Character
The storm had no mercy on Dromund Kaas. It swallowed every street in rain and shadow, washing the capital in sheets of water that ran along stone and durasteel alike. Lightning forked above the towers, striking so bright it turned the night into momentary day. Thunder shook through the foundations of the city, rattling glass panes and setting the ground in subtle tremor.
Aerik walked without destination. His instructors had given him a rare reprieve from drills, yet still his muscles ached for movement. He took to the streets instead of staying locked in his quarters. The city itself was another lesson. To walk among its people was to taste the iron weight of the Sith Empire in daily rhythm.
He moved past markets where smoke and steam rose from food stalls that fought against the storm. Vendors barked prices while clutching cloaks close to their bodies. Their voices carried only a short distance before the storm swallowed them again. Children darted between the legs of strangers, laughing as they splashed through puddles before a watchful parent pulled them back.
Patrols passed often. Sith troopers in crimson armor marched in pairs, each pair watched by a black-cloaked figure who carried the aura of the Order. Aerik kept his hood raised, his cloak pressed against his frame by the rain. The wolf-shaped clasp at his chest glinted when lightning cracked overhead, drawing an occasional stare. None challenged him. They knew the look of a young Sith.
He slowed when he reached one of the bridges that crossed a swollen river of traffic. The storm-worn towers rose around him, their windows glowing with pale light. Beyond them, massive and unyielding, stood Prazutis' palace. Its silhouette cut through the storm with sharp defiance. Aerik let his gaze linger there. It was a monument to the strength of another, but also a reminder of what waited for those who proved themselves.
Pulling his cloak tighter, he continued down into another district where the streets narrowed and the lights dimmed. The smell of wet stone mixed with the sharp tang of fuel and the faint copper of blood. Somewhere in the alleys a fight had broken out. Voices shouted and steel clashed, but Aerik did not turn. Such things happened every night. To intervene without purpose would only waste his strength.
He turned instead toward the starport. It was not his destination when he set out, but his wandering steps drew him closer. The storm thickened there, rain hammering against the wide expanse of landing pads and docking towers. Shuttles lifted and descended in constant rhythm, their engines cutting through the roar of thunder.
Then he saw it.
A ship pierced the clouds above, fighting the weight of the storm as it descended. Its engines blazed bright against the dark, driving through wind and rain with stubborn resolve. Aerik's eyes narrowed. The shape was wrong for Sith, wrong for Imperial. The hull bore strong lines and carved patterns that stirred something deep in memory. It was the work of the Valkyri.
He stopped at the edge of a platform to watch it descend. His cloak snapped in the wind, water streaming down its fur-trimmed collar. For a long breath he stood still, the world narrowing until there was only the sight of the vessel cutting through the storm.
When its landing struts struck the platform, steam rose in thick clouds. The gathered crowd murmured in surprise. Some stepped back, uncertain. Valkyri ships were rare this far south in the galaxy, and rarer still here, where the shadow of the Order was strongest.
Aerik moved forward, his boots striking wet stone as he crossed the open space. He had not come here seeking anything, yet now the storm seemed to have guided his wandering steps. The people around him parted as he passed. Some whispered. Others only watched, unwilling to stand in the way of a young Sith whose stride carried the weight of purpose.
The ship hissed as its ramp lowered. Pale light spilled onto the platform, cutting through the storm for a fleeting moment. Aerik's breath steadied. He reached with his senses, searching the air for intent. What came to him was more than the scent of metal or oil. It was older, heavier, something that spoke to blood and memory.
The storm paused for the briefest instant, thunder holding back as if waiting to hear what would follow.
Aerik stood at the foot of the landing pad, his cloak heavy with rain, his gaze fixed on the glow within the Valkyri vessel. His day of wandering had led him here, to this moment. Whatever emerged from that ship would not be chance. It would be challenge, or test, or perhaps fate itself.