The Trial of Sacrifice
Posted on Sat Apr 20th, 2019 @ 10:07pm by Bomoor Thort & Thane
2,663 words; about a 13 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter V: Unbound
Location: Inside the Mind Prison
Timeline: Unknown, After "The Games" (Believed sometime around late Day Two)
OLD
He looked around and then gestured for the box to be placed over towards the open archways that allowed a view down upon the rapidly developing conflict below. There was some kind of shield generator in place protecting parts of the city wall, but already he could see weaker sections where groups of warriors were clustered to fight off the invaders. It felt as though the city might be overtaken by nightfall at this fate and so he knelt down before the box, feeling its heavy presence as well as the weight of the lives that hung in the balance below.
"I had better begin as I fear time is against me," he announced, with the suggestion that he be left to concentrate.
However, instead of leaving, the Kissai had more to say, "My Lord, there may be a way you could buy yourself more time to open the box..."
While Bomoor did not turn around to see them, he could feel that the other Pureblood Sith had turned with an angry and fearful glare towards the Curate, knowing what he was about to suggest.
"...if you were to perhaps consider using all the resources Trayset has to offer."
NEW
Turning around slowly, his eye stalks twisting to squint towards the Curate, Bomoor had a sinking feeling that he was about to experience Hazzarah’s true test, “What other ‘resources’ does the city have to offer that we have not already considered?”
The Curate gave Bomoor a long and knowing look, his fleshy and angular brow furrowing in such a manner that indicated Bomoor should know exactly what the Pureblood was suggesting. Without saying another word to the queerly-clad Ithorian, the Sith priest took it upon himself to dismiss the two others present, who bowed in deference to both the Curate and Bomoor before exiting.
"Most Reverend High Protector," the red-skinned Kissai began, his tone snide, but not quite bordering on the insolent, "aside from the three-hundred-and-fifty trained warriors, the Right-Handed Circle, the Archzealot and his priestess, we are, as I told you before, left with the Zuguruk, Grotthu of Trayset... and the denizens themselves." The Curate's eyes twinkled with some hint of malice. "They number in the thousands, my High Protector, untouched by the Wraith Box's initial onslaught. They may not be bred for it, but I am certain even their underdeveloped minds can comprehend the sharp end of a Massassi spear."
The proposal struck Bomoor with some weight. He had been in conflicts before, but he had always been spared the tactical decisions of warfare. In many of his discussions with Thane, they had often considered the orders made by those in power and how a decision that, in itself, appeared cruel or unfeeling, could be made in the spirit of preventing greater casualties or achieving an overall victory against an opponent, when there was no chance of negotiating an end to hostility.
Both Thane and Bomoor had prided themselves on being able to see a bigger picture in the Galaxy but that did not stop him often falling back into the comfortable simplicity of ascribing actions as either morally good or bad, particularly when it came down to life and death.
“But the city of Trayset,” Bomoor thought aloud, “It is our task and our test to protect it. If we sacrifice the civilians, then surely we have already lost.”
"High Protector," the Curate interjected, appearing mildly annoyed by the Ithorian's objections, in the manner a parent might when trying to explain a rudimentary task to a child, "you are High Protector of the Sith - not simply Trayset. This war with the Builders... it is not some test nor task by which to judge your mettle; it is your duty this day, and every other day until your last, to preserve our divine way of existence - to keep the high magicks of Korriban flowing freely, without perverse pollution from the skies above."
The narrow-faced priest took a few careful and sweeping steps towards Bomoor and the ornate circular table beside him, placing a taloned crimson hand upon its metal surface. "This is the last bastion before the capitol. Should Trayset fail to halt the advance, you will have failed King Adas. The capitol will fall, and the war will be lost. Trayset will be lost, in all sense of identity, for the hubris of your conscience."
“Still, it is not our place to decide who lives and who dies,” Bomoor stated the words of the belief he had long held, “No mortal being should decide when a life should end at any given time. We are not gods and have no right to dictate such things.”
"The Builders think themselves gods, my Most Reverend and wise High Protector," the Pureblood countered coldly and smugly. "Do you think they will obey these holy doctrines you lay down in this stone room? Do you think that they are having these same conversations within the profaned halls of their mighty war galleys high above, quibbling on whether they have the right to kill - nay, enslave - the ants they barely sight far below?"
The Curate’s words were true: the Rakata had no more right than him to interfere in the lives of this species. Their advanced technology did not make them deities and, as a representative of the people below, surely it was better that he make that choice than some otherworldly invaders who felt no love for the worlds they plundered.
He felt a quiet anger building as he tapped into the surface memories he had been gifted from the character he was portraying and he paced over to the balcony and looked about at the masses scurrying about below and then up at the dark shapes looming in the sky – foreign monstrosities that felt they could come and steal all that they had built for themselves and decide their future for them.
His eyes fixed upon a particularly large object, still some way off that seemed like some kind of floating fortress. He wanted nothing more than to throw out his arms and destroy the armada of invaders – his morals would allow him that, surely: they were the attackers. But he knew that was not an option, not until he opened the Wraith Box and unleashed its power; his power! But he would not get the chance if the city fell too soon and then they would surely fail the task. Inaction would not win the day and was not an option if he and his friends did not want to become more tortured souls trapped inside this elaborate prison.
“The people I would be sending into battle…” Bomoor asked a final question, still staring at that massive black vessel marching through the orange sky, “Would they be real souls, trapped in here, or merely fabrications?”
The Curate's eyes narrowed in thinly-concealed confusion at Bomoor's peculiar words. "My High Protector, I... misunderstand your meaning. The Circle's exposure to, and understanding of, the unholy Fabricants is sorely limited. If the Archzealot could perhaps-"
“Of course, I cannot know that…” The stand-in High Protector sighed, “But you are right. We have no choice if we wish to protect everything we love. If the people will follow my commands, then have every able body take up arms. Let them fight for their city and give me the time to prepare. Tell them: ‘A great reckoning is coming for these monsters. If they give me their strength now, they will save their city, their King, their world.’”
A wry smile slipped across the Curate's thin lips, pleased at what must be perceived as a small victory to the conniving priest. "At once, High Protector. You are most wise and learned, Your Reverence. Summon the Right-Handed Circle should you require our assistance."
As the Kissai advisor sped away, Bomoor set himself down by the box. He could now clearly feel the power it could channel: somehow it could temporarily store all the Force power he channelled into it, like a battery being charged, and then that power could be expelled so violently that even the most powerful Force-user could not protect themselves from the wave of energy. It was his power to direct at whatever beings he chose.
He closed his eyes and began streaming his thoughts and powers towards the vessel, which began to glow, lighting up the inscriptions on its surface. Those people who survived this battle would thank him later, he thought. Trayset will not fall this day.
Much time had passed. Hours or days; it was hard to tell how long Bomoor had been meditating to fuel the Wraith Box.
At some point in the night, he had been joined by a group of mages from the Right-Handed Circle: an order of priests who, unlike most Pureblood Sith, were dominant in their right hands, which was taken as a sign of a biology more highly suited to spellcasting. Whether or not there was any truth to this claim, the Right-Handed Circle was revered for their might and power in the Force.
While their assistance proved useful, the horrors of the battle below could be felt radiating through the Force and it was clear that, even with all their powers, many Sith were dying to grant them more time. But he had committed to that choice now and he knew that the sacrifice of lives he had made only strengthened his resolve to activate this Builder technology.
Focussing on the box gave Bomoor little mental capacity to think of much besides his target: The Builders. However, he did wonder whether Thane and Coda were down there, battling alongside the Sith. If their lives were lost in this box, then everything they were doing and sacrificing would be for nothing. Through his bond with Thane, he could sense that he was also having his mind and body tested wherever he was, but Bomoor still could draw some strength from his friend’s own powerful Force connection and feed it into the Box. He hoped it did not leave Thane too vulnerable.
Suddenly, the meditating Ithorian felt a disturbance in the Force: a shock of sudden danger felt both through the network of the Force and through his direct bond to Thane. He bolted upright but stumbled slightly, needing some time to recover after having been seated for so long. Ignoring the priests who still sat in silence around the box, he moved over towards the window where the light of the sun was being eclipsed by a truly enormous ship that floated over the city.
“What is that?” he asked the priests behind him, sensing that at least some had come around from their trance as he had broken away, “Some kind of ship?”
"Aye, Your Reverence," said one of the younger members of the Circle. He had been hurriedly etching some extra marks with an ochre chalk on the stony floor around him with the opportunity Bomoor's pause had warranted him. He looked now to their leader with his one working eye. A new and deep fear was now coursing through the junior warlock at recognition of the object. "They call it the Infernal Engine, a new and dastardly device the Builders use to warp us into horrid amalgamations of machine and Sith." He glanced to the Curate and visibly gulped. "We... we bel-"
"Last we heard," the Curate interrupted, "its abilities were mere rumours, untested and disbelieved by the people of Atâmsol - the first and last city to sight its bulk. From its presence here and the lack of envoys from that proud city, I would say its abilities are no longer untested."
Was this the shape he had seen looming on the horizon when he had last peered out at the view of the city and beyond? Now it dominated his vision, but something was not right with the great vessel: he could feel a panic building inside its armour as it seemed to slowly be losing its ability to remain in the air. The front was angled down, pointing towards the buildings and the people below.
“It is falling!” Bomoor boomed, rousing more of the mages from their focus, “It will crush the city!”
About him, the gathered mages said nothing, watching in unabated silence as the Engine started its descent, assured of the violent and final outcome that was to be beset upon the people they were seeking to save - even if in their own twisted fashion.
"Not all of it," the Curate said calmly.
The ship continued to fall and Bomoor could feel that those on the ground had begun to notice. There was no way he would get to them to save them now and he considered that this may be yet another test of his resolve to open the box. The thought angered him: it seemed to be a ‘no win’ scenario: either way, they would surely have failed to protect the city. Not when faced with such levels of destruction. Were these ancient invaders truly so powerful, or was this the hyperbolic recollection of a less-evolved people?
He turned away but knew it would not stop him from feeling the moment the ship impacted the surface. The Wraith Box was glowing incredibly brightly now and had ascended from the pedestal it sat upon, seemingly ready to burst forth with the power they had imbued it with.
“Come, let us make one final effort,” he beckoned the Right-Handed Circle members back, “Let us destroy these invaders once and for all. They have taken enough from us this day.”
Bomoor remained where he was. He could feel the sweeping descent of the ship behind him as he held up a hand and reached out with great exertion towards the box. As he breached the contraption’s final defences, he was filled with a sudden understanding of its creators. He saw a race of leathery-skinned humanoids, with bulbous eye stalks either side of their head, standing atop a mountain of slaves from all different races: some he knew, others he did not. He felt their power, but also sensed their desperation to cling to that power, despite the wheels of the galaxy and the will of the Force pushing against them. They would surely fall, if only they were given the final push.
Destroy the Rakata! Bomoor, High Protector of Trayset ordered the Wraith Box.
Behind him, as the waning light of Korriban returned, a great fireball erupted as the great ship pierced the ground, consuming both machine and mortal alike. As the wave of death swept towards them in the tower, another great wave of energy erupted from the box. A beam of deathly pale green energy shot out and broke into great webs from the tower, weaving through space to find its many targets: the invaders that remained attacking the city.
When the beams found their target, there was no defence; they were pierced by the light and could do nothing but watch their bodies crumble away in that same eerie green light until they were but ashes, quickly swept away in the wind that bellowed from the epicentre of the crash. The Sith that stood watching were shocked, seemingly waiting for their own destruction to come but, as they waited and nothing happened, a quiet realisation swept among them that their deliverance had finally come.
While he had not seen the destruction he had wrought, Bomoor knew. He finally succumbed to his exhaustion and collapsed down to the ground, with the priests doing much the same around him. He clenched his eyes shut and he felt the first beads of tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
The price of peace, he thought to himself, suppressing back down the rest of his tears, Just let it be enough.
END
BOMOOR
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