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Malachor
"What wonders we had accomplished," muttered Torker, standing at the helm of the ship. His eyes slowly scanned the cracked wastelands before him, coming to rest on the centerpiece of the landscape - a massive temple complex, that not even he knew in full truth what lay inside. None in the Sith of this day and age did, as the temple far predated Torker...let alone any of the young whelps who were barely fit to be named to his sacred order. "And how far have we now fallen from the wonders of old." The elderly Sith snorted in disgust at the current state of the order.
It was a sentiment he hadn't spared anybody from who thought to ask him. In his view, the current Sith were weak, ill-advised, plagued more by short-sightedness and a lack of conviction than any of the infighting that had filled the order in ages before. They held nothing of the vision or the sheer, unadulterated power than had been known even a century beforehand, when Torker himself was young. In his mind, it was disgraceful.
But he was making his mark on the order, and slowly working to better it. The Dark Lord herself had been taken under his wing, a Force-drunk Jedi dropout who thought herself worthy to be named head of the order...and others agreed; Torker, at least, could not deny that she had potential to be molded into something more than any recent Sith had ever managed to be. Now he travelled with another, a moment's diversion from his work with Kira Elan. A chance to continue influencing the younger generation down the proper path.
"Neophyte," he called out, his hoarse, reptillian voice vibrating the floor panels he stood on. Dzia - a Sith, not only of the order but the ancient species - did not stand with him, though hopefully she had learned enough to know to come when he called. "Before we begin on our twofold task, I would appreciate it if you would tell me what you know of this planet. I need to see if your instructors have been faithful in their duties."
@Apollyon