girl’s palm. Then it lowered a centimeter to bite in with a horrid mix of pain and blood. A slash, then the daughter of Ar-Pharazon did the same to her own palm and grasped the girls hand in hers. Their blood mixing as it bubbled between their fingers. “Then I will make you such a weapon, and you will become a scourge on this galaxy.” The Ship settled down on its landing struts and she smiled at the girl as she pulled her towards the boarding ramp. “But first you must meet my Master. The Spider in all his glory. “ And she pulled hte girl down the ramp towards the palace of the Dark Lord.
  4. "Dathomir as it was is a shambles of a once great community, its denizens subjugated and starving, and now with the aide of the Sith and the rule of a blessed patriarch such as the Spider we will see them return to greatness." The Sith shuttle hurtled through hyperspace, Tel having quite consciously kidnapped the clueless Melodie and had decided to whisk her off into service of the Dark lord. A gift much as it was, alongside the news of the subjugation of the Nightsisters. Telperien stood in front of the Melodie, her hands clasping hard the bow of yew that she held, destrung so that the bow did not follow the cord and thus become the weaker for it. A precurved bow being the weaker bow beside a bow as straight as its first forming. And Telperien was proud of that black yew bow and so carried it with her wherever she went. A powerful weapon besides being a talisman of sorts to focus through. She looked at the young girl, her smile carrying no joy. "We go to see the ruler of this galaxy, the Spider, the King Beyond the stars. You have potential within you, and I will exploit that to form you into a weapon as powerful as I am. But you must still choose." She withdrew a bodkin with its wicked point ground to a molecular edge and pointed it to the younger girl, the tip a mere inch from her nose. "You can choose the life of a weapon, or die. That is your choice, and you have no other. Take the arrow or be taken by it. Embrace your destiny and or I will not let such a powerful tool find its way into the hands of the Jedi." And as that horrible choice was presented, the sith shuttle arrived over Onderon.
  5. Telperiën placed her bare foot against the withered skull of Talketa, the leader of the coven. With a quick pull of her hand and a push of her foot, the long wicked arrow withdrew itself from the left eyesocket of the fallen nightsister. The grinding slurp of the arrow against eyesocket and brain echoed in the small antichamber and the Herald of the King Beyond the Stars finished her work. The coven had been defeated, their leader felled, and with that done the Sith would begin their force civilization of these brutes. _______________________________ Some time later, the Apprentice walked on bare feet through the forest, her Amethyst eyes catching sight of Eve. Her voice was like gravel as she hailed the girl. With a breath she could smell the potential on the girl. So she broke into a run and skidded to a halt next to the Melodie. “Where art thou going stranger? I have not seen one such as you around Dathomir before.” She pointed to where her ship was coming in to hover some hundred yards ahead of them in a clearing among the bracken and fallen rocks. “If you wish to leave this place, you need only follow.” And with that the daughter of Ar-Pharazon broke again into a run, disappearing up the ramp. @Chaotic Tranquility Feel free to Join me aboard my ship.
  6. As the self contained storm within the cave became a crackling inferno of whipping winds and static electricity that caused every hair to stand on end on Telperiën’s bare forearms. The storm beat at her, buffeting her in its wind as the crowd behind her cried out in terror. It was that terror that Telperiën held onto like a vice. The terror, the anger, all of it held her firm against the storm. Step by step the young daughter of the Golden God strode forward, her bare feet finding purchase on the rough surface of the cave’s ground. All the while the bow sang, its arrows carried in the arms of the force. Slithering tendrils of her presence arced out in a multifaceted approach, carrying the arrows true to their targets. The slashing pain of the bow string cutting deep into the scab in her arm and slinging blood in a fine mist to cover the fletching of each arrow. She could have angled her arm better so that the bite of the hemp rope was not so painful, but the reason was twofold. The pain sharpened her mind and her blood on the arrows allowed her to concentrate fully upon them and bend them with her mind. Covering them with the force and blood to pierce the breast of the leader of the council. As Telperiën spun her counterspell. På Helvegen Lightning arced towards Telperiën and she held up a long fingered hand which was covered in the scars and calluses of a bowman. It would take everything within her to resist the coven.
  7. Eyes in their hundreds stared at the lamellated armour that stretched across Telperiën’s back like a second skin. The expensive Sith armour was held together and bonded to the skintight jumpsuit that she wore, the lamellated scales duly reflecting the firelight in hues of green and dark crimson as the muscles on her back arched as her strong mailled arms brought the bow into its curve. The kyrat bone tip of the yew shaft shoveled into the ground as she held it in place against her boot, one hand brought the hemp cord from the grounded edge to the other end of the bow as she bent it into its shape. The apprentice of the Spider was strong and the bow itself was nearly two meters in length, which while bent into its bow configuration still came to rest an inch above her temple. She finally spoke when the bow was placed before her and the bag of arrows opened and tied to her waist. “Then I will challenge you seven. The Herald of the King Beyond the Stars against the leaders of the Coven of Nightsisters.” Her yellow eyes flashed as she grinned as they smirked back at her. There was so much that she had learned in the years she had been gone from this backwater world. Learned at the hands of the King which they so easily dismissed. A backwards culture for a backwater world. They would need updating, and the Sith would not let their children, no matter how backwards, remain in destitution and obscurity. This was the Age of the Sith. And they would not be left to cower in caves while their brethren rose to the noontide of their power. For she was the Herald of the King, his apprentice, and she would bring these people to heel, and she figured it would only take seven lives. The crowd grew silent at her back as the seven stood, beginning their attack. She held up he hand as she grabbed a bodkin with its wicked point. “And you will be silent before his glory.” Their chanting had begun and the room begin to fill with static electricity as they called down their magiks into a storm. “Korrastan-” And the bow sang, its arrow carried in the arms of the force.
  8. The Forging of the Nightsisters of Myrkengodi Pt 1. The Council The Apprentice stood still before the seven women, all older, all wearing a mix of hide and dark capes. Their white hair dirty, filled with twigs, and unbrushed, giving the elders of the combined tribes a haggard appearance. Talketa their leader, whom Telperiën had known a decade prior was laughing at Telperiën’s own appearance. Their voices mocked her beauty, the lack of blemishes that harried their ideas of the darkside. But Telperiën had seen much more horror in the depths of Korriban and on Onderon that she could not find it in herself to fear these old women. Talketa was jabbering on in the language of the High Dathomiri to her fellow coven leaders. Though the seven were arrayed before her beyond the large bonfire that cast cruel shadows in the cave, their figures were diminished by the light. Telperiën was not impressed by the haggard witches, or the flock of young children and old ladies at her back that were all that was left of her people from the black sun’s wroth. The children, some odd two hundred of them aged from the very young to the middle teens could be salvaged from this wreck of a society, the rest would have to be judged for their worth. Those before her, in their shamanistic robes, wearing totems, and carrying staffs that were wrapped in poisonous thorns would need to be taught humility. The old witch leaned forward towards the fire and spoke at last to Telperiën, her voice cracked and withered, and her grey white hair tangled in the crown of the witches, a woven crown of thorns. “Tell me child of the Nightsong, why should we not just kill you? Your blood is tainted child, you come with the marks of the Sith upon your skin, and we will not bow to the king beyond the stars.” Telperiën stayed silent, her eyes flexing between their natural purple and an unnatural yellow hue. The silence provoked her to anger as Telperiën unslung the bow from her back. Two guards started forward but were waved back from her by the coven council. Gilgramoth spoke next, the youngest of the council, some sixty years old and her face covered by the purple blotches of long force use. “We do not fear the bow, nor do we fear you Ar-Pharazon.” Her smile was filled with just righteousness, and she spat out Telperiën’s surname with disgust. Telperiën only grinned.
  9. The gods struggled in their heavens as the call of Níðhöggr disintegrated the roots of the child of the Golden God. Poison and magik stirred in the cauldron of the spirits as the Apprentice breathed, the force of the dark god before her entered through her breath, soaking into her lungs, past them, into her body itself. A battle between Gods and the poison of witches contended for the possession of the Daughter of the Golden one. A lonely child cried in the arms of her mother as she watched her brothers and father disintegrate before her eyes in a flash of magik and turbolaser fire. That fear and terror turned slowly to anger and resolve, as the girl shed the flesh of those she had taken, the revenge in her eyes never faltered and as Níðhöggr in his shadowed glory stood behind her, the resolution turned to stone. In the clearing beside her master the Apprentice cried out a word of command. The expulsion of air carrying the word brought with it a vomit of black bile, and as it dripped into the grass at her feet, the fertile land turned grey and ruinous. Another word of power, shouted through corrupted lungs, another stream of black destruction and Telperiën Ar-Pharazon tore at the grass around her with fingers flecked with black blood. Her shouts turned to chants that started slow and soft and built to a bloody crescendo. And with a shout of triumph in the force, the daughter of the golden god expelled the curse. Then she began to laugh as her face began to change, the clearing in the forest slowly igniting around her into blue flames as the sound of cackling laughter echoed through the silent forest. And on the planet Dathomir, lightyears away, a witch at the head of a council of seven began to scream. When Telperiën Ar-Pharazon emerged from the forest she was not the same apprentice that had gone in. She was young and lithe, with strong muscles, and her father’s chiseled cheekbones. Her brow was tall and stern, her red hair pulled back into braids and on her queenly brow was a crown of tangled vines, with flowers of red. Her clothes black as night, covering her in shadowed armour. She was no longer stolen flesh, she was born again in the image taken away from her, and she was now off to her homeworld, to tame and mould it, to bring her people under the sway of the spider. A herald of beauty, a herald of darkness.
  10. (Co-written by Exodus & Tel. P2) The young Apprentice followed her master until he paused in the shadowed glen filling its spacious void with the darkness that emanated from him in billowing clouds. In her hand she carried a ash shafted arrow, its fletching red as blood and its point long and razor sharp, four inches of heavy durasteel designed to punch through armor weave or light armour with the strength of both the bent Yew longbow and the force that Telperien had bound together in each attack like a two headed kyrat. Telperien now held the Bodkin arrow by its head, her finger lightly running along the sharp tri point of durasteel, the calluses on her fingers stopping the durasteel from biting into her flesh. The primal lands of Onderon closed around them as the pair settled the forested glen, made all too oppressive by the presence of the Spider in so close a proximity. The thickness of the air was suffocating as the old forest’s boughs covered any sight of the sky or feeble dxun orbiting overhead. And when the Spider sat, so did his apprentice. Though not in levitation, for she did not know that power. Sensing however, that she was due to speak, the last heir of the Ar-Pharazon line spoke, her voice piercing the musty silence of the forest with its harsh tones. As he had hinted at his childhood, so should she. “This forest reminds me of home Lord, Dathomir, where we scratched our existence from the earth and wallowed in huts of mud, sod, and wattle. Though the clan was named Nightsong, we did little singing save to our gods who demanded sacrifice and blood. We were strong in the force, which was their gift in exchange for blood. And still the fates, sitting below the tree of life with their needles of bone, spun my yarn to sit here in the presence of a ‘God’ himself.” Her voice seemed almost wistful, “The illusion of gods is false I see now, for even you Lord, came from the blood and mire of birth, from a woman’s womb to a place of high praise among the warlords that rule this galaxy.” She planted the arrow in the ground beside her. “I have learned much in your presence, and much of the superstition that came with me out of Dathomir has been stripped away. Though I wish to learn all that you can teach me, to face those fears I have, and to grow stronger. Stronger than any of my sisters, or my Father, whose legacy is all but extinguished some mere ten years since he died.” The world around him eclipsed into a blackness as he closed his eyes in meditation, listening to a mouthful of words draw on with purpose from the wild Dathomiri. She spoke of many things, of Gods and her people, of culture and family and of a womb. The indirect mention his mother caressed the strings of an old heart, stuttering with the imagery of a Human woman with beauty beyond comprehension. The visuals of her that brushed the shores of his memory banks were of wide-eyed smiles, enchanting laughter and an unbreakable innocence that was impervious to fear. Scouring the galaxy to recapture what was lost, was a distraction of the past, but the memories could always fuel a tempest of emotion inside of the Dark Lord. “.. Jedi would lead their people to believe that all of what you speak, must be forgotten and erased from the mind. These attachments, and these memories are moments in time that serve only to distract them from their self-righteous decree. They are weak and lacking, desensitized to the worlds and people they claim to serve. But we—” The bold and serpentine voice of the King darkened noticeably, and the oppressive undercurrent of his presence became heavier to breathe in, fouler for the lungs. “—are free.” He lifted the lids of his eyes to reveal bittersweet magma, passionate fire dancing in the core of them both. The rest of his body held a meditative full lotus poise, unshakably still. “They meditate to search for a peace that will never come, where we do so to sharpen the winds of the war that resides in us all.” He spoke slowly, and at times, it would feel as if the words announced themselves inside of her mind before they could touch her ears. It was undeniable now, there was a shifting aura all around the pair, evolving as the seconds drew past. “What you seek is the vehemence of wild emotion. You must conquer yours, and claim a mastery that few ever achieve in their lifetime. Your history, your pain and even your fears— they are stirred violently by grief and love and the unknown. Focus, concentrate these elements inside of your mind and weaponize them. Your emotions are invisible, intangible and invincible, they are your blades. The power that they can grant you far exceeds your cursed constraints, use it to smother your afflictions.” The apprentice nodded gravely, feeling for all the world that she was outclassed intellectually and spiritually in every form by her master. It was a humbling thing to learn. Her voice was harsh as she spoke, as if there was something bitter that she tasted and was trying to retch it out. “But how do I even start to control this anger, these feeling that fly around my head like unwanted mynocks” Her idle hands found a patch of loose bark and began to pick furiously away at it as her amethyst eyes fluttered closed. Her breathing slowed as she forced herself to concentrate, not to violently lash out with the force through some iodem, but to still it within herself. She knew she mumbled as she did so. Her soft mutterings of dathomiri chants getting lost in the dense foliage around them. It was the curse of her people, to only be able to concentrate through such devices but soon, she was able to calm the seas of her mind long enough to just look above the waves of anger and emotion that she had kept in check for so long. Love. Love for a father that she had never met, love for a mother's kind moments, love for a soldier who had loved her mother. But an emotion that had never been fufilled. She had never loved a mate, or even loved anyone in that manner. Pride. The most caustic of the lot, which supported her beliefs with falsehood and left her roots shallow and without nutrition. Loneliness at the lack of love. Lack of friends. That pained her, even at the site of it, the space between her eyebrows furrowed and her breathing quickened. There was so much loneliness, buried in her which fed the fires of resentment. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself but upon looking at herself, she had never had a single friend except in passing. No one wanted to spend time with her, even her own master was likely just going through the motions. It wasn’t like he wanted to train her, to build a friendship it was about power, it was about crafting her into a weapon. She was so alone and it ate at her. Anger. Anger at everyone she had loved for leaving a young girl to be cared for by witches. Anger at a father for leaving her a legacy she could never fulfill. Anger at everything and everyone. Fear. For herself, for the legacy she was to carry upon her thin shoulders, for the fact that she knew she would die without ever being loved and without ever accomplishing everything she had set out to do. It was all there in her mind. Roiling to explode from heartbeat from heartbeat. Eating away at her like a disease. Perhaps it was the disease. “...You turn it into power.” Exodus spoke the truth of it, the only way the Sith could succeed underneath the pressures of the cards dealt to the aspiring. “Allow yourself to feel the anger. Do not fear the feeling, for anger is evolutionary. It prepares you whole, against any threat that may confront you. Harness it, and watch as your fear turns into fire. Your failure is that you see these feelings as unwanted. You must find a place for each of them, feed them and embrace them wholeheartedly. Before long, you will understand. They are all pieces of a puzzle too grand for you to see now, too complex for the eyes of an amateur. Concentrate, focus on these emotions and realize that their sources are external at best. You will stumble on your own strength soon enough, far greater than anything your lineage has seen before. Quiet your mind and wash yourself in the suffering of you.”
  11. Then the thrashing stopped. Light returned to the room and the girl on the ground surrounded by a mess of black blood took her first breath. The air burned on lungs that begged for oxygen and breath turned to a gasp. The Apprentice sucked air greedily as she slowly brought tired and sore hands up to touch her own face. She rubbed at amethyst eyes and finally sat up, grimacing at the wet stickiness below her, smeared on the tiles in a black mess. The remnants of her past body disintegrated to viscous paste by the power of the force. Tired limbs propelled Telperiën to her feet where she stood unsteady and looking into the polished mirror on the wall. Her nakedness did not surprise her, for the fight between her own form and Natal had been brutal. She ran hands over her muscles and body, familiarizing herself with the form and she admired how the body had begun to shift itself to her will. Already stores of fat and muscle were beginning to shift in rapid succession as her bodies cells worked overtime, fueled by the force and the darkness that dripped like blood from her form. Soon, she would look very much like her old self, and her muscles burned with the pain of it. She stooped and collected the armour and leather that her old form had previously worn, it was naturally covered in dead person slime, so she carried it, and the rest of her equipment to Natal’s shower unit and began to wash herself and the armour at the same time. When she was finally clean, she dried the armour and donned it. Frowning at the fit and pulled a long cloak from Natal’s closet. She slung the bow in its leather cover and bag of arrows over her shoulder and stalked from the disgusting room. It was then that she allowed her presence to seep forth, searching for the web of the Spider. She found a thread of its silk and followed, until her bare feet were no longer treading on tile, but thick fallen leaves of the forests surrounding Iziz. It was then that she found her master and fell into the shadows in his trail. She would wait for his orders, but for now she walked behind him.
  12. Muscles bunched and twitched as Telperiën writhed on the floor of Natal Kirimor’s apartment. Sweat mixed with the decaying flesh of the discarded corpse as the very living Natal gave up her last breaths as screams that echoed throughout the hallways of dark Magrin. Pain from the final fight of the host flooded Telperiën’s senses, which she bled into the force, using its energy to bring every bit of the girl to her heel. With a violence rare to the force, she tore the spirit and being from its body, and thrust herself in its stead. It was not a precise thing, possession, and it required an immense amount of will and anger to even begin the process. Bodies were easy to animate with the force, even to keep alive for some time, but it was the mind that was the hardest to take. It required exploitation, desire, and a hard heart. Mama? Telperiën now stood on a beach covered in towels, next to which the white capped waves slid across the sand, melting a halfmade sandcastle into lumps of sodden sand. In the distance blurry children danced silently beside the waves, their parents fuzzier blops sitting in chairs below umbrellas. Sound was distant and muffled and the waves that supped at Telperiën’s ankles were warm. Amethyst eyes narrowed into slits as they looked for prey. For Natal had fled to memories to keep her sanity, and the hunt had begun. Memories that served as touchstones for sanity had to be severed. Mama? There is a scary lady here and sh- The words died into a wimper as a young girl stared up into the purple eyes, for hiding behind walls of sand would not save her, and as the moat of Natal’s castle filled with red frothing blood, the scene changed again. A landspeeder, a young love, a kiss, more blood. New scene. A father coming home, the excitement of daddy bringing home groceries, jumping on a couch to get his attention. More blood. Scene change. Mama reading a datapad and not looking as Natal snuck a cookie from a plastcine jar, more blood. Change. Daddy leaving for another deployment the smell of his uniform and the pipe that he smoked, tears, blood. Change. Memories died.
  13. As her master, the dweller in shadows, the Spider discussed his business with the darkmetal prince, Telperiën’s eyes drifted. Their amethyst pupils stained with the bloodshot of her disease. The disease that made they beautiful face she inhabited become gaunt with wasting. Her master was right of course, the distraction this disease brought with it was most inconvenient and no one hated the weakness of inconvenience more that the daughter of Ar-Pharazon. So this body would need to be disposed of, and another vessel found. And so as the master conducted his business, the apprentice lurched into the darkness of the hunt. She clicked her heels together in salute and strode from the halls of the darkmetal prince, the force emanating from her in tendrils that slithered the halls of decrepit Magrin, lusting for flesh to be devoured by the force and stolen, for a time, until it would return to the dust of the stars. That quest found her outside of the room of Natal Kirimor, a smithy apprentice who had worked a long shift the night before and who was currently meditating in the cramped quarters that were provided those apprentices that showed promise. Her presence carried purity, which was why it had attracted the attention of the Daughter of Ar-Pharazon. A purity of mind and thought that would not last in the Order of the Sith. It had to be plucked for the taking, snatched from the galaxy, by those with power. The door slid open on its well oiled tracks, and the eyes, dark green in colour which reflected the light of the triangular holocron that levitating before her, opened in alarm. The alarm changed to confusion, then to resignation as she saw that it was just another apprentice. Likely there to bother her for some inane reason. Then her eyes saw the spider stamped in silver on the leather chest piece that Telperiën wore. Shock filled those pretty green eyes and stayed there until they closed for the last time. When they opened again the green had become purple.
  14. The night air was brisk as it bled past the dragon’s wings and buffeted the three passengers on its back. Though Onderon was a humid planet, the night air was beginning to whip a brutal winter across the treetops of the endless forests that stretched out for kilometers around Iziz. Telperiën took a deep breath of that frigid air as they took off and pain erupted in her sinuses, the thick taste of blood filled the back of her throat as she struggled to breath against the harsh cold wind. A flash of embarrassment flushed her cream coloured skin for a moment before she suppressed it. It was just yet another symptom of a body’s decay, the mucus layer in her sinuses was breaking down to spill blackened blood in drips down her throat. The ruptured blood cells tasted brackish in her throat but she did not deign to show the weakness of a cough in the presence of her master. So she simply swallowed the brackish blood and looked back at her hands in disgust. Another symptom of the curse that had been placed on her by her sisters back on Dathomir. A killing curse that separated her forever from the joy of a single life. She was curse to become a devourer, a consumer of stolen flesh. Every time she touched the force that death crept back into her life. And so she would continue to consume and burn through bodies until she was either eradicated by some other curse or simply stopped using the force all together. And she would not be damned into the existence of a commonplace woman for she was the daughter of Kings. And so when they would reach Iziz, a young pretty thing would go missing out of a lover’s arms, or out of a house deemed safe by its father. And apprentice would return to master in the flesh of another. That was the curse of the remaining Ar-Pharazon. And Telperiën let the sorrow of never bearing her own daughters roil past her and instead plucked a black feathered arrow from the bag on her hip. She glanced over the shaft as they flew, and upon seeing the bend in the ashen shaft she snapped the head off the arrow and dropped in into the leather bag and released the shaf to fall hundreds of meters into the misted treetops. She inspected every arrow as they flew, keeping her attention on the task instead of eavesdropping on her master's flirtation with the Jedi master. Then they were over the eastern wall and the drexl was settling before the mined of Magrin. Telperiën wet her lips with a black stained tongue and was the first to slide from the back of the monster. She was the Apprentice of the Spider and she had a duty to do, She extended her hand to the Jedi Master and helped her descend the large beast. For now that there was no fight within the lady, she would be a guest of the spider. It was then that the daughter of Ar-Pharazon spoke to the hastily assembled bodyguard which had formed on the hill and received news that brought a glint to her eye. “My lord!” She called when he was on the ground beside his beautiful captive. Her voice was low and gravel like. “I have news from my father Ca’Aran the Blood Prince at Kuat. The Remnant has been destroyed there nearly to a man, and their empress is bound in iron awaiting your judgement.” She inclined her head in servitude to the Spider as her mouth again filled with brackish blood which she swallowed again. It was time to hunt again.
  15. Telperiën smiled warmly at her master as he beckoned the two females to light upon the dragonlike creature. It was a passing thought, perhaps from her own past, or the past of the woman she now inhabited but dragon riding had always been a dream. A dream of a young girl on Kesh, looking at papier-mâché kites as the wheeled through the amber coloured sunset, imagining herself flying, gliding on those gusts of wind. Away from cities made of glass, and masters harsh as obsidian. The mâché kile with its wide sails bent in the shape of carrion wings, only tied to the earth by a thin cord of waxed twine. The mâché itself made from kesslrig root, stripped and laid bare to the sun, then torn again and boiled, before being pressed into its form on a lightweight skeleton of wood. The smell of those boiling vats of papier was earthy, and to take a lungful of it was to dive into a culture that had lasted a thousand generations. A culture not her own. A past belonging to the stolen flesh of a woman she had never known. This sudden dive into memory gave the Daughter of Ar-Pharazon pause, and she hesitated a moment before she set herself to the task of boarding the beast. With practise that stretched back to Dathomir, not Kesh, she placed the bow of yew against the a rock that jutted from the wet earth. The bone covered tip pressing against the stone, and with a heaving of her arms the Dathomiri bent the bow until she could unstring it. It would not do for the bow to follow its cord and be bent from long hours being strung. And so the girl wound the cord, drying it against her tunic before placing it back into the leather pouch at her hip. The bow she placed into its six foot long leather sheath that she slung over her back with a leather thong. Next came the scattered arrows, which with some effort from the force she gathered into a durasteel rain which she collected and placed into another leather bag the was slung over her other shoulder. There was no quiver, she was not some vain woman who used the bow because she had seen it in holos, she was an archer. But the memories still beckoned at her as she hauled herself up behind her master where she gripped its scaly back with her knees. She stooped forward to look at her cuticles and saw at their base the hint of corruption. A small black line that traced the beginning of her nail, and she knew it would likely soon appear as ulcerations in her mouth next. The memories then were the last attempts of a dying body to return itself to the normal. But it would not, for she was living it now. And she had things to do.
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