So, I write, and I figure this would be a good way of getting it out there, eventually. This is the first part of the first chapter. If you're interested in reading more, do let me know. I can get that to you.
Darth
Ruin, Lord of the Sith, stepped forward, his pale skin glowing in the spot
light, his violet cloak wrapped around his shoulders loosely. His fingers brushed against the stone
wall, releasing tendrils of energy into the cavern to grasp the nature of his
surroundings. This was indeed a
very old and evil place.
Master…Master…
The
wall echoed his energy, calling his name, eager to divulge its secrets. It seethed with the hatred of its
long-dead masters. Jagged scrawl
marred its every inch, the testament of tortured souls enslaved by the ancients
and drugged until they saw nothing but the future.
The
spotlight moved before him of its own accord, tracing his silhouette against
the wall so that he could see what the poor souls had written in their
madness. As he walked along the
cavern, he could feel it drawing closer, the object of his fascination, like a
second pulse in his chest, as intoxicating as the fear and rage he used to fuel
his extraordinary powers.
Be mindful of your feelings, Lord Ruin, lest
they betray you.
His
hand drew away from the wall momentarily, retracted as if shocked by some kind
of electrical current. He took in
all that was written before him, all that was highlighted by his spotlight,
every curve and point of the graffiti, noting that there were several layers of
it overlapping upon the stone, and his lips drew up into a sneer. Apparently there had been several
different masters of this chamber, each one likely the murderer of his
predecessor. Such was the way of
his ancestral Sith: the strong alone should rule. Weakness was punishable by a swift death.
But you are not them. You will not fail as they did.
“Focus. Control. Logic.”
He
more breathed the mantra than said it, content with the words being barely
audible. Even still, alone and
underground, the whispers echoed off the stone and began to mingle with the
strained cries of the prophecy he was searching for.
Remember why you came to Tython.
Without
hesitation, but with much more restraint, he placed his hand against the wall
again, dangling his mind out past his fingertips like a worm on a hook. The wall took hold, biting into his
consciousness, tearing him into compressive darkness.
And
still, he walked with practiced grace, slowly moving along the stone, eyes
closed, breath kept tightly to himself, his other hand clasped against his
chest, tucked inside his robes. He
resembled an elderly diplomat, using the wall for support as if his legs lacked
the strength to hold himself upright.
In fact, he was leaning against the stone at an unnatural angle as if
gravity had shifted all of the sudden to accommodate his eagerness.
He
twisted the very fabric of nature, destroying the laws of science, an ability
given to him by his prowess with the Force, the energy of all things, which
permeated through the Galaxy. Like
the tortured souls that wrote the scrawl, he enslaved it to his will. He lured the prophecy in, pulling his
eyes open with great effort so that he could see this thing that had drawn him
here to Tython.
At
that very moment, a bright ping sounded in his mind, and he recoiled,
simultaneously surprised by the noise and disgusted with himself that he could
be so careless. Instead of seeing
the prophecy’s marker, his vision was stolen by a ball of a bright white light
burrowing through the layers of sediment into his cavern.
He
tuned his mind to the disturbance as if he was peering into the epicenter of a
ripple on a placid pond, slowing focusing in on the source of danger that had
jarred him from his objective. Its
edges coalesced in to a muscular mass of fur and fangs, confirming his
suspicions as to whom had followed him here, whom it was that caused the ping
in the Force.
Snarling
wildly under his breath, his movements lost their fluidity, stagnated by panic
and desperation as he searched for the prophecy. The spotlight jumped and danced around the wall as he lost
his grip on the Force completely.
Control, Lord Ruin!
But
his mind went off again, this time more of a scream than a ping, wrenching his
thoughts away from the chamber again.
He tapped into the Force once more, scanning past the ball of light to a
second shape which was moving behind it, storming down the tunnels like the
bright light’s tail. This was
darker, a fuzzier gray shape that would not come together even under the Sith
Lord’s intense scrutiny.
It is over. This is a fight that you cannot win.
Always
a man to play the odds, he swatted the air haphazardly, and the spotlight
seemed to follow the motion, cascading against the wall and then tumbling into
the floor. Just as his enemy
reached the opposite end of the chamber, the harsh, fluorescent light gasped
and sparked, shorting out in a puff of smoke.
NOTE: LUCASFILM CO. OWNS ALL OF STAR WARS, AND
THE ASSOCIATED EXPANDED UNIVERSE, NOT ME.
I DO NOT WANT ANYONE TO THINK OTHERWISE.
All the characters in this story (except for
Darth Ruin) are of my own creation and are original works belonging to Bryan
Richard Thurston (me). Any of the
surrounding canon mentioned belongs to Lucasfilm Inc. (Darth Revan, Aurek
fighters, Coruscant, etc) and are products of previous authors. See Wookieepedia for a detail of who
owns what.
