Private Garoul Croft: Tomb Raider

[Micah tol Powl]

K O R R I B A N
Valley of Golg

[ post theme ]​

There was an explosion of energy.

Hot plasma connected with an arc of electricity, spending sparks flying onto the rocky sands of the desolate valley. The young Cathar felt the sting of a few that rained over him, as the lithe youth darted back from his opponent, the obligatory robe of a first year student flaring and furling about his slight frame. Not exactly what the cat-like acolyte would have chosen for this hunt, but such matters were not up to him. Disengaging and creating space in which the predatory youngling could assess his options. Run. Hide. Hit. Fade. His feline blood on full display in how the boy acted and reacted. Conserving his strength by avoiding unnecessary contact, then strike decisively when the opportunity presented itself.

The Academy had shifted along the planet's leylines, arriving in the Valley of Golg. A well-studied part of the planet, whose known tombs had been picked over through millennia through all the storied planet's different eras.

The known tombs.

An earthquake had revealed a partially unearthed chamber. Initial survey had suggested that the ruins could date back to the Great Schism. Fragments recovered from the entrance suggested it might even be connected in some way to Broodica. The presence of tomb guardians and Sith undead certainly suggested that whatever lay beneath had been prized by their Sith forebears.

They were also extremely annoying.

The Academy was like to shift away again if the expedition into the chamber took too long. And, if that happened, the nearest settlement was Kaniset. And 'near' was a misnomer.

The red blade crackled with unstable energy, revealing the cracked synthcrystal that supplied its power. The handle spun in the youth's grip as he danced around the undead before him. Or, at least, that's what he had been going for. Instead, his claws seemed to knock the silvery handle away as he attempted what would have been an eloquent display of lightsaber prowess. Would have been, if he had the prowess that is. Instead, the youngling fumbled for a moment as he tried to catch the lightsaber that had just bounced out of his grip.

He grabbed air and the lightsaber bounced onto the ground, rolling away as the boy gave a yelp. "Mreow!"

If anyone spoke Cathar, they would likely be less than impressed by a first year Sith student's use of such uncouth language.

Ducking to the side again, the boy's hands flew to a pair of curved daggers that he carried. A piece of home and heritage. The weight of the handles nestled comfortably in his hands as the child tried to recover from his faux paw and re-engage the lightning-throwing corpse in front of him.

The dark side moved around him, as a sudden burst of speed propelled the child into an all-out attack. First, ducking low. Then coming up in a slashing attack that brought him perilously close to the undead -- leaving neither room in which to defend. And, like so many cats, the Cathar went for the throat.

The boy's feet touched the ground. The undead's head landed just a second after, as the spell was broken on the enchanted corpse and the body began to crumble into ash.

It was really annoying to have to expend so much energy on something that he couldn't eat.

Returning the Cathar hunting knives to the belt that the youngling wore, the youth's amber eyes glanced around to see how the rest of their survey team was doing. They were supposed to be getting History credit for this field trip. The bodies of two other first year's on the ground demonstrated the cost of not performing well on one of the Academy's assignments.

Then there was their visiting professor.

As Broodica pre-dated the modern incarnation of the Sith, the writings that had been present displayed what may have been the original form of the Sith language. Supposedly this Darth was here because he was expert or familiar with such writings.

Or maybe he was just here to grade the students flailing about. At a Sith Academy, one couldn't rule out that there was no purpose at all other than to see who lived and who died.

Either way, the boy hoped there was more to be gained at the end of all this effort than some broken pottery.

Darth Garoul​

 

[Darth Garoul]

Garoul rarely concerned himself with the affairs of the Academy or its ever-churning cycle of hopefuls. The acolytes who streamed through its halls were, more often than not, little more than a parade of failures—an unremarkable succession of mediocrity that left him unimpressed. Disappointment, he had learned, was a guarantee. Perhaps it was this very expectation that had drawn him to accept a temporary assignment on Korriban, where he might observe the failures of a new generation in the very cradle of Sith power.

Yet, from the shadows of the ancient ruins, Garoul's gaze settled upon a lone acolyte, a young Cathar struggling against the undead horrors conjured to test the mettle of initiates. Micah's crimson blade crackled, the unstable energy of a cracked synth-crystal betraying its raw, untamed power. The blade's erratic light danced along the walls as the youth attempted to wield it with the finesse of a seasoned warrior. He spun the hilt in his grip, aiming for elegance—but his clawed hands, awkward and uncertain, betrayed him.

Garoul's lip curled in a mixture of disdain and faint amusement as he watched the blade fly from the boy's grasp, bouncing across the ancient stone floor. It would have been a humiliating defeat for most, but Micah was quick to recover, his hands darting to the curved daggers sheathed at his sides. The blades, a reminder of his heritage, settled into his palms as naturally as breath—here, the child found his comfort.

For a moment, Garoul allowed himself to consider the scene before him. The dark side flowed around Micah, a storm of potential barely harnessed, a torrent that could either consume or empower. The boy moved, a blur of fur and sinew, launching himself with sudden speed towards the corpse that spewed lightning. He ducked low, daggers flashing as he rose in a sweeping, vicious arc aimed at the throat of his undead adversary. It was a desperate gambit, leaving him dangerously exposed. Yet there was a certain primal grace to his recklessness—like a cornered beast striking out with its final breath.

The Cathar's feet touched the ground, his breathing ragged and shallow. A heartbeat later, the severed head of the undead fell to the earth, its body crumbling into ash as the dark enchantment unraveled. Silence settled over the training grounds, broken only by the boy's heavy breaths and the faint, dying crackle of the lightsaber where it lay.

Garoul's expression remained inscrutable, his thoughts veiled behind a mask of indifference. Micah was still raw, unrefined—but there was something there, a spark that, with the right guidance, might be forged into something greater. Or extinguished entirely.

Garoul's eyes remained fixed on the scene before him, even as his thoughts twisted and churned beneath his cold exterior. The academy was little more than a breeding ground for failure, its halls echoing with the desperate cries of those who thought themselves worthy of the dark side's power. He had watched countless hopefuls come and go, each one believing they had the potential to rise above the rest—only to break like brittle glass under the weight of their own hubris.

And yet, here was Micah, standing amidst the ashes of his latest conquest, breathing hard but still standing. His red blade sputtered on the stone floor, casting fractured light over his worn and clawed hands. Garoul's lip curled as he moved past the boy, dismissing the scattered skeletal remains with a casual flick of his finger. The brittle bones, once animated with the dark enchantment, tumbled into the abyss below, clattering uselessly as they disappeared into the shadows.

"Come," he said, his voice low and edged with the faintest note of irritation. "Lest you remain as target practice for the undead." His words were clipped, and his tone held a cold command, as if daring the acolyte to falter again. Garoul gestured to the shuffling forms still emerging from the shadows, the skeletal soldiers bound to test the mettle of any who dared tread the ancient halls.

He paused for a moment, his hand lingering in the air, eyes narrowed as he regarded Micah. He had no true desire to take on another apprentice—such endeavors were often exercises in futility. The acolytes of the academy were fragile things, their aspirations shattered as easily as the bones beneath his feet. Disappointments, every last one of them, save for a rare few who managed to claw their way to something resembling competence.

But there was an unsettling whisper in the back of his mind, a voice that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. This one could be different. It was a notion he found almost laughable, yet the thought persisted, burrowing deeper despite his attempts to dismiss it.

Micah's actions had been clumsy, his grip on the lightsaber unsteady, but there had been a ferocity in him—a raw determination that had cut through the undead thrall like a blade through flesh. There was an instinctive hunger in his movements, the kind that could be sharpened into something more. Perhaps, just perhaps, the boy could become a weapon, if properly forged. Or he would break like all the rest, another body left to rot beneath the sands of Korriban.

Garoul felt a surge of anger swell within him at the thought, a heat that made his fingers twitch with the urge to crush the life from the acolyte himself, to rid the galaxy of yet another fool too weak to realize his own limitations. But the moment passed, replaced by a chill that settled deep in his bones. He would not lower himself to such pettiness, not when there was even the faintest possibility that Micah might stand out from the rest.

So he turned, his cloak sweeping across the floor like a shadow made manifest, and gestured for the boy to follow. His voice, when he spoke again, was a low growl, edged with a promise of both torment and potential.

"If you survive this, there may yet be more to learn. But do not think for a moment that I will suffer failure." He shot a glance over his shoulder, his blue eyes glinting with a predatory gleam. "Prove yourself worthy, or you will be left to the same fate as those you have just cut down. The dark side cares little for weakness."

The command was absolute, the unspoken threat as clear as the air between them. But beneath the steel and scorn, there was a flicker of something more—a quiet, grudging hope that perhaps this time, the gamble might not be in vain.

Micah tol Powl ​

 

[Micah tol Powl]

The boy's shoulders slumped as he exhaled with relief.

"Come."

The boy jolted upright, shivers running up his spine as his hair stood on end. Relief was definitely over. Scooping up the lightsaber that he'd dropped on the ground, the young cat hurried after the imposing figure as the pair plunged further into the labyrinth.

"Prove yourself worthy, or you will be left to the same fate as those you have just cut down. The dark side cares little for weakness."

Was anything not a test? Was there ever a day in the life of a Sith Academy student that wasn't basically some giant pop-quiz?

Enveloped in the shadows of the ancient tomb, the boy ignited the lightsaber. Red light harshly illuminated the cavernous chamber. The howls of a tuk'ata echoed from somewhere further within. The path ahead seemed to diverge into one of three different tunnels carved in the rock. "These don't look like tombs. More like... mining shafts," the boy noted aloud.

Sith undead. Tuk'ata. It had all the hallmarks of a tomb of a Dark Lord, but now that they were inside the unearthed chamber it... didn't seem like a tomb at all.

There were no obvious markings of distinction between the three different paths, though one seemed it might have been older than the other two. The interior passage boarded up, as miners might have sealed an old shaft once it had been exhausted.

As he continued to explore, the light of the boy's lightsaber revealed what seemed a hand sticking out of the ground. A rather bluntly shaped one. "Look, Master, droids," the youth stated, as he picked up the rusted, decrepit limb from out of the disturbed earth. Well. Droids or what was left of them. Even the ones that were intact appeared to have wasted under the weight of centuries.

A crate bore a symbol obscured by dust. Clearing away part of it, the boy was presented by a rather curious glyph. "Master, this symbol doesn't look... Sith to me. Is it Imperial?"

It was similar to the Imperial symbols that he'd seen. Just not quite the same.

Even if it were, what would Imperials be doing on Korriban?

Darth Garoul​