ʜᴄ sᴠɴᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏɴᴇs
Trystis glowered at the manuscript. It was a sheaf of freshly printed papers, images of a crumbling text too fragile to be handled without the most delicate applications of the Force. And it was nonsense. He knew High Sith, or at least enough to get the gist of things most of the time. But whoever wrote this confounded translation. Sentences stopped and started independent of punctuation, and dialects shifted like ice flows on Hoth. It was encoded - and it would take time.
Aside from himself, this particular subsection of the libraries of Coruscant's Sith Academy was empty. In these chaotic times, an Acolyte's life was busy. He was, according to his mistress, not yet fit to fight however. His mind had been split open and trampled, and these things took time.
Not yet ready for the brutality of full Dark Side training, he simply sat here with his book. Irritated, confused. But he couldn't just allow himself to stagnate. He had to constantly grow his power, even if mentally injured.
So turning the page, he sighed. Well, he thought, it could be worse.
[member="Sage Bane"]
Aside from himself, this particular subsection of the libraries of Coruscant's Sith Academy was empty. In these chaotic times, an Acolyte's life was busy. He was, according to his mistress, not yet fit to fight however. His mind had been split open and trampled, and these things took time.
Not yet ready for the brutality of full Dark Side training, he simply sat here with his book. Irritated, confused. But he couldn't just allow himself to stagnate. He had to constantly grow his power, even if mentally injured.
So turning the page, he sighed. Well, he thought, it could be worse.
[member="Sage Bane"]