ʜᴄ sᴠɴᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏɴᴇs
On the flayed planet of Uribin, the only thing that so much as aspires towards civilization is a glorified theater for monsters to dress in the trappings of society and act in cruel mockery towards the past, present, future. They drink fresh blood out of crystal goblets and play at courtly murder in a deft dance of poison and betrayal, the compose poetry out of the screams of victims, and plumb the depths of the Force's self-indulgence. Even in that place, however, there is conventional wisdom. There is common knowledge. Some things are understood without being written or said, and chiefest amongst these was that one respects the catacombs that wind through the ponderous depths of the world's inner crust. Stick to the pathways carved by mortal hands, or else bring much light with you and wire, and signalcasters to find one's way back. Trust nothing in the deep, winding caves, seen or unseen.
Darth Il was excepted from this. Did he trust the caverns? No. But his black heart was devoid of fear of them. Even as Sith that likewise tried their luck disappeared, or returned, raving and white-haired, he felt only certainty - not the warm certainty of bravery, perhaps, but the icy surety of objectivity. As he wound through yet another nameless cavern, the Givin stopped briefly to take stock of his location - with the Force's power, he read the subtle pull of electromagnetism, the shifts in the pressure of the air, waves travelling through the stone and refracting - in front of his empty eyes, an invisible rainbow unfolded, and confirmed his suspicions as to what was there.
No - what wasn't there. There was an emptiness, skewed towards the surface, one that was absent on previous geographic surveys. Perhaps close enough for pores to let sunlight through, though the soil was barren sand. He put his hand against a wall of pallid, igneous rock and reached out with his perception: there was a faint trickling of water.
"For centuries, we wait, thinking this world utterly barren, and being entirely correct... only now that we leave, you wish to reveal your secrets to us, dead world?"
Of course, Il would not be persuaded to stay. He could not be - not when he had his mission. His plans. Still, if Uribin yielded up things for the Dark Lord to take, he would seize them mercilessly. The figure swept back its dark travelling robes, revealing his species' trademark skeletal guise. Raising his hand for a moment, it considered wielding the Force against the barrier before it - no, no need to waste his power on such menial things. To do so would degrade himself.
Two strikes of Il's saber and the substance yielded, instability collapsing the thinnest part of it to something halfway between rubble and sand. Beady eyes buried deep in their sockets widened at what lay behind it. Petrified, yes, ancient, dead, but still something he had not seen in the wild for his entire life, that none had seen in the wild for so very long.
Trees.
[member="Faa Vera"]
