Sith Academy Ruins
Re: Sith Academy Ruins
He adjusted the clasp of his helmet, tightening it to try and dull the outside noise. The audio filters managed to keep the wind down, but the Agent could not help but wonder if the howling gale was not just the strange characteristic of sitting within the twilight band of a world that burned on one side and froze on the other, but instead were the wails of the ghosts of Sith past. He had read about such things: dark and obscure powers that would prevail against Death, leaving some semblance of a soul behind.
But those were just children’s tales, meant to frighten. Much like the stories of The Tarkin. With a measured slowness, the Agent shouldered his rifle and continued down from the rappelling station he had set on the abandoned landing pads above, down, down, down into a nearly-covered and collapsed canyon. It was only when he finally reached the bottom, where barely any light shone, that he was pleased to see the decaying ziggurat before him: a disgusting monument to the failures of before, buried in its own detritus from the harshness of the world it had failed to subjugate. Who knew what still roamed within those darkened halls, beyond those fallen statues. The works of the Once Mighty, now a remnant for finite time, crumbling into dust. He was merely thankful that it had not entirely imploded on itself.
The filtration system on the helmet’s rebreather did little to take the acrid bite out of the air as he descended cautiously, eyes peeled for any sign of danger. In his stomach was a sickening sense of fear and desire: the strangest feeling he had been growing accustomed to the longer he had spent in service to Her. He had gradually come to recognize it fully, putting to emotion what he had only read about before.
The Dark Side. It wafted from these ruins in rolling waves, the mark of those that came before still serving to ward off any that might come near. Indeed, no Zabrak strayed close to this place, not if they could help it. Many, he imagined, would love to forget its existence, back to a time when Iridonia recognized its true masters, not this hard-headed Conclave in the darkest of diamonds. So stubborn and set in their ways: he smirked, just a touch, at the thought of how much their own pride and hubris made it that easier for Her to twist and bend them to her wills. They, too, surely had a modicum of sensibility to The Force, most Iridonians did: had they even detected Her yet? Could they possibly even know?
He, himself, was still only learning to touch upon the power that The Force could render. It … eluded him, but nothing was beyond his grasp. Already he had risen so far, now assigned to assist Her in the eventual total dominance over the Glythe Sector. Supposedly She was on some rogue assignment but then, Chaos never needed a master for its whims. It did, however, need to be monitored. Reported. And, eventually, Used. He knew better, however, than to try and correct or direct Her Wrath. Their goals would be completed, one way or another.
Which was exactly why he was here, now nesting atop a toppled pillar that still had some of the old Sith Code chiseled into the faded rock. The writing was in the sharp, jagged script of Old Zabraki: a mostly dead language, but one that he had studied extensively before being assigned as Her “assistant”. It was a task that filled him with equal amounts of pride, in his skills being so recognized, and dread, as Her reputation was not one for returning Agents such as himself alive. So far, it seemed, he had proven himself.
The Ruins ahead showed a caved-in entrance, what the Agent surmised must have been a grand doorway with all the affectations of power that the Sith of Old loved to display. Much like the rest of the grounds, nothing remained of their opulence. Perhaps Bane was correct after all, it seemed: every time The Sith stuck their necks out for all to see, it was not long before it was lopped from their shoulders. Much better to work from the shadows, as he had. As he did.
The rifle was unslung, the scope peered down to get a better view of the field of sand and stone ahead. Not much remained, and the entrance would take some creativity to get through. Perhaps a shaped charge against the outer fra—
Wait.
What was that?
Movement of some sort. He was sure he had picked it up.
The rifle swept back and forth, watching the cracked towers and pulverized columns like a hawkbat. He was sure he had seen something: a dark shape that had darted just across his peripheral. The scope was lowered, the helmet’s built-in optics now being put to use as he tried to zero in on the new development.
A minute passed. Two. Five.
Nothing happened.
Still unsure, the Agent kept the rifle loosely in his hands, leaving his perch now to begin advancing towards the ruined Temple of The Sith.
The shadow it cast over him was long and permanent: a feature of the tidally locked orbit of Iridonia. He wondered: had they built it that way on purpose? To always display their dominance over any who approached these desecrated grounds, yes. To know that to approach this Academy was to be enveloped in the Shadows of The Empire, The Empire, not that miserable passing of a dictatorship that was doomed to splinter the moment the head was struck. It would be a pitiful fable, were it not the axiom of their existence: The Weak Die, that the Strong Survive. It was the way of the Universe.
The Agent kept his breathing steady, every step closer bringing with it the continued pull at his chest, the tightening of his lungs. The air was fine, still, but the fallen Academy radiated an echo of its power. He was positive that the crackling in his ears was from the communicator unable to pick up a stable signal out here, in the badlands. Surely, that was it. It was not the whispers and silent screams of those entombed here, miles below the hard surface.
A rock fell to his left.
Quickly, he whipped around, raised the rifle. Scanned.
With his back towards the entrance, he inched towards it, controlling his breathing, forcing his small heart to remain steady in its beating. There was nothing. Nothing out here.
He let the rifle lower a tad, letting out the breath he was unawares he was holding.
That’s when the creature roared and leapt from the top of the pillar it had climbed, claws extended from its forepaws, its muzzle a ragged collection of sharp, rotting teeth.
The Agent lifted and centered the gun, but only managed to get off two, purposeless bolts before the canine animal barreled into him at full force, sending the blaster scattering and knocking the wind out of his frail figure. His armor tried to absorb the shock, power cells whining in protect while dissipating the kinetic energy as the creature proceeded to maul the protégé to death, ravenous with hunger.
But the Agent did not die. He struggled with the monster, using his forearm and jabbing it deep into the beast’s maw so it could not close its mouth down easily. He grasped hard on its tongue, pulling and gripping it hard to try and make the animal gag, all while a small vibroknife extended out from his off-hand. The blade whirred to life, the creature now struggling to escape the near-superhuman strength of this carapace-covered prey, before the knife bit in deep into the animal’s neck at the side.
It yelped and tried desperately to release itself from the humanoid, but the knife dug in again. And again. And Again. Its strength failed, its growls fell into cries of pain and fear, until at last, the Agent let it go.
It scampered quickly away, injured and bleeding badly. The crimson was already coating its dirty fur as it hobbled for the Temple. Curious, the Agent stood and collected his rifle with the same, measured pace had had begun this trek, and followed the canine in its death throes. It looked, beneath all that sand, dust, and blood, that it may have been a Tukata: a type of guard beast that the Sith of Old may have used. That it had survived out here for this long briefly made the Agent consider if it was the last of its kind.
It had picked the wrong prey, then. Natural selection would purge this species from Iridonia once and for all, but not before it contributed something useful to the world’s history.
It limped feebly towards a small hole within the superstructure of the Temple. The Agent considered that it possibly lived inside the building, only coming out to feed. Was this, then, its home? It continued to whine as its strength faded, before finally collapsing just outside the crack in the impregnable stone of Iridonian construction. Weakly, the beast’s paws stretched forward, a last-ditch attempt to pull itself to safety.
The Agent brought the stock of his blaster to his shoulder. Aimed directly for the nape, to sever the spinal cord and end the creature’s suffering. It had served its purpose.
:: Good boy. ::
The crack of the blaster continued to echo and reverberate out against the darkened cliffs and stones that protected the Temple, whilst the Agent unceremoniously crawled his way inside.
She would be expecting him soon. He had no further time to delay. Soon, the artifact would be in their hands.
Soon, Iridonia would bow to its Rightful Masters once more.
But those were just children’s tales, meant to frighten. Much like the stories of The Tarkin. With a measured slowness, the Agent shouldered his rifle and continued down from the rappelling station he had set on the abandoned landing pads above, down, down, down into a nearly-covered and collapsed canyon. It was only when he finally reached the bottom, where barely any light shone, that he was pleased to see the decaying ziggurat before him: a disgusting monument to the failures of before, buried in its own detritus from the harshness of the world it had failed to subjugate. Who knew what still roamed within those darkened halls, beyond those fallen statues. The works of the Once Mighty, now a remnant for finite time, crumbling into dust. He was merely thankful that it had not entirely imploded on itself.
The filtration system on the helmet’s rebreather did little to take the acrid bite out of the air as he descended cautiously, eyes peeled for any sign of danger. In his stomach was a sickening sense of fear and desire: the strangest feeling he had been growing accustomed to the longer he had spent in service to Her. He had gradually come to recognize it fully, putting to emotion what he had only read about before.
The Dark Side. It wafted from these ruins in rolling waves, the mark of those that came before still serving to ward off any that might come near. Indeed, no Zabrak strayed close to this place, not if they could help it. Many, he imagined, would love to forget its existence, back to a time when Iridonia recognized its true masters, not this hard-headed Conclave in the darkest of diamonds. So stubborn and set in their ways: he smirked, just a touch, at the thought of how much their own pride and hubris made it that easier for Her to twist and bend them to her wills. They, too, surely had a modicum of sensibility to The Force, most Iridonians did: had they even detected Her yet? Could they possibly even know?
He, himself, was still only learning to touch upon the power that The Force could render. It … eluded him, but nothing was beyond his grasp. Already he had risen so far, now assigned to assist Her in the eventual total dominance over the Glythe Sector. Supposedly She was on some rogue assignment but then, Chaos never needed a master for its whims. It did, however, need to be monitored. Reported. And, eventually, Used. He knew better, however, than to try and correct or direct Her Wrath. Their goals would be completed, one way or another.
Which was exactly why he was here, now nesting atop a toppled pillar that still had some of the old Sith Code chiseled into the faded rock. The writing was in the sharp, jagged script of Old Zabraki: a mostly dead language, but one that he had studied extensively before being assigned as Her “assistant”. It was a task that filled him with equal amounts of pride, in his skills being so recognized, and dread, as Her reputation was not one for returning Agents such as himself alive. So far, it seemed, he had proven himself.
The Ruins ahead showed a caved-in entrance, what the Agent surmised must have been a grand doorway with all the affectations of power that the Sith of Old loved to display. Much like the rest of the grounds, nothing remained of their opulence. Perhaps Bane was correct after all, it seemed: every time The Sith stuck their necks out for all to see, it was not long before it was lopped from their shoulders. Much better to work from the shadows, as he had. As he did.
The rifle was unslung, the scope peered down to get a better view of the field of sand and stone ahead. Not much remained, and the entrance would take some creativity to get through. Perhaps a shaped charge against the outer fra—
Wait.
What was that?
Movement of some sort. He was sure he had picked it up.
The rifle swept back and forth, watching the cracked towers and pulverized columns like a hawkbat. He was sure he had seen something: a dark shape that had darted just across his peripheral. The scope was lowered, the helmet’s built-in optics now being put to use as he tried to zero in on the new development.
A minute passed. Two. Five.
Nothing happened.
Still unsure, the Agent kept the rifle loosely in his hands, leaving his perch now to begin advancing towards the ruined Temple of The Sith.
The shadow it cast over him was long and permanent: a feature of the tidally locked orbit of Iridonia. He wondered: had they built it that way on purpose? To always display their dominance over any who approached these desecrated grounds, yes. To know that to approach this Academy was to be enveloped in the Shadows of The Empire, The Empire, not that miserable passing of a dictatorship that was doomed to splinter the moment the head was struck. It would be a pitiful fable, were it not the axiom of their existence: The Weak Die, that the Strong Survive. It was the way of the Universe.
The Agent kept his breathing steady, every step closer bringing with it the continued pull at his chest, the tightening of his lungs. The air was fine, still, but the fallen Academy radiated an echo of its power. He was positive that the crackling in his ears was from the communicator unable to pick up a stable signal out here, in the badlands. Surely, that was it. It was not the whispers and silent screams of those entombed here, miles below the hard surface.
A rock fell to his left.
Quickly, he whipped around, raised the rifle. Scanned.
With his back towards the entrance, he inched towards it, controlling his breathing, forcing his small heart to remain steady in its beating. There was nothing. Nothing out here.
He let the rifle lower a tad, letting out the breath he was unawares he was holding.
That’s when the creature roared and leapt from the top of the pillar it had climbed, claws extended from its forepaws, its muzzle a ragged collection of sharp, rotting teeth.
The Agent lifted and centered the gun, but only managed to get off two, purposeless bolts before the canine animal barreled into him at full force, sending the blaster scattering and knocking the wind out of his frail figure. His armor tried to absorb the shock, power cells whining in protect while dissipating the kinetic energy as the creature proceeded to maul the protégé to death, ravenous with hunger.
But the Agent did not die. He struggled with the monster, using his forearm and jabbing it deep into the beast’s maw so it could not close its mouth down easily. He grasped hard on its tongue, pulling and gripping it hard to try and make the animal gag, all while a small vibroknife extended out from his off-hand. The blade whirred to life, the creature now struggling to escape the near-superhuman strength of this carapace-covered prey, before the knife bit in deep into the animal’s neck at the side.
It yelped and tried desperately to release itself from the humanoid, but the knife dug in again. And again. And Again. Its strength failed, its growls fell into cries of pain and fear, until at last, the Agent let it go.
It scampered quickly away, injured and bleeding badly. The crimson was already coating its dirty fur as it hobbled for the Temple. Curious, the Agent stood and collected his rifle with the same, measured pace had had begun this trek, and followed the canine in its death throes. It looked, beneath all that sand, dust, and blood, that it may have been a Tukata: a type of guard beast that the Sith of Old may have used. That it had survived out here for this long briefly made the Agent consider if it was the last of its kind.
It had picked the wrong prey, then. Natural selection would purge this species from Iridonia once and for all, but not before it contributed something useful to the world’s history.
It limped feebly towards a small hole within the superstructure of the Temple. The Agent considered that it possibly lived inside the building, only coming out to feed. Was this, then, its home? It continued to whine as its strength faded, before finally collapsing just outside the crack in the impregnable stone of Iridonian construction. Weakly, the beast’s paws stretched forward, a last-ditch attempt to pull itself to safety.
The Agent brought the stock of his blaster to his shoulder. Aimed directly for the nape, to sever the spinal cord and end the creature’s suffering. It had served its purpose.
:: Good boy. ::
The crack of the blaster continued to echo and reverberate out against the darkened cliffs and stones that protected the Temple, whilst the Agent unceremoniously crawled his way inside.
She would be expecting him soon. He had no further time to delay. Soon, the artifact would be in their hands.
Soon, Iridonia would bow to its Rightful Masters once more.
Re: Sith Academy Ruins
It was dark.
Even the night vision setting of his helmet’s visor was not enough to pierce the gloom. The Agent tried to stand still for a moment, to let his eyes adjust, but this was such a pervasive night that it did naught. Frowning, he pulled a glowrod from his utility belt, igniting it, and nearly recoiled.
In front of him was a fearsome visage of some monster, hewn in rock, and missing most of its features. He waved the light source over the fallen statue, trying to determine what, exactly, it was. It may have been one of the old Sith species. It may have been an Ortolian folk creature, for all he cared. He ignored the wind whispering past his helm, the wind that should not be in an enclosed, collapsed Academy, and journeyed forth into the dark.
His feet kept feeling some strange, almost organic substance beneath his boots, but he did not look down to see what it might be. Carpet, possibly. Carpet that had been decaying for hundreds of years. Yes. That’s what it had to be.
The Agent continued the journey, finding that the upper levels did have staircases, but they were mostly covered in wreckage. No access, then, to the above. Not easily, anyway. Instead, he found himself drawn towards a cylinder at the back of the main hallway. A turbolift shaft, it appeared. Long destroyed. A quick check up revealed that this was apparently the top level for the elevator, so down was the only way to go. Clipping the glowrod to his belt, he made sure the rifle was secured to his chest by the bandolier, and he entered the shaft.
Regretfully, his rappelling gear was already used, and left behind, to get back out of this canyon. Instead, the Agent braced himself against the walls of the turbolift’s corridor, hands and feet both. It took a brief moment until he was secure in his strength to keep himself from slipping, the enhanced actuators of his power armor helping. There was a small assortment of other gadgets he could have relied on, but technology could not accomplish everything. There was no need to rely on it here.
With a slow spiderclimb, the Agent descended carefully. Down two levels, his boots hit the top of what he could only assume was the turbolift itself. Another tool, a plasma cutter, appeared in his hand, and a hole was cut into the ceiling of the pod. The metal fell hard, the clattering heard throughout the entirety of the dilapidated Temple.
The Agent froze. Listened.
He did not want another surprise, not another strange animal intent on taking a bite of his flesh.
After a few moments, nothing seemed disturbed by his entry. He slipped into the turbolift, wrenched the jammed door open with some application of a crowbar, and stepped in to the basement level.
Strangely, a light flickered down here. The Agent regarded it with caution.
These were the archives, it appeared. Rows and rows of shelves, many of them abandoned. The entire floor was ransacked. Whatever had befell this place, its occupants had been in a hurry both to preserve whatever was here, and leave posthaste. He advanced past these pillaged pillars of knowledge, giving them a passive scan to see if there was perhaps something else of use here. All that he could see was shattered datapads, torn flimsi, and filth. Nothing of worth. Nothing worth his time, at least.
The sensation in his chest was back. His head whipped towards one particular alcove, one part that had been left mostly alone. It appeared to just be more bare stone, more useless rock, but something compelled him that this particular alcove was important.
The glowrod was held up to it, the Agent’s hidden eyes observing every scratch, every single smooth surface of this small piece of architecture. His knuckles rapped against the wall, until he heard a small, nearly inaudible hollowness. His helmet’s audio filters were, thankfully, quite strong. The plasma torch came out again, with only the lightest of applications, burning through the rock to reveal a small, sturdy panel beneath it.
Curious.
His gloved fingers touched it and, even through the touch material, the Agent could sense that the metal of the panel was not hot. Perhaps it was designed to be revealed through heat? He fumbled in the dark a bit, feeling what he thought was a lever. It flipped with some effort, and the alcove itself parted down a horizontal fault, revealing a sanctum beyond it.
Satisfied, the Agent entered to find a podium. Elaborate. Ancient. Yet, preserved. It was made of some black metal, with a clear crystal sphere atop it. Inside said orb was a pendant. A brooch. His fingers grazed softly over the case.
The amulet was of a dark, bloody red substance. Shiny. Very. It appeared to be in the form of an eye, with a peculiarity in the iris: two toned. Dark, and Light.
It made him feel … different. Lulled, and yet aggressive. He wanted this object, but also felt safe within its presence. Secure. Affirmed of … something. But it felt good. Good.
He tried to lift the crystal from the podium, and found he could not. It was stuck on there tightly, so again out came the plasma torch.
After nearly thirty minutes of continuous use, the sphere was no sooner to being freed than when he began, and still both the orb and the podium were cold to the touch.
Growing frustrated, the Agent looked all over the base, trying to discern what the method to unlocking this was. All he found was more of the same writing on the pillar outside. The Sith Code.
He scowled.
:: Hmph. ‘The Force Shall Free Me’ indeed. ::
He growled in agitation at the seeming mockery from the ancients.
Then, he paused.
Considered.
He placed his hands on the outsides of the sphere, and began to focus on it. To feel beneath it. His eyes closed, that amulet’s strange, dichromatic jewel in its center calling to him, envisioned so brightly in his mind. The Agent considered his desire to have this thing, this beautiful piece of pristine artistry from the Ancient Sith.
Nothing.
He tried again. Sought deeper, tried to will the amulet out, to open the crystal prison. The Force, though weak inside him, was still there. He could feel it. He knew it. He drew in a deep breath, and demanded the artifact to obey him.
Nothing.
He grunted in frustration, curling his fingers tighter onto the orb. If he did not return with this, She would surely kill him. Not just kill him: make him beg for death at Her hands. He had heard the stories, the stories that could chill even a Talz. He was only thankful that he had not been invited to her bed yet. To hear the other Acolytes speak of it, any who laid with the Lady of Chaos would experience bliss beyond all heights, before being subjected to pain beyond anything that any mind or body could even possibly comprehend. Horrible, scarring stories passed amongst those that served The Cult. The things She had done to prisoners. That She had done to those that had failed Her.
That She had done to those She liked.
He could not return without this gift. She would rip him limb for limb, and he was horrified that he knew, he knew She could make him enjoy it. This assignment, to be as close to Her as possible, terrified him. Was this a death sentence? Was this all an elaborate plot for Her to kill him?
No.
No, it was the Disciple. That miserable, wretched, cowardly being, the Disciple of Whispers. Jealous of the attentions that the Agent had received from the Master of Whispers. Envious of the Agents rise to power. Fearful that their position would soon be unnecessary and he, Itzal Chisisi, would kill them and take their place as the true Disciple, once his potential within The Force revealed itself.
The Disciple had sent him on this assignment, to watch the Lady of Chaos. He had been used. Tricked. Betrayed. This was a death sentence, but not one of Her design.
It infuriated him. Filled him with a rage he had never quite considered before. All of his life, he had been the manipulator. The word that could topple star systems, the knife that ended dynasties. To think that his own pride, his own hubris had been twisted against him by The Disciple of Whispers, so eager was he to prove himself towards the teachings of The Sith.
No. No, no, no, no, the Disciple would pay. He would rip that miserable excuse for sentience apart limb from bloody limb. He would destroy anything and everything ever loved by his rival, ever treasured. He would make a mockery of their accomplishments, defenestrate them before the Sith Lords, see them broken and then, and only then, would Itzal ostensibly grant them the bliss of death.
But there would Be No Death. He would sever the traitor’s nose. Cut off their lips. Plunge daggers into their eyes, cover their face in acid, burn their wretched body, cut out their treacherous tongue and leave them only their ears, that they might constantly hear of the Agent’s successes, and be reminded for all eternity of the miserable, worthless, pathetic, sniveling, cowardly, disfigured, base and baseless and powerless piece of –
He blinked.
His hands were in front of him, gripped tight. The amulet.
It was in his palms.
The orb itself appeared to have shattered. Imploded into a fine, sugary substance of powdered, white dust.
Wordlessly, he placed the amulet into a pouch on his belt, and secured it tightly. He ignored the haunting whispers that caressed his ears with touches of power and madness, all wafting from the sanguine metal, and began to make his way back up to the surface.
She would be pleased.
Even the night vision setting of his helmet’s visor was not enough to pierce the gloom. The Agent tried to stand still for a moment, to let his eyes adjust, but this was such a pervasive night that it did naught. Frowning, he pulled a glowrod from his utility belt, igniting it, and nearly recoiled.
In front of him was a fearsome visage of some monster, hewn in rock, and missing most of its features. He waved the light source over the fallen statue, trying to determine what, exactly, it was. It may have been one of the old Sith species. It may have been an Ortolian folk creature, for all he cared. He ignored the wind whispering past his helm, the wind that should not be in an enclosed, collapsed Academy, and journeyed forth into the dark.
His feet kept feeling some strange, almost organic substance beneath his boots, but he did not look down to see what it might be. Carpet, possibly. Carpet that had been decaying for hundreds of years. Yes. That’s what it had to be.
The Agent continued the journey, finding that the upper levels did have staircases, but they were mostly covered in wreckage. No access, then, to the above. Not easily, anyway. Instead, he found himself drawn towards a cylinder at the back of the main hallway. A turbolift shaft, it appeared. Long destroyed. A quick check up revealed that this was apparently the top level for the elevator, so down was the only way to go. Clipping the glowrod to his belt, he made sure the rifle was secured to his chest by the bandolier, and he entered the shaft.
Regretfully, his rappelling gear was already used, and left behind, to get back out of this canyon. Instead, the Agent braced himself against the walls of the turbolift’s corridor, hands and feet both. It took a brief moment until he was secure in his strength to keep himself from slipping, the enhanced actuators of his power armor helping. There was a small assortment of other gadgets he could have relied on, but technology could not accomplish everything. There was no need to rely on it here.
With a slow spiderclimb, the Agent descended carefully. Down two levels, his boots hit the top of what he could only assume was the turbolift itself. Another tool, a plasma cutter, appeared in his hand, and a hole was cut into the ceiling of the pod. The metal fell hard, the clattering heard throughout the entirety of the dilapidated Temple.
The Agent froze. Listened.
He did not want another surprise, not another strange animal intent on taking a bite of his flesh.
After a few moments, nothing seemed disturbed by his entry. He slipped into the turbolift, wrenched the jammed door open with some application of a crowbar, and stepped in to the basement level.
Strangely, a light flickered down here. The Agent regarded it with caution.
These were the archives, it appeared. Rows and rows of shelves, many of them abandoned. The entire floor was ransacked. Whatever had befell this place, its occupants had been in a hurry both to preserve whatever was here, and leave posthaste. He advanced past these pillaged pillars of knowledge, giving them a passive scan to see if there was perhaps something else of use here. All that he could see was shattered datapads, torn flimsi, and filth. Nothing of worth. Nothing worth his time, at least.
The sensation in his chest was back. His head whipped towards one particular alcove, one part that had been left mostly alone. It appeared to just be more bare stone, more useless rock, but something compelled him that this particular alcove was important.
The glowrod was held up to it, the Agent’s hidden eyes observing every scratch, every single smooth surface of this small piece of architecture. His knuckles rapped against the wall, until he heard a small, nearly inaudible hollowness. His helmet’s audio filters were, thankfully, quite strong. The plasma torch came out again, with only the lightest of applications, burning through the rock to reveal a small, sturdy panel beneath it.
Curious.
His gloved fingers touched it and, even through the touch material, the Agent could sense that the metal of the panel was not hot. Perhaps it was designed to be revealed through heat? He fumbled in the dark a bit, feeling what he thought was a lever. It flipped with some effort, and the alcove itself parted down a horizontal fault, revealing a sanctum beyond it.
Satisfied, the Agent entered to find a podium. Elaborate. Ancient. Yet, preserved. It was made of some black metal, with a clear crystal sphere atop it. Inside said orb was a pendant. A brooch. His fingers grazed softly over the case.
The amulet was of a dark, bloody red substance. Shiny. Very. It appeared to be in the form of an eye, with a peculiarity in the iris: two toned. Dark, and Light.
It made him feel … different. Lulled, and yet aggressive. He wanted this object, but also felt safe within its presence. Secure. Affirmed of … something. But it felt good. Good.
He tried to lift the crystal from the podium, and found he could not. It was stuck on there tightly, so again out came the plasma torch.
After nearly thirty minutes of continuous use, the sphere was no sooner to being freed than when he began, and still both the orb and the podium were cold to the touch.
Growing frustrated, the Agent looked all over the base, trying to discern what the method to unlocking this was. All he found was more of the same writing on the pillar outside. The Sith Code.
He scowled.
:: Hmph. ‘The Force Shall Free Me’ indeed. ::
He growled in agitation at the seeming mockery from the ancients.
Then, he paused.
Considered.
He placed his hands on the outsides of the sphere, and began to focus on it. To feel beneath it. His eyes closed, that amulet’s strange, dichromatic jewel in its center calling to him, envisioned so brightly in his mind. The Agent considered his desire to have this thing, this beautiful piece of pristine artistry from the Ancient Sith.
Nothing.
He tried again. Sought deeper, tried to will the amulet out, to open the crystal prison. The Force, though weak inside him, was still there. He could feel it. He knew it. He drew in a deep breath, and demanded the artifact to obey him.
Nothing.
He grunted in frustration, curling his fingers tighter onto the orb. If he did not return with this, She would surely kill him. Not just kill him: make him beg for death at Her hands. He had heard the stories, the stories that could chill even a Talz. He was only thankful that he had not been invited to her bed yet. To hear the other Acolytes speak of it, any who laid with the Lady of Chaos would experience bliss beyond all heights, before being subjected to pain beyond anything that any mind or body could even possibly comprehend. Horrible, scarring stories passed amongst those that served The Cult. The things She had done to prisoners. That She had done to those that had failed Her.
That She had done to those She liked.
He could not return without this gift. She would rip him limb for limb, and he was horrified that he knew, he knew She could make him enjoy it. This assignment, to be as close to Her as possible, terrified him. Was this a death sentence? Was this all an elaborate plot for Her to kill him?
No.
No, it was the Disciple. That miserable, wretched, cowardly being, the Disciple of Whispers. Jealous of the attentions that the Agent had received from the Master of Whispers. Envious of the Agents rise to power. Fearful that their position would soon be unnecessary and he, Itzal Chisisi, would kill them and take their place as the true Disciple, once his potential within The Force revealed itself.
The Disciple had sent him on this assignment, to watch the Lady of Chaos. He had been used. Tricked. Betrayed. This was a death sentence, but not one of Her design.
It infuriated him. Filled him with a rage he had never quite considered before. All of his life, he had been the manipulator. The word that could topple star systems, the knife that ended dynasties. To think that his own pride, his own hubris had been twisted against him by The Disciple of Whispers, so eager was he to prove himself towards the teachings of The Sith.
No. No, no, no, no, the Disciple would pay. He would rip that miserable excuse for sentience apart limb from bloody limb. He would destroy anything and everything ever loved by his rival, ever treasured. He would make a mockery of their accomplishments, defenestrate them before the Sith Lords, see them broken and then, and only then, would Itzal ostensibly grant them the bliss of death.
But there would Be No Death. He would sever the traitor’s nose. Cut off their lips. Plunge daggers into their eyes, cover their face in acid, burn their wretched body, cut out their treacherous tongue and leave them only their ears, that they might constantly hear of the Agent’s successes, and be reminded for all eternity of the miserable, worthless, pathetic, sniveling, cowardly, disfigured, base and baseless and powerless piece of –
He blinked.
His hands were in front of him, gripped tight. The amulet.
It was in his palms.
The orb itself appeared to have shattered. Imploded into a fine, sugary substance of powdered, white dust.
Wordlessly, he placed the amulet into a pouch on his belt, and secured it tightly. He ignored the haunting whispers that caressed his ears with touches of power and madness, all wafting from the sanguine metal, and began to make his way back up to the surface.
She would be pleased.
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