Post by Elmira Val on May 16, 2007 19:25:42 GMT -5
Farand Ola watching the sky anxiously from the shade of the space port, waiting for a ship. It was morning that crept to the top of the ziggurat, smoothing seamless golden curtains, dragging gentle blue shadows into themselves. Although the wind chilled the rocky ground beneath her bare feet, Mother Nurture, Maaia, had already brought petaltide to Palendre. Maybe, Farand Ola thought, all this talk of gods was unbefitting, but who else to study the collective world mind of Kalee? Surely the planet lived, as with all sources from which living creatures breathed the air and multiplied. Beneath Farand Ola's feet, eight petaled pyramid blossoms shed showers of pale pink. She recalled their name; Qymaen. The symbol of medicine learners.
The Kalee'de was waiting for a ship to arrive and was wearing a clean field gown; the ziggurat was a landmark in an otherwise unmarked city. By day, the citizens of Tanjel'o walked the underground passages carved by the untold troddings of generations of microbes and the flowing of underground springs. The philosophlangers of House Duvall tended the newer gardens, letting old ones carry themselves.
Before the gardens flowed from their crevasses, the great landing platform was already there. The scholars of the capital had dated the ruins, measured them, and turned them over to the people. It was in old nomadic outpost, built in times of prosperity for later times where refuge was needed. These days, the space port harbored visitors from beyond the realm of Farand Ola's gods, where their power did not hold.
The diminuitive Kalee'de looked forward to the envoy of Imperial scientists. Although the enemies of Grievous, the Old Republic, were the predecessors of the Empire, the Imperial Remnant had proved a better acquaintance.
Farand Ola lay on a stone bench, spreading out a blanket of woven moss and hair. A pair of blue eyes reflecting the gentle Petal tide sky, blinked sluggishly. It had been early morning when the greeting party had departed for the ziggurat, and Farand Ola usually slept during the sweltering day. Beside sat Nass Sirind, avian-jointed legs folded to the side. She too wore the black and white striped robe of a philosophlanger, as well as the traditional sand bonnet and an armband depicting House Duvall's symbol, the Tokin crab.
Looking at the sky filiing with green-winged flyers and minute pterosaurs, Nass Sirind gave a sleepy whistle from her nostrils and the four pairs of abdominal spiracles hidden beneath her loose fitting garment. She had tied the blue sash securing it in place to hitch the extra length up. She turned to the other students of House Duvall, and a village shaman. The shaman was carrying a white staff, the headless serpent. The baton of rank had been grown from a temple tree, the bonewood. It was the same species that supplemented modern warrior masks. Warrior caste. To the Imperial scientists, Kalee's warriors were an entire breed of social workers. In peacetime, many took jobs as instructors, while others found work off planet. Farand Ola recalled the warrior who had rescued a Force-sensitive youth.
Farand Ola couldn't smell the Petaltide flora, having left her olfactory aid, the Yam'rii lichen lantern, with House Duvall's residence quarters. The rising Eye of Kalee, respondent to the planet's long held tilting, glinted off a distant object.
"They're here!"
The Kalee'de was waiting for a ship to arrive and was wearing a clean field gown; the ziggurat was a landmark in an otherwise unmarked city. By day, the citizens of Tanjel'o walked the underground passages carved by the untold troddings of generations of microbes and the flowing of underground springs. The philosophlangers of House Duvall tended the newer gardens, letting old ones carry themselves.
Before the gardens flowed from their crevasses, the great landing platform was already there. The scholars of the capital had dated the ruins, measured them, and turned them over to the people. It was in old nomadic outpost, built in times of prosperity for later times where refuge was needed. These days, the space port harbored visitors from beyond the realm of Farand Ola's gods, where their power did not hold.
The diminuitive Kalee'de looked forward to the envoy of Imperial scientists. Although the enemies of Grievous, the Old Republic, were the predecessors of the Empire, the Imperial Remnant had proved a better acquaintance.
Farand Ola lay on a stone bench, spreading out a blanket of woven moss and hair. A pair of blue eyes reflecting the gentle Petal tide sky, blinked sluggishly. It had been early morning when the greeting party had departed for the ziggurat, and Farand Ola usually slept during the sweltering day. Beside sat Nass Sirind, avian-jointed legs folded to the side. She too wore the black and white striped robe of a philosophlanger, as well as the traditional sand bonnet and an armband depicting House Duvall's symbol, the Tokin crab.
Looking at the sky filiing with green-winged flyers and minute pterosaurs, Nass Sirind gave a sleepy whistle from her nostrils and the four pairs of abdominal spiracles hidden beneath her loose fitting garment. She had tied the blue sash securing it in place to hitch the extra length up. She turned to the other students of House Duvall, and a village shaman. The shaman was carrying a white staff, the headless serpent. The baton of rank had been grown from a temple tree, the bonewood. It was the same species that supplemented modern warrior masks. Warrior caste. To the Imperial scientists, Kalee's warriors were an entire breed of social workers. In peacetime, many took jobs as instructors, while others found work off planet. Farand Ola recalled the warrior who had rescued a Force-sensitive youth.
Farand Ola couldn't smell the Petaltide flora, having left her olfactory aid, the Yam'rii lichen lantern, with House Duvall's residence quarters. The rising Eye of Kalee, respondent to the planet's long held tilting, glinted off a distant object.
"They're here!"