The Dead God
The planet of Manea, a hidden ‘jewel’ in the unknown regions. Rare for most intergalactic travelers to make the trek to it, albeit those looking for the mass amounts of buried resources beneath her surface; it was home to the poor and downtrodden, hell bent on finding their small niche in life through credits and back breaking labor. It shared similarities with Coruscant and Nar Shaddaa in the way that it held the eye of the smugglers and working class, the opportunities that could come around from something so simple as a series of mines and more. The true difference was how much more dangerous this was compared to the others, not in the fact that there was more gangs nor crime, but what lay outside the safety of the city; be it the slums or the New City, outside its protective volcanic walls there was something far worse to be had.
High above, a lone freighter came down slowly, its crew apathetic and emotionless. Their responses to air traffic control were short, robotic in nature, but they were organic as ever; the ending result of being enslaved by the artifact known as The Darkstaff. In their cargo hold, lay The Slave, covered in cold sweats and a furrowed brow; weeks of strenuous mental combat had left him exasperated and broken, his epicanthic genetics likely being the only saving grace he held. Still, it didn’t hold enough, as every passing moment he could hear a crescendoing cacophony of voices overpowering his own internal monologue.
This seemed to have become his reality; since he made the mistake so long ago of resurrecting the horrendous device. Its night time whispers, the fact it simply refused to leave him in any capacity, there was seemingly nothing he could do besides brace himself and hope for the best at any given moment. Progressively, it had gotten worse, from the start being nothing more than a tool he thought he controlled, to letting it eventually eat away at his mind and betray the power he thought his own. He was made a fool by it, a careless litter left to the wind of the metaphysical, and the darkness held in him.
Still, as the ship began its descent into the New City; a darkness began to spread. It was none other than The Slave himself that brought with it; the ethereal calls of doom and armageddon being a mixture of his own aura and that of revelation’s trumpet. Where one began and the other ended, there would be no definition, but any who were sensitive in the force could begin to feel the danger that came with it; even if they were not aware. It was foreboding and thick, suffocating and infinite, all despairing and continuous. It upset the very balance of an already dark planet.
In a few minutes, he would come clear of his stowaway hideout and begin to walk the city in search of this rumored Sith Lord; this Matsu Xiangu, a legend in her own right. The Slave had seen her once before, even fought, but it ended with nothing coming of it, and neither worse for wear. It was almost ironic that he’d come to her for help in these fleeting times; brought so low from the iconic narcissism he once carried. In many senses, she was one of his last hopes for redemption; as the continued failures to get back into contact with ones like Velok The Younger met with even further degradation of his mental state.
Now, as the lava moved about the planet and the synthetic abominations walked the waste, so too would The Slave begin his journey towards her. He had no backup, no game to play.
He was desperate.
[member="Matsu Xiangu"]
