Mudshovel

[Zak Dymo]

K O R R I B A N

The winds blew from out of the mouth of the cavernous chasm which seemed to spread as a great scar across a swath of solid rock. Red dust painted the landscape in a pink haze, as the breeze brought with it a chill which seemed to permeate the soul. Arms resting against the handlebars to racing swoop, the boy's unkempt mass of violet hair flitted in the air as gilded eyes stared out over a valley that was far older than any who lived know might believe. A sea of tombs and memorials, graves and altars to kings and those who would hold dominion over more than just mortal man.

A monument to Sith achievement, the end and the beginning to the wisdom of the Dark Side.

Perhaps that was the lesson that the boy's master had sent him to Korriban to learn, but the Force was not the only transcendental reality the boy had encountered while here. The other was perhaps even more important to him, and infinitely more personal. He'd been introduced to the Force at the age of seven, but he'd been Primeval since he'd been born. As an infant, he'd been presented as an offering to the Old Gods in accordance with rites and traditions that were ancient when the galaxy had still been young. The three yellow 'rays' on either side of his face were reminders of the three gods of Sargon's creation; the Starmaker, the Dead One, the Broken Creator.

In many ways, the boy never thought about why he was Sith. His master would kill him if he didn't what he was told, so he'd simply done it. Never thinking about what he was doing. Perhaps that was the answer. He was Sith because he'd been too afraid of his master then. A seven year old orphan given a choice to serve or die. Boo only continued serving because he wasn't certain what else he'd be doing otherwise. He didn't want to go back to pickpocketing on Coruscant, if for no other reason than because that was how he'd gotten into his current predicament to begin with.

He wasn't afraid anymore though. He knew -- he'd known for awhile now -- that his master intended to kill him. It was an adage as old as the Sith or the Jedi. The first rule of assassination is kill the assassin. So while Boo might have thought he served at his own convenience, it was the other way around.

But what else did the boy have, save for a faith handed down to him by parents who had left him to fend for himself in the ghettos of Coruscant?

And yet, here he was. Here they were. Faith, it seemed, had found a way. Or perhaps faith had found him.

Sliding down from off the speeder bike, the blue-skinned youth unhooked the gunbelt that he wore. Tossing the weapons into the speerder, the tweenage youth turned toward a stout Bothan and asked the only thing he knew of that was worth living for. "How can I serve the Prophet?"

---

[member="Tyro'din"]

 

[Tyro'din]

Tyro'din stood stoicly staring out over the planes of Korriban, disgust curling through his stomach. The Bothan was an assassin, slicer and agent but he still held one love in his heart. The loved of beauty. He admired beauty in all forms, be it of the flesh or of nature, and always hated seeing the beauty spoiled or seeing sights that held no beauty in them. To him the sprawling, scarred, barren plains of the freezing desert that Korriban's surface comprised of was an affront and insult to the beauty he held dear. However, non of his feeling were reflected upon his face.

The winds of the planet whipped around Tyro'din, carry with them the sounds of an approaching speeder and ruffling his outfit. he was currently wearing a leather tunic and matching trousers. Around his waist was a belt from which numerous pouches hung, each one filled with equipment. His feet were bear. A mask covered half of his face. Tied to each thigh was a holster containing blasters and scattered through out his person were numerous vibroknives of varying lengths.

No movement was made by Tyro'din for several minutes after the boy had address him, he just continued to stare out over the sand. However, despite his calm appearance, Tyro'din was waging a war within his own mind. He understood duty in all forms and his current duty was to assess the boy that had just arrived for introduction into the Bleeding Sun, however he was still a child no matter his upbringing and children were a soft spot for the Bothan, a weakness born from his desire for family, a desire that he kept hidden even from himself.

Eventually the Bothan moved, sighing slightly as duty won out in the end. He span around sharply to look down at the boy. "To start with, boy, you will address me as 'Sir'. No other forms of address are allowed during your assessment. Failure of this will go a ways in revealing your nature and may work against you. Understood?"

Without waiting for the reply from the child, he turned and made his way into a near by cave. Tyro'din had not just stood waiting until the boy had arrived, he had mapped out the cave network and added a few features to help with the testing.


[member="Boo Chiyo"]

 

[Zak Dymo]

The Bothan was armed for a fight.

Just what kind of fight, the Pantoran couldn't have said. Blasters, vibroknives. A lot of vibroknives. It seemed the feral lord was geared for close combat. A specialty? A preference perhaps? The variety of knives was made even more interesting by the missing eye, and the scar which trailed down the man's face in it's place. Tales of a knife fight? Or the memory of some great beast's claw? The latter image almost seemed to suit the stranger before him. The golden furred Bothan seemed to have the build for grappling, either in the wild or the sprawling urban jungles of worlds like Coruscant. Which was something enviable. Despite having only an added foot on the Pantoran's height, the man looked as though he was at least forty kilos heavier than the youth.

Any match in which Boo grappled with an opponent was a match he'd already lost.

"To start with, boy, you will address me as 'Sir,'" the Bothan said, at last speaking to him. Or, at least speaking to him, even if it was speaking down to him.

A darkness moved within the child. Cold and resolute as it stirred an anger in the blood. Sir. Master. Lord. All the adults in his life had very intractable notions of their own importance. And a clearly articulated idea that he wasn't important. So what was he then? The answer always seemed to be a convenience for them. They taught him to steal for them. Or to kill for them. It was all one in the same really. Doing the work which the adults felt they were too important to undertake. The boy gave no outward indication of this frustration, though the warmth seemed to leave his eyes as he looked up at the Bothan.

"Yes, sir," the boy answered submissively. A rote gesture. Spitting expected pleasantries and swallowing the bile that rose on the back of his throat as he said them.

He wanted to kill this Bothan. But this was neither the place nor the time. The one adult to whom Boo felt fealty of any measure was the Prophet. If this Bothan could help the boy to serve his religion, or even learn more about transforming faith into labors for the Old Gods, then the Pantoran could swallow pride a little longer.

He'd been doing that his whole life, barely noticing the bitter taste anymore.

As the Bothan departed for the opening to a cave, the boy reconsidered his decision to disarm. Stretching back with one hand, the youth reached back through the Force to find his lightsaber. Pulling that to him, the belt and equipment to which it was attached came to him. Slipping the belt around his waist, the Pantoran's silver and black lightsaber hung just behind his left hip. A Czerka T-3 blaster and a set of vibroknucklers filled out the remainder of the pouches and equipment loops on the belt.

He'd just finished buckling the belt when he came to a stop just inside of the cavernous mouth, awaiting instructions. Closing his eyes, the boy prayed silently. He would speak when spoken to. It was probably what the Bothan wanted, or expected. And the best way to avoid telling this man to e chu ta.

---

[member="Tyro'din"]

 

[Tyro'din]

As Tyro'din turned to address the boy, he smirked mentally. While the boy had submitted to his authority there were signs of a strong will beneath that, something that Tyro'din liked in a person, he hated those that bowed to every command given to them and exhibited no free will, acting as only drones.

However non of his thoughts could be seen on his face as they were concealed behind a stoic mask. "First things first, I want a full listing of your abilities in combat along with a short assessment on your personal opinion about how skilled you are in those abilities."


[member="Boo Chiyo"]
OOC: Sorry that this is so short, I was honestly stuck for ideas on what to put. Sorry.

 

[Zak Dymo]

A direct question.

The Pantoran monk could appreciate the frankness of that. It dispensed with the usual pleasantries quite nicely. "Sir, I was trained in the Dark Side of the Force by my master, Scorpius," the youth answered in the same matter-of-fact tone of voice. Rested his hands on his hips, where they had ready access to the sheathed vibroknucklers, the boy added, "I am well versed in Teras Kasi, as well as three forms of lightsaber combat. I have mastered the fourth form, Ataru, and am comfortable to a lesser degree with the fifth, Shien. My master uses the seventh, Juyo, and I am somewhat familiar with it, but I admit that I try to avoid direct or drawn-out encounters where it would be of use."

The boy was a monster. He knew it, and he hadn't asked to become what he was. But he'd also never had any choice in the matter.

"I was a pickpocket when my master found me, and I am skilled in the arts of subterfuge and assassination," the boy remarked coldly. He wasn't proud of the things he'd done, but he was confident about his abilities. "As a sniper, I am adept at predicting the movement of my target. I race speeder bikes to train my reflexes, and am capable of flying a variety of air and space craft."

That covered the expected parts. "I have practiced zero gravity combat and working outside of a ship in space," the monk went on to add, which he imagined might be a little out of the ordinary. And he was grateful it wasn't any more ordinary. Throwing up in a space helmet was never a good experience. "But I confess I have difficulties with sickness when in zero gravity, sir."

That more or less left the matter of personal opinion. "In combat, my strengths lie in either using the element of surprise to quickly neutralize a target or being underestimated by my opponent," the boy remarked candidly. He knew what his weaknesses were, and played to his strengths at any opportunity. "To that end, I favor blasters so not to reveal myself as a trained Force user," he confessed, briefly patting the Czerka blaster pistol at his side as he spoke.

And that was almost everything there was to know about the orphan from Coruscant.

Now could they stop talking and get down to the test? Boo was interested to see what kind of skills this Bothan had, and wasn't interested in talking about them.

---

[member="Tyro'din"]