Ask Witness to Ancient Battles

[Nakoa Singh]

One vacation, then another, then a pair of them separately. Arla and Nakoa had earned their time of rest. Still, even in his off hours, the Shaman always had something on his mind. Always and forever. They read and researched for fun, learning, planning, and training. A small break only gave him more time for it.

There were forgotten worlds. On them were forgotten places. Almas was one, and it contained the other. Other than a spaceport town and a few other settlements, no one even really lived there except for a cult of maniacs living in the single area not covered in pale, glowing grasslands. Through a combination of material research and immaterial communion, Nakoa had found something they were looking for.

So he called Arla about it. There was an unusual tomb here that must be explored. According to what Nakoa had found, it could even lead to an otherwise inaccessible place.

The Wrean's haulcraft, Death and Gravity, had touched down somewhere in one of the planet's many rolling grasslands. By the time Arla's ship would arrive he'd be sitting atop the ship, staring intensely out over the low hills and windswept plains. The seriousness of it was slightly ruined by the cigar burning between his teeth and the fidget spinner whirling around in his fingers.

That expression would shift into an easy grin whenever Arla approached. Nakoa hopped off his ship's roof and approached. "Arla! How's your break been? Wine production's started well," he'd greet and firmly clasp her forearm.

@Phoenix

 

[Arla]

Arla didn't know much about this planet and she knew even less about what Nakoa was planning with it, but she knew that if he wanted her here, she was going to come. The two of them had been through the grinder together, and she was grateful for someone she could rely on no matter what seemed to come their way.

She smiled and took his outstretched arm in her own, gripping it tightly in greeting. My break has been excellent. Very relaxing, but I'm ready to get back to business, she said. She didn't regret taking a vacation and a part of her still looked forward to the next one, but there was no question she was eager to get back to work. Restlessness had set in.

The ranch has hired some people and the first set of fathier were bid on recently, she said. They both traveled often, so ironically despite living next to one another, they often spent little time at their respective homes.

She looked around the grassy plain they stood on and it looked fine, but she sensed an insidious darkness below the metaphorical surface.

This place is unpleasant. What brings us here? she asked, direct as ever. She knew there was a reason, and she guessed it had to be a Sith or other dark side sect that had made its home here.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa chuckled, each graveled breath like a footprint on a stony beach. "Good to hear. I'll stop by when the first wine's ready, ah?" He turned to look out over the plains. His face formed a sibylline smirk. "Isn't it? What brings us is a very old story." True to being a shaman, Nakoa could summon up a little theatricality from time to time. A hand waved toward the rolling grasslands as he began a little story time.

"Long ago, it is said, two men existed in the time of Sith Warlords. They claimed no great lands or kingdoms of their own and accepted no masters. They were rivals as apprentices and enemies as Sith." Nakoa's hands twisted. Long grass broke from the soil and wove together to form figures, illustrating the story as they spoke. "Few remember them except for stories of unattributed accomplishments. No kingdoms, like I said. Their true names are lost."

The left wicker doll suffused with magic, becoming a semi-realistic figure of a man in scaled armor and a distinctively horned helm. In his hands was a spear he thrust into the heart of an illusory dragon that spit gouts of flame. "He was the Dragon Knight, master of the true flame. Challengers fell to his spear, forged from a dragon's bones and heart."

The right doll transformed the same, forming a being in flowing but practical robes, expression hooded in a cowl save for eyes that glowed like blown coals. Each finger and thumb shone with a brilliant magic ring. "He was the Witch-King, a master arcanist and spirit-binder. Others tried to steal his knowledge in life only to become part of it in death." Nakoa lowered his hands, the dolls falling to the ground as simple grass once more. Amber-gold eyes turned to Arla, aglow with the same sort of energy as when he spoke of philosophy or methods of magic. But there was also a sense of unusual seriousness there.

"I think the latter was an ancestor." They'd told Arla before that a Shaman of the Wheel could more easily commune with past lives and family ancestors than usual. "And I believe this place was where these two fought their final battle."

@Phoenix

 

[Arla]

Arla listened with curiosity to the story that Nakoa told, watching with both fascination for the history and also for the show that he put on with his own gifts. Sometimes she forgot just how talented in the Force he was as well. The Sith seemed so far behind them both now, but it really wasn't.

An ancestor who was a Sith seemed fitting to him, and one that was a wandering warrior seemed equally so.

Son of the Witch-King and daughter of the Witch-Queen. Seems fitting, she said. Although her mother - and she, too - had always hated that term, she knew that it was one that was used about her mother.

It seems like you've taken after him as well. Not a conquerer but a wandering warrior, she said. You wish to speak with his dead spirit? she asked. The place of death could be a powerful connector even beyond the Veil. Arla would, of course, be a logical choice to pursue that end with.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa barked a short, low laugh. "Fitting indeed. Although-" they paused a moment. "This one is not my father. I've never met the man." He shrugged to insufficiently cover up the slightest hint of bitterness and spite creeping into his words. "Just a long-dead ancestor."

The Wrean shaman let out a breath of air that might have been a sigh, turning into a bright little grin. "'Warrior'? Me?" They'd hardly have classified themselves as one at the best of times. "Well, at least wandering is true. At least I get to wander with you now, ah?" Nakoa lightly shouldered Arla playfully, chuckling, before turning back to the landscape.

"'Speak with, ah, commune? Something like that, yes. It's like he is... calling, you see? Singing? I can hear it." Another pause, much longer this time. His expression shifted toward enigmatic neutral, then very serious.

"Thank you, Arla. For everything." Even knowing next to nothing, the moment he'd asked for help, she'd shown up. Nakoa rarely asked for help from anyone and, frankly, struggled with doing so even for the smallest favors. He should be able to do it all himself.

Sometimes it felt nice that he didn't have to. Which was why he'd brought gifts.

@Phoenix

 

[Arla]

Arla just shrugged. He may not have been the direct son, but the principle was close enough. He had certainly opted to follow after arcane and forgotten rituals nonetheless.

As a surprise to no one at all, Arla didn't seem to notice the bitterness in Nakoa's voice as he spoke about his father. Ah dysfunctional families... a hallmark of their galaxy.

You are a PMC executive, she said, and one who fought on the front lines at that. He may not have thought of himself as a warrior, but he certainly was one.

He bumped into her and said thank you, and for a moment, she looked at him in confusion before snorting slightly.

Of course, she said. It was never even really in question. Nakoa was one of her few friends even if he weren't a business partner. They'd been in this together for years now, and she hoped they would both be for years to come.

Do you think you will die in battle? she asked. Although it sounded out of the blue, it was all connected in her mind. She thought sometimes about her own mortality and those who had been around her. Nearly everyone she knew died of violence, and she knew it was likely to happen to her as well. The Nightsisters had a song that spoke the words "how we live is how we die" and her life was that of hunting and violence. She knew her death was likely to be the same, and it was a surreal thought.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

The Wrean smirked. "That I am." They supposed they could add 'warrior' to the list, in the end.

Nakoa turned to look fully at Arla, expression pensive after her question. It was in a sense a deeply personal question connected with philosophy, but it was also purely practical from another point of view. The Wrean chuckled dryly to himself as their gaze traveled to the faraway horizon across the windblown plains.

"One day, maybe. But not today." Irirangi laughed. The two them had faced death constantly since they'd met, learning, sharpening, honing their skills and experience. Every year they grew harder to kill. But of course, none were immortal or unkillable. Nakoa grinned over at Arla.

"But I'll take old age, if you don't mind." Typical of them, they strode off wordlessly to their ship and returned with- well, it looked like a fancy coat. Or, cloak? It was somewhere in between the two, hood and all. Bundled in it was a lacqured ceramic jar of some sort of aged fruit wine. He offered both to his oldest offworld friend.

"This is for you," Nakoa explained. The inside was lined with Vornskyr fur and every stitch immaculate. Joints and the like were reinforced with tender Hssiss belly hide. Practical, warm for weather a Dathomirian like Arla wouldn't tolerate well, and fitting her adopted styles.

"A little late this time, but happy birthday."

[/abox3]

@Phoenix

 

[Arla]

She supposed she should have continued that the question was too personal, but she didn't. Besides it wasn't like the two of them weren't close. If there was anyone that was going to ask those questions it was, of course, going to be her. And likely vice versa.

His answer struck her as evasive in a way, although she didn't press it. She wasn't even sure he had meant it that way, and as she thought about it, she reminded herself that it was a profoundly unpleasant topic to most people.

Naturally, she said, although even as she said it, she wondered if it was true. She had no desire to die, but if she wanted to hang up her powers and take a back seat out of combat somewhere, she certainly could. But would life even be worth living? She'd be alive, but she wouldn't be living. She supposed if it cost her a few years, it was worth it to feel genuinely alive.

He disappeared back to his ship as Arla continued pondering her own mortality. When he appeared again carrying some things, she was caught completely off guard.

For me? she asked in surprise. Her birthday had been recent, it was true, but she hardly advertised that or asked for any sort of gifts. She took a close look at them, fingers running over the stitching.

This is beautiful. Thank you, Nakoa, she said.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa smiled at his traveling companion. "No trouble." His head tilted slightly, smile turning into a self-sure and thoughtful grin. Long, slender fingers suddenly pulled back the sleeve of his left arm. Tattoos painted the skin and scars of all kinds marked the painted flesh. Their knuckles were darkened with blows from combat and the harsh training they regularly put themselves through., never letting up even on 'vacation'.

They lived for the challenge, the growth, the movement. "Scars are proof of living. I will collect them until I am too old to survive a fight. And, tattoos from every place my path takes me. I will not go until then." And then he laughed, flexing the arm playfully with a mischievous grin worthy of trickster spirits themselves. "You'll get many gifts yet. This I tell you."

One day, Nakoa would die. Probably fighting. So what? Nakoa knew what he wanted in life and pursued it with fervor, without shame. He would never find "Peace". Peace was always a lie. If he should die, it would be a fighting death. This he knew.

He fixed his sleeve and gestured over the plains. "Let's get gone, ah?" Once Arla had stored her gifts, of course. Apparently he had more to say once they started to walk. All he'd needed was a little time to think.

"Violent death is a common thread." Two fingers tapped together; between them formed a string of crimson light, like a red thread of fate. "Shared by past lives. So far as I can tell, at least."

@Phoenix

 

[Arla]

Arla thought about what he said and the path they had both walked. For all the years they had spent together, she had never really asked him why he did it. It was an intensely personal question, and Arla had never historically been one to pry or open up, but life had changed. Maybe it was because she was older now or maybe it was because so many things in her life had changed. In many ways, she felt like a completely different person than when she had been a Sith or even the heiress to Dathomir's throne. It was a lifetime ago.

Why do you fight? she asked him. He could have put his skills to any number of other things, but she figured it was as much in his blood to fight as it was in hers. They were cut from the same cloth in many ways.

But for all the years they had known each other, she still didn't really know what had drawn him away from his home and into the galaxy's wars, seeking out violence and conflict.

@Mr. Teatime