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6/9/2025, 10:25:35 PM
You have never been a Sith sycophant; they were rare on the station, being so far removed from the lords of the dark side. Their needless cruelty, malice and exploitation was something that always forced up mental images of those that bullied you relentlessly. But… this is your chance to be something, to live, rather than to be the butt of every joke, to be the recipient of every scowl and the one everyone turns to blame. You want this. You want power, wealth, women, fucking everything that you’ve been robbed of these last eighteen years. You will become Sith.
This is your first trial, and you will arrive first, showing your new teachers that you are a worthy addition to their cohort. Pumping your legs harder, you easily sprint past the unorganised mass, leaving them behind. Only do you slow when the collection of naked beings is long out of sight. With all the sound they make, you wouldn’t be surprised if they call a rancor. The sound dims until it is totally swallowed by the great forest that has enveloped you.
High above, the ancient trees stretch out with their branches, crafting a canopy of darkness. Small shards of light weasel their way through the foliage onto the forest floor. You don’t like this; the place feels sick. It feels infected with a foul presence that is watching you from the zoid. Branches and thorns nip at your exposed flesh, scoring small lines of blood, almost indiscernible against your skin. Your head constantly swivels from side to side, making sure there is nothing around lurking in the darkness. Regressing to a jog, you reduce your speed to keep the energy to fight back against anything or anyone that would do you harm.
Slowly, a heavy cloud of fog materialises, sitting on the forest floor, subsuming the shrubbery in the fog’s embrace. With the theft of light, the temperature here is far from the earlier warmth gifted by the unbroken rays of the sun. Each footfall disturbs the knee-high blanket of fog, sending ripples through the surface. You ball your fists, preparing to strike at anything that would ambush you in the night. Your right-hand aches a familiar discomfort; your smallest knuckle was broken in a street fight not two years ago and has healed incorrectly. It serves as a constant reminder that skulls are harder than fists.
A bird whistles a short warbling note above the forest floor, far out of sight. Singing to find its kin, you would wager. You do not like how it breaks the silence of this forest. You do not like the silence of the forest in the first place; where is all the life? Trees this large and spaced out could easily hide great beasts from sentient hunters that scour the galaxy for impressive trophies. Your feet bring you pain as your soles are scraped raw by the vegetation hidden by the fog.
This is your first trial, and you will arrive first, showing your new teachers that you are a worthy addition to their cohort. Pumping your legs harder, you easily sprint past the unorganised mass, leaving them behind. Only do you slow when the collection of naked beings is long out of sight. With all the sound they make, you wouldn’t be surprised if they call a rancor. The sound dims until it is totally swallowed by the great forest that has enveloped you.
High above, the ancient trees stretch out with their branches, crafting a canopy of darkness. Small shards of light weasel their way through the foliage onto the forest floor. You don’t like this; the place feels sick. It feels infected with a foul presence that is watching you from the zoid. Branches and thorns nip at your exposed flesh, scoring small lines of blood, almost indiscernible against your skin. Your head constantly swivels from side to side, making sure there is nothing around lurking in the darkness. Regressing to a jog, you reduce your speed to keep the energy to fight back against anything or anyone that would do you harm.
Slowly, a heavy cloud of fog materialises, sitting on the forest floor, subsuming the shrubbery in the fog’s embrace. With the theft of light, the temperature here is far from the earlier warmth gifted by the unbroken rays of the sun. Each footfall disturbs the knee-high blanket of fog, sending ripples through the surface. You ball your fists, preparing to strike at anything that would ambush you in the night. Your right-hand aches a familiar discomfort; your smallest knuckle was broken in a street fight not two years ago and has healed incorrectly. It serves as a constant reminder that skulls are harder than fists.
A bird whistles a short warbling note above the forest floor, far out of sight. Singing to find its kin, you would wager. You do not like how it breaks the silence of this forest. You do not like the silence of the forest in the first place; where is all the life? Trees this large and spaced out could easily hide great beasts from sentient hunters that scour the galaxy for impressive trophies. Your feet bring you pain as your soles are scraped raw by the vegetation hidden by the fog.
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