Open to Sith.
Utilitarian, the Sith Temple on Sullust was one that hardly catered to what one might envision as a Sith Temple. Instead of stone, durasteel lined the walls and each room appeared painstakingly machined into the rocky crust of Sullust’ toxic surface. There was a sense of clean sterility intermingled with functionality. It was nothing like the places he trained in as a Jedi and in truth, the only thing he found reeking of mysticism here, was himself.
At one time, the careful hand of his master had guided his actions as a puppeteer, ensuring his protégé did no wrong, and like clay, would mold him into something indominable. Even still, he could see his aged face lined with years of experience and the wispy tendrils of his grey hair. There was a kindness to Master Silla that broke through his own propensity towards icy callousness. With him gone, he felt lost. He was falling with no way to stop and it left an uneasy feeling in his stomach like writhing larvae. Had he really betrayed the Jedi, and if he did, it was because they were too weak to do what needed to be done, right?
Alone, he sat in mediation, the sole figure in a room of grey steel wearing only a pair of torn Corellian pants. His flesh was pale and sickly, covered in scars and his eyes were bagged and red; he emanated a sense of weight that dwarfed his own frail body. His confinement on Ajan Kloss had sickened his form, but even worse, had rotted his mind. With his prosthetics crossed neatly, his eyes were fastened shut while his lips mouthed words in automated recitations.
“The force guides me. I am strong.”
“The force guides me… But I am strong.”
Each time, his muscles would tense with each phrase; he cringed in recoil to the words as if repulsed by their very utterance. Each time, it became more difficult to say. He wasn’t strong, he was afraid. He was afraid of failing, afraid of being unable to protect the ones who needed it, and even more hauntingly, he was afraid of himself. Everything was pulling at him, shredding his heart and mind like paper in opposing directions. He could feel it fueling his power like a virulent, inexhaustible battery, but he could feel his soul being lost in the process, eaten away by the worms of his own dread.
Entranced in his own feverish agony, he could feel warm blood begin to trickle down his chin. It ran down his ashen body in droplets of thick red and stained the metal floor in small circlets; he had bitten through the flesh of his own bottom-lip.
Utilitarian, the Sith Temple on Sullust was one that hardly catered to what one might envision as a Sith Temple. Instead of stone, durasteel lined the walls and each room appeared painstakingly machined into the rocky crust of Sullust’ toxic surface. There was a sense of clean sterility intermingled with functionality. It was nothing like the places he trained in as a Jedi and in truth, the only thing he found reeking of mysticism here, was himself.
At one time, the careful hand of his master had guided his actions as a puppeteer, ensuring his protégé did no wrong, and like clay, would mold him into something indominable. Even still, he could see his aged face lined with years of experience and the wispy tendrils of his grey hair. There was a kindness to Master Silla that broke through his own propensity towards icy callousness. With him gone, he felt lost. He was falling with no way to stop and it left an uneasy feeling in his stomach like writhing larvae. Had he really betrayed the Jedi, and if he did, it was because they were too weak to do what needed to be done, right?
Alone, he sat in mediation, the sole figure in a room of grey steel wearing only a pair of torn Corellian pants. His flesh was pale and sickly, covered in scars and his eyes were bagged and red; he emanated a sense of weight that dwarfed his own frail body. His confinement on Ajan Kloss had sickened his form, but even worse, had rotted his mind. With his prosthetics crossed neatly, his eyes were fastened shut while his lips mouthed words in automated recitations.
“The force guides me. I am strong.”
“The force guides me… But I am strong.”
Each time, his muscles would tense with each phrase; he cringed in recoil to the words as if repulsed by their very utterance. Each time, it became more difficult to say. He wasn’t strong, he was afraid. He was afraid of failing, afraid of being unable to protect the ones who needed it, and even more hauntingly, he was afraid of himself. Everything was pulling at him, shredding his heart and mind like paper in opposing directions. He could feel it fueling his power like a virulent, inexhaustible battery, but he could feel his soul being lost in the process, eaten away by the worms of his own dread.
Entranced in his own feverish agony, he could feel warm blood begin to trickle down his chin. It ran down his ashen body in droplets of thick red and stained the metal floor in small circlets; he had bitten through the flesh of his own bottom-lip.
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