Fateful Meetings

[Harren Skaalvarg]

Korriban was a horrible place.​

It wasn’t too cold or too hot, but it was dry. Dusty. The wildlife was dangerous, but easily avoided by only leaving the Temple grounds when ordered and not going for strolls among the ancient Sith tombs. The only reason Harren Skaalvarg was still there at all was because for the next day he had to be - he’d finally been deemed ready to be sent out into the galaxy, to spread the influence of the Old Empire and to accomplish its objectives, such as he could. There was a shuttle leaving for Dromund Kaas in the morning, and his name finally graced the list of embarkees.


The list of the successful. Those that the powers that were thought would go far, if they didn’t die in a blaze of glory first.


The real threat on Korriban were the people, for the Sith of the Old Empire were a treacherous band prone to killing each other at a moment’s notice if it meant more power. This at least, Harren liked about the place. Though they lived on a soft world filled with soft comforts for soft people, they at least realised that the only real obstacle to any of their individual ambitions was their colleagues. The Temple was a pit of vipers, acolytes failed to show up for tuition daily. The strong thrived here, while the weak were consumed. In its own way the place reminded Harren of home. Of the Place under the Great Mountain Kjrag.


He stood now, arms clasped behind his back as he looked out into a training courtyard from a window slit on the second floor. His bearded face and electric blue eyes were bathed in the repugnant glow of a Korriban noon, sickly light spilling in through the window and accompanied by no small amount of dust. He didn’t flinch as it swirled into his eyes, Korriban was a tame world compared to his own.


The rest of him was dressed simply - a black tunic and pants, with simple light body armour of pleated carbon fibres covering his torso, forearms and shins. His hair, a chaotic mess of tight braids and dreadlocks, gathered into a single thick rope by black cords of leather hung behind his head and ran down beneath his shoulders to the small of his back. He cut a barbaric figure, even dressed as he was in civilised attire. His imposingly tall stature, and powerful frame, only accentuated that feral aura he gave off.


The sound of lightsabers clashing in the courtyard below reached all the way up to his vantage point as he watched a pair of fellow acolytes duelling under the watchful eye of a master. There would be no killing, not in broad daylight with a superior in plain view... Acolytes here had to murder their rivals behind closed doors if they wanted them dead. As far as Harren was concerned it made the entire display they were putting on meaningless. He only kept watching at all because he knew that one day he might encounter one of those two, out in the galaxy, and they might decide he was better off dead. They might only be play fighting, but Harren was actively planning their deaths.


The strong thrived. The weak were consumed.