Elijah Black
Roll of the dice
The galaxy was a cold, dark expanse. For all the knowledge and discoveries of the enlightened sentient, more than what was known remained uncovered. With so many places to hide, one hardly had to try very hard to remain unseen. This was one such place, where those who wished to avoid prying eyes, particularly those of the moral being, came to hide.
In the shadows they made sin. Sometimes for their own satisfaction and amusement. But mostly in pursuit of their all-consuming goal. Distorted, dark and misguided, but the crack of their leader's whip kept them from seeing it, kept them hunting. The fresh meat presented gave the illusion of progress, and kept the skin on their bones.
These wretched creatures were not Sith, but they were a cult that shared many similarities. In particular their absolute devotion to the Dark Side of the Force. A mixture of Sith and Witches of Dathomir, perhaps, with a macabre tendency towards blood and dismemberment as a focal point of their rituals. It was a practice that required a steady stream of bodies. The young Jedi Knight could only lament that it had taken her this long to track them down. But inevitably their hunger created a pattern and tracks to cover.
This was no place for Padawans. The untrained one remained on Ithor, under the watchful care of Herron. One day the pair would work on self-assigned missions such as this. For all her Padawan had seen and endured, Zylah did not wish her to see this. She was not ready.
The wind carried with it a hollow rustle through the remaining stumps of charred trees. Ash and dust danced lightly atop the scarred surface. She moved in tune with the echoes of the planet. It became an ally, merging their sound with hers. So far she had remained uncovered. The cover of darkness helped as well. Her silver white skin and matching hair, tied together into a tight ponytail with a simple, white cloth, had a tendency to stand out. Well hidden by the dark brown robes she wore, as well as the wide hood, her features remained a mystery, at least from a distance.
The closer she got to the camp, however, the more challenging this became. Creeping up, inch by inch was one thing. Now she stood before the artificial constructs and illumination meant to keep them safe, and unwanted visitors, in this case meaning her, out. She had lost track of how long she had been her already. Hours, to be sure. Her snubfighter tucked away at a distance from here. Carefully, utilising all her knowledge, she had silently approached after carefully scouting the area. Everything could be undone in a moment, but she did not lose focus. She was a Jedi, after all.
Her hand fell instinctively to the hilt of her lightsaber. The dark shape of brown swiftly turned the corner, and slipped in through the gates during the brief moment where the sentry looked away. It worked to her benefit that their first line of defence were not walls and turrets, but rather the fact that the location of their base remained a secret. She would not need her blade, yet.
In the shadows they made sin. Sometimes for their own satisfaction and amusement. But mostly in pursuit of their all-consuming goal. Distorted, dark and misguided, but the crack of their leader's whip kept them from seeing it, kept them hunting. The fresh meat presented gave the illusion of progress, and kept the skin on their bones.
These wretched creatures were not Sith, but they were a cult that shared many similarities. In particular their absolute devotion to the Dark Side of the Force. A mixture of Sith and Witches of Dathomir, perhaps, with a macabre tendency towards blood and dismemberment as a focal point of their rituals. It was a practice that required a steady stream of bodies. The young Jedi Knight could only lament that it had taken her this long to track them down. But inevitably their hunger created a pattern and tracks to cover.
This was no place for Padawans. The untrained one remained on Ithor, under the watchful care of Herron. One day the pair would work on self-assigned missions such as this. For all her Padawan had seen and endured, Zylah did not wish her to see this. She was not ready.
The wind carried with it a hollow rustle through the remaining stumps of charred trees. Ash and dust danced lightly atop the scarred surface. She moved in tune with the echoes of the planet. It became an ally, merging their sound with hers. So far she had remained uncovered. The cover of darkness helped as well. Her silver white skin and matching hair, tied together into a tight ponytail with a simple, white cloth, had a tendency to stand out. Well hidden by the dark brown robes she wore, as well as the wide hood, her features remained a mystery, at least from a distance.
The closer she got to the camp, however, the more challenging this became. Creeping up, inch by inch was one thing. Now she stood before the artificial constructs and illumination meant to keep them safe, and unwanted visitors, in this case meaning her, out. She had lost track of how long she had been her already. Hours, to be sure. Her snubfighter tucked away at a distance from here. Carefully, utilising all her knowledge, she had silently approached after carefully scouting the area. Everything could be undone in a moment, but she did not lose focus. She was a Jedi, after all.
Her hand fell instinctively to the hilt of her lightsaber. The dark shape of brown swiftly turned the corner, and slipped in through the gates during the brief moment where the sentry looked away. It worked to her benefit that their first line of defence were not walls and turrets, but rather the fact that the location of their base remained a secret. She would not need her blade, yet.
[member="Michael Sardun"]