- Joined
- Jan 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,253
- Reaction score
- 93
Alcyone.
.
The pilgrim was born a fledgling, yolk ripe from a mother's womb. She suckled on teat and milk sweet with the jungle's kiss, indulged in all the decadence of Dathomiran fever—her eyes were pale, rimmed with blood that coalesced in putrid gluts. Breath drew agony through her nascent frame. Lithe shoulders heaved under the weight of milky flesh cracked like old leather, crumbling with each sob. Less than a child, awareness broke her fragile heart much the same as illness shattered her growth. The fever passed within a week; the cough persisted through her adolescence; the creeping shroud of relapse yet haunts her.
Alcyone, wings clipped from birth, borne on crippled winds, the child grew thus. Defiant in the face of misfortune.
Beneath the canopy, in a city subsumed by the Force, the Witches of Dathomir reigned. Dainty cultures, attuned to the world through durasteel jungles that deformed trees into masts for their sea of sails; glistering, chrome laden sails, etched into primordial ground. The subdued complexes embedded themselves in nature. Echoed the dichotomy faced by the Witches' own struggle in a post-industrialized galaxy.
They knew much of culture. Infrequent visitors elucidated them on galactic affairs, sought trade between knowledge and technology. The Witches were transmogrified by progress. Brought from covens and caves to hovels and clays. The advent of ultrachrome and innovation stoked the cinders of a sheltered society adrift in stagnation.
In this mire of tradition and technocracy, Alcyone warped. Raised alongside several sisters, a faceless many who breathed the same air, basked beneath the same sun. Bore the same scars. She became amorphous. A creature bereft of ego, of want. Without desire, without whim, a puppet moved by teachings, by voice.
Empty, hollow, she parroted back her instructions. Lacked the strength to contest even the most mild of scoldings; in broad strokes, all came as was due. Her transgressions proved her own fallibility. Such was her excuse. The soundless doll danced to such music as any cared to play, a shadow in the back of a cave. A projection in static holo, wrought blue and cracked. White noise that longed for the sweet ignorance that shrouded her.
Her irreverence became intolerable. For the coven, the girl's disgrace was theirs to bear. They filled her with knowledge. Scriptures, prayers, songs. Filled her with dreams. With sensation. Beat back the tides even as they beat it into her. Stray from satiation and stagnancy, hunger... and, in time, she did.
The girl learned to crave. To want. To seek. Not for the sake of teachings forced down her throat. Not for the begging of crones displacing their fantasies unto her. Not for the whims or wants or wishes of others.
She simply wanted. Desire for its own sake; lust for lust, avarice for avarice. The myriad emotions experienced in trance, felt at her fingertips every time she opened herself to the Force. For these sensations, for these elusive wants, she hungered. And to find it, the only recourse was pilgrimage.
The girl departed alone. For herself, by herself, with none other to guide her but the sinuous path of want across the galaxy.
NAME: Alcyone
AGE: 20's
SPECIES: Human
FACTION: N/A
RANK: N/A
HEIGHT: 5'7
WEIGHT: 120lbs.
HAIR COLOR: Light
EYE COLOR: Dark
STRENGTH:
██████████
DEXTERITY:
██████████
STAMINA:
██████████
INTELLIGENCE:
██████████
WISDOM:
██████████
CHARISMA:
██████████
AGE: 20's
SPECIES: Human
FACTION: N/A
RANK: N/A
HEIGHT: 5'7
WEIGHT: 120lbs.
HAIR COLOR: Light
EYE COLOR: Dark
STRENGTH:
██████████
DEXTERITY:
██████████
STAMINA:
██████████
INTELLIGENCE:
██████████
WISDOM:
██████████
CHARISMA:
██████████
The pilgrim was born a fledgling, yolk ripe from a mother's womb. She suckled on teat and milk sweet with the jungle's kiss, indulged in all the decadence of Dathomiran fever—her eyes were pale, rimmed with blood that coalesced in putrid gluts. Breath drew agony through her nascent frame. Lithe shoulders heaved under the weight of milky flesh cracked like old leather, crumbling with each sob. Less than a child, awareness broke her fragile heart much the same as illness shattered her growth. The fever passed within a week; the cough persisted through her adolescence; the creeping shroud of relapse yet haunts her.
Alcyone, wings clipped from birth, borne on crippled winds, the child grew thus. Defiant in the face of misfortune.
Beneath the canopy, in a city subsumed by the Force, the Witches of Dathomir reigned. Dainty cultures, attuned to the world through durasteel jungles that deformed trees into masts for their sea of sails; glistering, chrome laden sails, etched into primordial ground. The subdued complexes embedded themselves in nature. Echoed the dichotomy faced by the Witches' own struggle in a post-industrialized galaxy.
They knew much of culture. Infrequent visitors elucidated them on galactic affairs, sought trade between knowledge and technology. The Witches were transmogrified by progress. Brought from covens and caves to hovels and clays. The advent of ultrachrome and innovation stoked the cinders of a sheltered society adrift in stagnation.
In this mire of tradition and technocracy, Alcyone warped. Raised alongside several sisters, a faceless many who breathed the same air, basked beneath the same sun. Bore the same scars. She became amorphous. A creature bereft of ego, of want. Without desire, without whim, a puppet moved by teachings, by voice.
Empty, hollow, she parroted back her instructions. Lacked the strength to contest even the most mild of scoldings; in broad strokes, all came as was due. Her transgressions proved her own fallibility. Such was her excuse. The soundless doll danced to such music as any cared to play, a shadow in the back of a cave. A projection in static holo, wrought blue and cracked. White noise that longed for the sweet ignorance that shrouded her.
Her irreverence became intolerable. For the coven, the girl's disgrace was theirs to bear. They filled her with knowledge. Scriptures, prayers, songs. Filled her with dreams. With sensation. Beat back the tides even as they beat it into her. Stray from satiation and stagnancy, hunger... and, in time, she did.
The girl learned to crave. To want. To seek. Not for the sake of teachings forced down her throat. Not for the begging of crones displacing their fantasies unto her. Not for the whims or wants or wishes of others.
She simply wanted. Desire for its own sake; lust for lust, avarice for avarice. The myriad emotions experienced in trance, felt at her fingertips every time she opened herself to the Force. For these sensations, for these elusive wants, she hungered. And to find it, the only recourse was pilgrimage.
The girl departed alone. For herself, by herself, with none other to guide her but the sinuous path of want across the galaxy.
Last edited: