First Reply Sand Swept Plains

[Darth Virelia]

"Dark Tombs"

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The red wastes of Korriban stretched endless beneath the bruised sky. Rust-colored winds stirred the sand into veils, hissing against the jagged cliffs and statues carved by hands long since dust. The planet was alive with memory—every stone, every broken obelisk whispering of conquest and betrayal. For most, the voices were a curse. For her, they were an invitation.

Darth Virelia stood at the mouth of the ravine, still as the statues that loomed over her, a silhouette in obsidian armor. Tyrant's Embrace gleamed faintly under the storm's half-light, violet filigree catching the glow of a dying sun. The helm's six insectile eyes reflected the dunes, cold and watchful. She did not move at once. Preparation was never haste; it was ritual.

Her gauntlet unclasped the vial at her belt, lifting it with deliberate grace. Inside shimmered a violet liquid alchemized to sharpen focus and fortify will. She uncapped it, letting the metallic scent curl into the storm before touching a single drop to her tongue. The taste was sharp, electric, a reminder of discipline over indulgence. She let the strength settle into her blood before sealing the vial again.

The tomb's entrance yawned before her at the ravine's end: a maw of black stone carved with glyphs whose edges had not dulled in ten thousand years. Its shape was unmistakably Rakatan, though the Sith had claimed it and reshaped it into their own legacy. To cross the threshold was to step not only into darkness, but into the judgment of those who came before. She intended to be judged worthy—or to defy the judgment entirely.

Slowly, she removed her helm, cradling it under one arm. Neon violet eyes burned against the storm as her lips curved into something between smile and snarl. The air tasted of iron and old blood. Her hair, black as wet ink, lashed in the wind, yet she remained composed, elegant, untouchable.

Her voice was a whisper drowned by the storm, spoken not for the air but for the stone itself:
"Let them remember."

The Force coiled around her like a living serpent. Every step forward stirred its hunger; every step forward deepened her own. She was not a pilgrim, nor a supplicant. She was a sovereign come to claim what was hers by inevitability.

Behind her, the sands scoured away her footprints. Ahead, the black mouth of the tomb awaited, silent but expectant. Somewhere inside, power lay buried—forgotten, perhaps even cursed. But curses meant nothing to her. What was a curse, but another chain to break?

Darth Virelia adjusted the gauntlet on her hand, tightened the strap of her blade, and stepped toward the dark.

The tomb swallowed light. She would not bring a torch. She would not need one.

For in that endless black, her eyes burned violet, and they would be enough.

 

[Veyra Shuun]

Tag: Darth Virelia

A lone ship cut low through the red haze, its hull groaning against Korriban's turbulent winds before it skimmed the canyon floor. The ramp lowered, and Veyra stepped into the storm without ceremony. Rust-colored dust clawed at her cloak, snapping it against her legs, but she moved with the casual poise of someone who had walked hostile worlds before. She went alone of course, her crew of cowards were never bold enough to travel with her. She don’t care, it saved her time.

Her goggles flickered green as it swept the landscape, recording, measuring, cataloging. The readouts meant little to,l her, but she had a good feeling about this place. What mattered was ahead: the dark maw of a tomb, its glyphs untouched by erosion, its contents perhaps still bountiful after a millennia. Power buried deep, waiting for hands bold-or perhaps foolish-enough to steal it. Those hands of course, would be hers.

Veyra touched the hilt of her saber for reassurance, then let her hand fall away. Not yet. The weapon was for exits, not entrances. She had no need for noise. Not when she had nerve. She did spent a moment in awe of the patterns carved into stone, some being older than the many governments she had come to know.

The storm howled, drowning all other sound, but she imagined the tomb whispering beneath it; something was calling her closer, daring her. Or was it her imagination?

"If this a warning, it won’t work," She muttered under her breath, lips quirking into a grin. "Never learned Sith."

She strode forward, boots sinking into the dust. Behind her, the ships engines powered down to a waiting silence, leaving her alone with the storm, the statues, and the promise of whatever lay entombed in blackness.

Veyra didn't hesitate. Especially when she probably should have. The tomb's shadow reached for her, and she in kind stepped forward to let it envelop her.

A bounty of power awaited her.