The Sith’ari
Thick clouds of black smoke and choking ash blanketed the sky, rivers of lava sprawled out over the landscape as far as the eye could see. The noxious air was hot and hazy, it smelled of sulfur. This was Mustafar, the throneworld of the ancient Dark Lord of the Sith, Darth Vader, and the last known redoubt of the Knights of Ren before their final defeat by the Outer Systems Alliance. A pity, the lone black spire that once inspired so much dread had been reduced to ruin and decay, it's skeleton would still cast a shadow over the land. This world was wretched and spoiled by misuse, once claimed only to be abandoned once more.
The clouds parted as a single vessel forced it's way through the thick blanket overhead, it's engines screamed as it roared over the barren hellscape beneath it on approach for the former abode of Lord Vader. As the starship slowed itself and brought itself down lower, a dark silhouette revealed itself and followed in it's wake over the rocky surface. As it neared the structure, it became clear that the shuttle was of Essionian origin, from the days of the Reformation. Worn and torn, the vessel was marred by carbon scoring but seemed to had been kept up with repairs. It touched down gently upon the main landing platform of the dark spire with ease, it's thrusters dimming as the engine whined down. Within mere moments of being stationary, the ship began to emit compressed air from various ports and dropped down it's loading ramp slowly. Almost seemingly to a crawl, the loading ramp lowered itself to meet the duracrete beneath, it let off a mechanical hum as it operated.
Thud, thud, thud. The sounds of a lifeless body hitting metal filled the area, a empty husk rolled down the loading ramp violently until kissing the platform at the end. The dead body was a male human in his late fourties, the rightful owner of the shuttle and a former prospective padawan at the Grand Jedi Temple on Ession before it fell. His cold dead eyes stared blankly off at the hellish horizon as sulfuric clouds of black smoke rose in the distance over the fields of molten hot magma. HIs throat was crushed inward, yet no visible signs of struggle were present, the rest of his person completely untarnished.
Pat, pat, pat.
The sounds of footsteps clattered off the metal ramp, a single figure emerged from the vessel. Wrapped in tattered robes, strange garments, and odd talismans. The sickly man who had come, stepped foot on Fortress Vader, and took a deep breath. Taking in the thick, chemical air around him, Laevus exhaled deeply. The Dark Side was strong here, events that had transpired over recent times had only further added to the vergence. The pain, anguish, and suffering of all those who had fought or died here had stained the very foundation of the tower.
Wait. Yes, he sensed it. There was one still here who fed the darkness, one whose hatred continued to beckon forth.
"I can feel your anger."
