Vilka Pharro
Member
MALACHOR V
’Strike the metal too hard, and it will shatter; but weather it just enough, and it will bend, so you might shape it to your own ends, a crown fit for a princess.’
The Virulence shot from hyperspace. In an instant, the storm of white star-trails disintegrated, leaving only a sea of pin-pricks upon a black canvas of night. The cold chill of the void. Two burning eyes shot open; even from orbit, the unyielding darkness of Malachor V siezed Vilka’s heart, fast as the jaws of a Krayt Dragon, forever unyielding.
But such was the Dark Side, and all its passions- even to love was to hurt, in aching for all one could not have. A Jedi, indeed, would try to convince themselves it was not worth having; the strength of a Sith was to try and take it all the same. Vilka smiled with bared teeth at the thought.
The shuttle dove through the atmosphere with the scream of burning durasteel, the Force guiding its pilot, for all her rather questionable skill, from one blasted peak to the next, an unending granite darkness. The Trayus Laboratories. Vilka confessed she knew little of the woman, Vantai. Perhaps this was by design- the greatest evil is, after all, one disguised. Who, indeed, can defend against that which they cannot first percieve? The smiling face and blade would always best the blade alone.
She had to be drawing close now. In a desolate place such as Malachor, any structure, not to mention a laboratory, ought to stick out faster than a Hutt at the Galactic Games. Vilka brought the shuttle in for a sweeping descent, landing gear extending with a howl against the sweeping gales- there. Horizontal thrusters spat steam as she slowed above the landing pad, ramp extending onto a freezing walkway. How could a place be so hot and yet so cold?
A storm of black robes against the wind, she looked out to a bleak horizon. She grimaced. The darkness here, at Trayus Labs, it pulsed like a heart- now was the time to meet one’s maker, so to speak. Bend, she might- but never breaking.
’Strike the metal too hard, and it will shatter; but weather it just enough, and it will bend, so you might shape it to your own ends, a crown fit for a princess.’
The Virulence shot from hyperspace. In an instant, the storm of white star-trails disintegrated, leaving only a sea of pin-pricks upon a black canvas of night. The cold chill of the void. Two burning eyes shot open; even from orbit, the unyielding darkness of Malachor V siezed Vilka’s heart, fast as the jaws of a Krayt Dragon, forever unyielding.
But such was the Dark Side, and all its passions- even to love was to hurt, in aching for all one could not have. A Jedi, indeed, would try to convince themselves it was not worth having; the strength of a Sith was to try and take it all the same. Vilka smiled with bared teeth at the thought.
The shuttle dove through the atmosphere with the scream of burning durasteel, the Force guiding its pilot, for all her rather questionable skill, from one blasted peak to the next, an unending granite darkness. The Trayus Laboratories. Vilka confessed she knew little of the woman, Vantai. Perhaps this was by design- the greatest evil is, after all, one disguised. Who, indeed, can defend against that which they cannot first percieve? The smiling face and blade would always best the blade alone.
She had to be drawing close now. In a desolate place such as Malachor, any structure, not to mention a laboratory, ought to stick out faster than a Hutt at the Galactic Games. Vilka brought the shuttle in for a sweeping descent, landing gear extending with a howl against the sweeping gales- there. Horizontal thrusters spat steam as she slowed above the landing pad, ramp extending onto a freezing walkway. How could a place be so hot and yet so cold?
A storm of black robes against the wind, she looked out to a bleak horizon. She grimaced. The darkness here, at Trayus Labs, it pulsed like a heart- now was the time to meet one’s maker, so to speak. Bend, she might- but never breaking.