Chapter Text
“...we’re running on fire!”
“We are unarmed! Repeat, we are un-armed!”
“--one three one, we’re on fire! Emergency, we--”
“No, sir, I cannot. My orders are to--”
“...central station is under attack!”
“--second wave is coming in. We have no defenses!”
“Is this channel operative?”
“Fighters coming in, point seven--”
“--five on you!”
“Do any of you copy?”
“We are unarmed!”
“...we’re hit, we’re hit!”
“Watch your back!”
“They aren’t even trying to jam our signals!”
“Republic fleet, we surrender, repeat, we surrender!”
“--vessels unarmed!”
Waking did not happen in stages. Not for him. One moment the void of sleep, the next was awareness of his surroundings. His breathing was still deep and even. His limbs and body were lax. Sound around him was uninterrupted. There were no eyes on him. Even without prompting or necessity, he ran through the check-list. Enclosed space. Live beings nearby. Count them. Rustles. Sudden breaths. Three...five, six...seven. Distances, all acceptable for close quarters.
Finally, he allowed his breathing to return to normal, quickening to conscious tells. A few more moments and his eyes opened. He blinked although he only needed a second to focus. Eyes turned toward him. He felt them. He chose to note them and ignore them. Pushing himself upright a little, he resettled himself against the seat he was strapped into. The eyes lingered. He counted while blinking again as he looked around with every indication of one newly woken. The eyes turned away.
Making eye contact was an invitation, a challenge, a threat, a promise. It was a simple, natural thing that he had certainly never thought much about before. Oh, he knew how dangerous a weapon a look could be. He had been trained to. That training had not really taken true hold until recently. Now, he was surrounded by it. He could not escape it. And he found himself shaken to his core just how powerful, raw, and base that awareness was. He no longer just knew, he knew. And that knowledge had to be carefully controlled.
His fellow “cargo” were slaves. Each of them strapped into their seats. The restraints were locked by their guards. The keys to which were with the single overseer seated in the forward compartment of the transport. Not that there would be any issues now. Unlike prior. There had been a total of one dozen--including himself--before being dragged to the shuttle. Their number was now down to eight. Not due to the actions of the guards. Treat a sentient like a beast long enough, they will become one. Thus the locked restraints and the overseer watching them all. A Sith overseer.
Sith. The overseer wore a mask and armor. Neither of which had so much as hinted to their gender. That was fine. Insignificant. Just as insignificant as eye contact. That was not done by slaves. Not to Sith. Slaves cowered and kept their heads down, kept their silence. He had elected to choose to keep his own head down as a matter of prudence. Blend in. Not that he could. The slaves knew he was not one of them despite his blue skin branding him alien. But the Imperials only saw the skin, he was nothing but another alien to them.
This cargo had slightly more value than the average shipment of fodder. They were destined for a different sort of fodder. Living chattel for the Sith Academy. In that, he had more than just one leg up on the rest. He possessed the education to know just what the Sith were. Not just fearsome, magic-wielding terrors beyond mere mortals. No. He knew . Of course, he also realized that just like eye contact...he knew, but did not know everything. Perhaps it was just enough to give him a chance of surviving this particular challenge. Enough to do what he needed to do.
Attention was on him again. This time, it was from another direction. Not the cargo. He decided to notice. His eyes rose to meet the masked visage of the Sith in the front of the ship. They were staring at him. It was somehow different from the weight carried by merely an intense stare. He could sense the challenge even if there was no face to read. Weighing his options, he made a snap decision. Instead of breaking the gaze, he lifted his head and met it straight on with a challenge of his own.
It was...he was not sure what it was. The intensity increased as if the air itself was becoming earth pressing downward. His breath stuttered. It was not his imagination. The air was just being sucked away. A spark of alarm ignited. Rather than bow his head to the extremely subtle flex of power, his own eyes narrowed. Curling his right hand into a fist upon the arm of the chair he was locked into, he forced his own lungs to expand as if correcting his body after being winded. The air was sluggish, resistant, but he took the breath as deeply as he could despite how slow it was.
The Sith’s head tilted slightly. The air suddenly rushed back to normal, pressure abating. Exhaling in that same measured control, he allowed his eyes to blink. The pressure did not return. The intense focus faded. The Sith turned their attention elsewhere. It had been a test. He was certain of it. While others might debate whether he had passed or not, it did not matter. Whatever his response had been, the overseer was apparently satisfied with it. Good. He had to remain cautious.
He chose to ignore the choked sounds from somewhere further in the back of the transport. The ship itself chose to shudder slightly a few heartbeats later. He recognized both the shudder and the shift of cabin pressure. They had just entered the atmosphere of a planet. Uncurling his fist, he relaxed his posture and settled down a little further into his seat. Turbulence hit them several more times before he all but felt the shift of pressure again as the transport slowed. He did little more than bow his head at the thump of landing.
The overseer rose after the guards did. Restraints were being unlocked. The cargo was being unloaded. What he did not expect was that the Sith themselves came to unlock his harness. A strange sensation filled the air around him almost like an odor--a smell. Yet, it was nothing so tangible. Proximity, most likely. But where the rest of the cargo was being herded with callous regard and likely a lot of unnecessary shoving, the overseer was...lingering.
“Darth Jadus,” came the inhuman voice.
Blinking, he frowned at the two words. Turning his attention back to the Sith, he said nothing.
“That is the name you are to remember, Chiss.”
The Sith withdrew then and turned away without any indication they had said anything. A sharp shove came from behind, making his seat back lurch. Rising immediately at the very clear if unspoken command, he turned to move after the slaves. Only one guard was lingering. The others were already moving deeper into the back with the non-sentient cargo was locked down. Special treatment then, as slight and simple a thing as it was. Dangerous. He was the last to disembark.
A strange mix of cold and scorching air struck his face. Sand left stinging trails over his unprotected face. While the sun was up, it was far enough overhead that it did not blind him as badly as it might have. Sand indeed. Gold mixed with red the hue of new rust. Patches of brown marked dead fauna that still sported strange little white flowers among the thorn-laden grass-like stems. The place felt...oppressive but empty. Empty, yet... The wind came again only it seemed to bend around him. He took a slow, deep breath of it.
No. Not empty. He could not identify all the scents, but this planet was not a dead one. And he was not sure if it was this great Force or simply his own reasoning. Either way, he turned his red eyes toward the slaves that had clustered into a ragged group at the base of the ramp that led up to the transport. He moved forward to join them at his own pace. And he was not the only one. A human male with pale skin marked in red ink that made his brown hair dull in comparison was coming through the static field glowing across a doorway. If any sand did enter the building, it would not be driven there by the wind.
Even as the rest huddled in a mixture of fear and faux bravery, he focused on the man. The overseer no doubt. While the slaves were torn between habits accrued over a lifetime of survival in the face of cruelty and servitude or attempting to portray their various visions of how potential Sith were supposed to behave, he had no problem. His head was high and his shoulders squared. He may be cast into the same lot, but he was not one of them. He was a pariah. Nameless. Homeless. Friendless. But he would meet this challenge the same way he met all challenges. Without blinking.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
“Ah,” the human said, “The last one to arrive is finally here. I hope you don’t think you’re special.” (1)
The Chiss regarded the overseer with a neutral gaze. If he gaged correctly, the man appeared to be in his thirties, perhaps early forties. The short brown hair was not that bad a color up close although the sharp red tattoo around his right eye and touching over the bridge of his nose was too bold. The curious three-section eyes humans had possessed a ring of hazel-blue. It briefly made him think of a rainstorm. Not a violent storm--despite the weight of promised violence behind the gaze. The man might even have been considered attractive if not for the spider-thin veins of corruption standing out dark brown against his peach-tan flesh.
“It would be a shame if freedom went to your head, or if you somehow got the idea you didn’t need to pass your trials to become Sith.” (2)
He chose to remain quiet, meeting those rainy-clear eyes steadily. His own solid red eyes unnerved most humans and several other species. Words were hardly needed. And from the downward pull of the overseer’s eyebrows, he could tell that his response to the commentary was not well received. Good enough. It was the overseer who looked away first as a couple of the slaves made the mistake of shifting too much. Once the regard was lost, the Chiss folded his arms across his chest and bent one knee to relax his stance.
“I have been tasked with sorting through you refuse to find scum worthy of being apprentices, and I intend to do just that. Now, the rest of you gutter trash already know your trial. Get going while I bring our latecomer up to speed.” (3*)
The first slaves to move did so hesitantly. Once the motion began however, like a herd of grazers, the rest followed. The Chiss paid them little mind but tracked their progress from his peripheral vision as he kept his focus on the overseer. The human was glaring at him. It was an odd tableau to be certain. Both were quiet until the gaggle had entered the reception building and turned the corner to step out of sight. Only then did the overseer step toward him.
“Now, slave, for your trial: There’s a hermit named Spindrall who lives in the tomb of Ajunta Pall in the Valley of the Dark Lords. Spindrall’s a lunatic, but some see him as some kind of prophet. Once you find him, he will test you.” (4*)
Finally, the Chiss spoke.
“So, the rest receive a group trial, but mine is... special ?” he asked, stressing the last word in the same sharp tone the overseer had used.
Something dark passed over the human’s face as the overseer stepped forward. The Chiss was a few inches taller than the man and had to tilt his head forward to maintain eye contact. He did not back down, even when the overseer’s chest brushed against his folded arms. Where the slaves would have backpedaled in fear, he suddenly found himself utterly void of it. The action had triggered his training and he found the situation similar to when his instructors would get in his face to yell. Everything switched off, to where he hyper focused on everything other than the most obvious threat.
The color of hair was auburn, the way the little dagger of it on his chin seemed just as soft as that on his head. The icy clarity of those rainy eyes that darkened and shifted until little flecks of gray and blue separated and grew larger or smaller as emotion shifted. The slight shifts of those black pupils as the overseer shifted the point of his gaze. The way that pink-tan skin flushed with rising anger to mock a blush. The coarse yet thick fabric of the overseer’s tunic that grazed against his bare hands where they rested on his folded arms. The man’s breath--somehow spice and blood and sweet at once.
What he noted over all else however was the shadow. It took a moment or two for him to notice it. The overseer’s presence seared and boiled, frothing darkness. Rather than feel intimidated, the Chiss was fascinated. How was it that the emotions he was reading bled into the human’s physical body so...strongly? Was this what Sith felt like up close? He had not picked this up with the other two Sith he had encountered thus far. But neither had gotten so close. The human’s breath was practically caressing his face at this proximity.
“You are a weak, pathetic rodent! You’re nothing! And don’t forget it!” (5*)
Part of his training was sparking. He should use this moment to slip into character. Break eye contact. Bow his head. Shrink down. Assume proper posture to emulate the slaves. That was what it told him to do. The problem was that such training had not yet taken full hold. Whether that was beneficial or a hindrance--he would have to figure it out quickly. Instead, he compromised. He turned his red eyes away. It broke eye contact, but his gaze did not lower. Instead, he stared straight ahead of himself like a proper soldier.
“Of course not, sir,” he responded in a tone too low to be a proper response.
He felt the tremble of...something...when the overseer caught the amusement that had bled into the otherwise bland tone. The human did nothing but fume for a few heartbeats. It gave the Chiss a few moments to turn his attention to the tremble. It seemed somehow familiar. But it was alien as well. External. Not from him then, but from the human. And while he could see those rainy eyes, he could no longer pick up the shifting emotions from them.
The human backed up at last. His glare had ramped up in the intensity of anger.
“But there--you know your task,” the overseer said in an unusually soft tone that made the Chiss look back at him. “Spindrall lives in the tomb of Ajunta Pall in the Valley of the Dark Lords.” (6)
One brow rose as he continued to study the overseer. The human was still angry, that trembling sensation was still present now that the Chiss had discovered it. But those rainy colored eyes were...soft? That was puzzling. He felt as if he should know this, should be able to read the man. Especially when there was the barest flicker of gold in those shifting rainstorm eyes.
“Don’t keep Spindrall waiting, slave.” (7)
With that, the human turned his back to the Chiss and stalked away. Silence fell as he was left alone outside the reception building. Only the moan of wind winding through rock was left.
“...that was curious.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Tombs were...an interesting concept. Such simplistic structures at base design. Within them however, the architecture and design blended crude simplicity with the art of ages long past. In the back of his mind, a part of him wondered just why such grandiose structures were even bothered with. The dead were beyond caring about such superfluous things as status, fashion, decore. What would the dead care about where their body lay as it rotted and decayed? Graves, memorials, tombs...those were things for the living. They were hardly necessary for the living either.
Still, he could appreciate the design as one of the living. Solid rock carved and cut to shelter not just the dead but the various statues, carved mural walls, treasures, artifacts of those bygone eras. Yes, he could appreciate such places. What would the dead care? Even the dead who were desecrated and used as part of such art. Would they care? Their energies would already have been released. Fallen enemies would not be influenced by the desecration or violation of what they left behind. Only the living would be affected for their own various reasons.
Reaching out, the Chiss trailed his bare fingertips over the skulls that had been meticulously arranged and stacked around atop the stone altar in the center of the chamber. It was a nexus chamber with four passages. One of those he had just traversed. Two of the options had stairs that led further down in different directions. The third and likely the way on through the tomb’s little labyrinth had stairs leading up. The two that led down were framed by large stone statues depicting humanoid figures on one knee, backs straight, one arm held aloft to support inverted pyramids of stone which served as shelves to support ancient light sources.
He studied them as his fingers trailed over the smooth, old bone beneath them. A glance backward over his shoulder revealed the passage he had come from was unadorned by anything other than some rubble of rock that had broken away from the chamber ceiling. The passage leading to the upward stairs was also lacking anything of note. His gaze returned to the adorned passages. His consideration was broken by the feel of the next skull he touched. Its texture was different. His hand returned to grasp it.
The bone was paler than the rest. The skull was smoother. Carefully lifting it up from the pile, he brought it in to study. Granted, he was no osteologist, but the shape of the skull was different from the others as well. A closer inspection had his focus drawn to the teeth and the eye sockets. This skull was...human. Sinking down to one knee, he leaned in to study the other skulls more intently. There were noticeable traces of dust in crevices. The teeth were varied but primarily sharp, even to the point of being mostly fangs. The eye sockets were shaped subtly different. Many of the older skulls were also shaped in ways that indicated an entirely alien skeletal structure.
Oh, he saw several human skulls mixed in as well, but they were old as well. The one he held? This one was fresh. Decades in comparison to centuries or longer. Now that was truly interesting. Was this the remains of an enemy? Was it a full-fledged Sith? Or was it an acolyte fallen on the bad side of a fight? So many possibilities. Then he noticed something else interesting. Random skulls appeared to have been cleaned by insects or carrion feeders rather than artificial means. The one in his hand? The bone was smoother because it had been cleaned and polished by something other than insects.
After a few more moments, he chose to return the skull to its place. Whether it had been a murder carefully concealed, an act of vengeance or rivalry, or a sacrifice to whatever ancient spirits the Sith believed in, it was not his place to ruin art. He made certain it was returned precisely to where it had rested before. Rising from his knee, he absently dusted the spot off before turning his attention back to the passages. Now he could hear noises. They came from the framed entry to his left. The doorway he faced was as still and silent as the statues kneeling to it. He chose to go left.
The choice was the correct one. At the base of the stairs, the passage opened to a sort of small foyer that led to a larger chamber beyond. Here there was life. Pausing upon the threshold, he looked around the chamber. Six robed figures were arrayed to either side, participating in what appeared to be some manner of training regime. There were a variety of training dummies, tents, beds, supplies, all spread out as if it were a long-standing camp or small settlement. There were even several weapons racks and what appeared to be a collapsable cleanser unit shoved into a corner out of the way.
Clearly, this hermit truly did live here. Inside a tomb. How interesting. Part of him could see the appeal to such an arrangement. However, the presence of others negated the more important aspects of such a life. The overseer had called Spindrall a lunatic. It likely held some merit. Some. And if he was correct in his calculation, the hermit in question was kneeling at the top of a raised dais of stairs in the back of the tomb. There was something before him--likely either an altar or sarcophagus. The platform was framed by massive twin statues of a hooded and cloaked figure. Likely the age’s Sith Emperor.
When he crossed the threshold at last, all of the activity paused in a ripple as the training figures took note of his intrusion. A crackle of lightning shot toward a training dummy cut off with a few stray sparks of protest. The Chiss paused in his path to regard that acolyte in particular. While the hood covered most of his face, the lower half was visible. Human, he guessed. Pale skin a touch more yellow-white than was considered healthy for the species. What drew his true interest were the scars and a few other highly unusual markings on the visible features.
It appeared that someone had decided the human’s natural mouth was not expressive enough. A gruesome grin had been carved into the flesh from the corners of his lips up over his cheeks, roughly stitched together and crudely healed so that sections of the flesh above and below the cuts bulged out in the parody of a skeleton’s grin. His nose had been broken and healed just as badly, or perhaps the cartilage had even been removed so that it angled down sharply. The skin there was discolored, brown as if rotting and the flesh itself swollen in mockery of putrefaction.
Annoyed by the acolyte’s hood concealing the rest of what was an utterly fascinating visage, the Chiss elected to move on. None of the acolytes approached him or attempted to bar his way. They milled about, watching. A couple with ignited warblades swung them idly before turning back to their drills. He swiftly lost interest in the rest as he climbed the stairs to approach the robed figure kneeling at the top. He had been correct in his observation. The hermit was facing a stone coffin that had either been desecrated by tomb raiders seeking treasure, or shattered beneath stones falling from the ceiling. It was difficult to tell.
“Ah, an alien acolyte,” the hermit said. “Unusual, but not unexpected.” (8)
Older voice, male. He spoke without stirring. His robes were tan and brown--hardly what one might expect a Sith to wear. Even one who was a hermit. A deeper breath was drawn before the man straightened his posture and moved to rise. When he turned to face the Chiss, the filthy and matted gray beard and mustache were revealed. Some wrinkles could be seen thanks to the saggy skin, but the human seemed to be in decent enough shape. Once the hooded head lifted, he could see the fine black veins of corruption marking the peach-pale skin. Curiously, the eyes seemed much like the overseer’s had been, only a solid pale gray.
“The Sith are not friendly to your kind, but that will be an advantage, I think. You are here for your trial, yes? Learn the ways of the Sith from a doddering old man in a tomb.” (9)
The hermit’s arms were skinny, limbs clearly lacking any definable mass from muscle and fat. His shoulders were sloped, sagging with age and hard life no doubt. And those tan robes changed subtly once he had turned. The buckle of the belt holding the hermit’s lightsaber was that of a nightmarish skull, metal horns twisting right and left around the leather. Even the sleeves of the undertunic took on a slightly different aspect thanks to that one feature. They clung to those skinny arms like bandages that had been completely soaked through with blood so old it had turned liver-brown.
“And,” Spindrall continued as if unaware of the scrutiny the Chiss held him under. “Hopefully to return to your master with the mark of my approval.” (10)
“Actually,” the Chiss said after a moment of silence, “I just came to get some fresh air.” (11)
There was silence again for a couple of heartbeats. Incredulous silence--if the hermit’s brief shift of expression was any indication. The Sith scoffed sharply although the Chiss caught the slightest twitch of his whiskered lips.
“Do you take me for a fool?” he asked in a stronger voice. “No one comes into these tombs for the sheer pleasure of it--not even me.” (12)
Spindrall turned away after the droll comment. He faced the ruined sarcophagus once more.
“No, they come for power, because they sense that these tombs hold secrets of the dark side. And they do--” (13)
Something shifted. The Chiss sensed it. But he could not decipher which sense picked the discrepancy up. Nor could he pin down just what had changed.
“--but before you can learn them, you must pass a trial of blood. Survive this, and I will teach you what I know.” (14)
The hermit was already sinking back down to his knees before the shattered coffin-altar. Taking the dismissal for what it was, the Chiss backed up slowly and turned away. Since there was no action being taken on the elder’s part, he turned his focus toward the training area at the foot of the stairs. Once more, he was unmistaken. The six acolytes were already breaking off their various tasks in order to fan out across the sunken floor. Moving down the steps, he regarded their formation and wondered if this trial was to be a free-for-all melee, or if there was a structure of some sort to it. Every acolyte was armed. Two bore wicked looking warstaves instead of warblades, and one carried a warblade paired with a vibro-blade.
Sparing but a moment to lament in the back of his mind about lacking a blaster, the Chiss reached back to draw his own warblade from the holster against his back. Whatever this trial was meant to entail, it seemed the other acolytes knew the rules. They had broken into two groups of three. One on the left, another on the right. Those furthest from the stairs leading to Spindrall’s vigil had their weapons ignited in hand. The remaining two pairs positioned themselves further back, watching but indicating they were not going to participate. If he should trust that, it seemed this trial would be fought two on one in waves. He could work with that...for a start.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
There had always been a powerful fascination in taking things apart. Whether it was a toy, a machine, a puzzle, a weapon. He was drawn to unraveling the threads, seeing how they wove and played against one another. Discovering how the pieces were shaped, how they interlocked, why they worked, what they did. It had been an obsession he learned to regulate into a hobby as a child. When he learned that it was different. It was not until his adolescence that he had finally understood just how different it was. How dangerous. Just enough to the left of the norm to be strange. Just enough right of the line to be unnoticed at casual interaction.
Now, as he stood over the bodies of the fallen acolytes, he found that fascination taking hold once again. A few were still moving. That was a calculated risk. None of those would be able to move for long and even then, they would not be able to move far. The groans and moans of pain surrounded him. He could imagine the fear of the dying forming a cloud in the air as every breath they fought to take wheezed back out with another measure of their fading life. Only the one writhing at his feet truly mattered to him.
Sinking down into a crouch, he put his humming warblade aside. A move that might have been stupid, had the acolyte on the ground still possessed his arm. That poor limb was severed, still oozing blood from the bit of shoulder exposed to the stone. No. This acolyte would not survive either. But he would last longer than the others. Reaching out, the Chiss brought his own slightly blackened fingertips in to tug the blood-splattered hood back and bare the face. Those magnificent scars in a macabre doll’s grin. Oh, the lips were bloodied now as well, but he only found it pleasing to look upon.
The skull-visaged acolyte stared up at him, slowly drowning upon his own blood. Now he could see the acolyte’s eyes. They were a brown that nearly matched the discoloration of his nose. Flecks of red and gray swelled and shrank as agony and terror twisted and burst through his mutilated body. He had been handsome once. Moreso thanks to the scarring inflicted upon his face. To design a skull out of flesh when the model rested just a few thin layers beneath, fascinating. Reaching out, he slid his burnt fingertips over the smooth area where the human’s eyebrows should have been. There was only flesh.
His caress caused another reaction from the acolyte. Likely the too-gentle touch in the middle of his agony and despair. For a moment, he fancied the acolyte turned his macabre face into his palm. Something so alien as tenderness in the midst of torment. He brushed his thumb over the discolored nose as those eyes began to close. Sweet. Beautiful. If only he had the time to receive the answer to the question his own lips parted to ask--but he could already hear that final rattling wheeze of the Death's Breath escaping his subject.
“Was this art self-inflicted?”
Nothing. There would be no answer as there was no further breath drawn. The warmth of the flesh would cool swiftly enough. Yet, the body yet clung to the last dregs of the life that had slipped away. Pity. Such a pity. No matter. What was done was done. His focus drifted away from the corpse as he shifted to rise once more. His un-burnt hand grasped his still humming warblade once more as he stood and finally switched it off. Blood dripped from it, what had not already been burnt away by the proximity to the exposed energies.
A faint rustle of motion drew his attention. Even if soft, cloth moving against cloth could be heard by those focused for any approaching disturbance. It was merely Spindrall. The hermit had descended the steps to set foot on the grounds of carnage. The old man did not even glance to the fallen acolytes, merely swept the area with a turn of his head before focusing on the Chiss standing blood-splattered and semi charred from Force Lightning.
“Excellent,” the elder said. “These former acolytes wanted nothing more than to earn their second chance for glory by killing you and taking your place. But your desire proved stronger, and their blood became the mantle of your victory. Well done.” (15)
The man nodded to him. After a moment, the Chiss returned the nod with a slightly deeper motion of respect. He had been acknowledged. That was only proper.
“But you are not Sith yet,” Spindrall continued. “Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, power. Through power, victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. This is the Sith Code. Commit it to your heart, and you will have the strength to crush your enemies.” (16)
The Chiss remained silent. Every word was taken into memory. Perhaps, not to heart. Not yet. When the hermit took another step to lock eyes with him, he tensed. He could not read anything in the older human’s eyes aside from a darkness. He should have known the name of it, but at that moment, he could not place it.
“Do you understand?” (17) Spindrall asked with eyes narrowing.
“I think I do. A Sith must use their emotions to grow strong.” (18*)
“Do not be timid. Humility is the attitude of a slave, not a Sith.” (19)
Nodding once, the Chiss considered the words. Spindrall turned his head to finally look at the fallen acolyte, the one that had drawn the most attention from his killer. Whatever the elder was thinking, the fall of his hood concealed it and most of his face. Finally, the hermit turned away and began to walk back to the stairs leading up to his vigil.
“Return to Harkun and nurture your hatred for him. And use your fear of him to grow stronger.” (20)
Spindrall paused on the stairs and turned his head as if to look back over his shoulder. The hood prevented the actual attempt.
“He may raise his fist to strike, but it is your master who determines where the blow will land.” (21*)
Now he had the Chiss’ full attention.
“My master?”
The hermit turned his head away, climbing the last stairs.
“When you know the answer to that, you will have power over many masters. Now go! Leave me to my rest.” (22*)