"Hey there, acolyte. Hold on a moment. Let me get a look at you." A stranger told him.
Morgan was tired, filthy and in no mood for anyone's bullshit. What he wanted was to shower, eat and sleep. Yet here were two strangers blocking his path to the Overseer, the one step he had to complete before he could get to the holy trinity of mental health.
By the time his mind had decided politeness was still the best course, the stranger continued. "Hmm. So you're Overseer Tremel's secret weapon, huh? Impressive, to be sure. Afraid the old man waited too long to make his move, though."
He knew this one. Something about him seemed familiar, but Morgan's tired mind couldn't quite remember who he was.
"I'm Vemrin, and unlike you I've fought and bled for everything I have. I demand respect."
'That's Vemrin?' He thought, surprised. He finally scanned his apparent enemy, more surprise flickering through him when Vemrin detected it. That spoke of good self awareness.
His ambusher seemed just as surprised, his eyes narrowing and immediately trying to scan him in return.
But Morgan had made it a habit to always have his soul shield up, especially with how efficient it had become. Unlike most others around here, it seemed. 'Still, must be a drain if it's not as refined as mine. Guess that's why the Overseers don't do it. Or anyone I've met, really.'
Vermin's eyes widened, just slightly, when his own scan ran into Morgan's shield.
He sighed. "You have no actual idea who I am or what I've been through, do you?"
He looked to the side, where Vemrin's companion was trying very hard to loom. 'Vemrin screams danger, and feels as strong as Soft Voice. You do not.'
"Stop looming, before I open you from balls to chin and watch as your guts spill on the floor." He politely lied.
The slab blinked, not seeming intimidated. 'So stupid and weak, good to know. You won't live long.'
He looked back to Vemrin, who was silently reassessing him. "Alright. How about this. My name is Morgan," He still found it strange that he had gone a whole year without anyone using his new name, before Tremel had told him. "And we are going to be enemies. So save whatever is left of your speech, and go. I need to speak to the Overseer, not blab with you."
Vemrin scowled, motioning his slab to follow him as he left. "You have no idea the enemy you're making."
Morgan nodded amiably, resisting the urge to nip this problem in the bud here and now. Cripple him, maybe. 'Won't look good if I attack without cause. I'm not in the facility anymore. There are rules here. Tradition.'
The slab hesitated, opening his mouth to speak. Unfortunately Morgan was well and truly done with them both, so he sent a blanket mental attack at the fool.
It didn't do great damage, with how it was both untargeted and done against a - relatively - complex brain. It still caused Slab to clutch his head in pain, confusion spreading over his face. Morgan walked past him and into the Overseer's office proper while he was distracted.
"Good, you've returned." Overseer Tremel started. "You seem to be in one piece. Tell me, how do you like your new blade?"
A woman, either another other acolyte or his daughter, stood next to him. She looked impatient.
"Having a weapon with a proper edge is appreciated, Overseer."
The woman cut in before Tremel could continue. "What are you doing, Father? I only just got my warblade, and I've been here six months."
Tremel scowled at her interruption. "I have my reasons, Eskella. And you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you hear?"
Morgan could feel she wanted to argue, but relented after a second of glaring.
"Yes. Yes, Father." She bowed.
The Overseer nodded to the door, and Eskella left without a word. Anger boiled within her, and Morgan could feel the Dark feed on it with glee.
"Now, I thought I heard Vemrin's voice in the adjacent chamber before you arrived. Did he make his move so soon?"
"Not really." Morgan replied. "Just some posturing and a sad attempt at intimidation."
Tremel nodded, but narrowed his eyes. "Do not take him lightly, acolyte. Vemrin is an impatient hound, but not a weak one. Underestimate him, and he will take your throat."
'I said he was posturing, and bad at intimidation. Not that he was weak.'
"Yes, Overseer."
The Overseer relaxed, pleased. "In a drive for sheer numbers, the criteria for academy admittance has been relaxed. Now anyone with Force sensitivity is allowed entrance."
"Vemrin is mixed blood." Tremel continued. Morgan mentally rolled his eyes, unsurprised at a sith being racist. "The invisible rot eating at the foundation of the Empire. He must not be allowed to advance."
"Unfortunately, Vemrin's caught the eye of Darth Baras, one of the most influential Sith Lords. He's being groomed to be Baras's new apprentice. As his apprentice, the power at Vemrin's fingertips will be considerable. He could change the sith for the worse."
Morgan said nothing, noting down various things the Overseer said on his datapad. 'I don't think it's possible for the sith to get any worse, but sure. Whatever you say.'
"You must proceed to your next trial immediately. I want you to interrogate three prisoners in the academy's jails first thing in the morning. You are to decide their fates."
Tremel turned back to his desk, picking up a datapad. "Speak to head jailer Knash and return to me after you've passed judgement. Dismissed."
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Morgan found his way to the acolyte quarters without much issue, and had a quick shower before bed. He barely remembered to scarf down some rations, before falling into his bunk without looking at the other acolytes nearby. Sleep took him fast.
"That's him." A quiet voice whispered. "That's the new acolyte."
He groaned, dragging himself up and awake. 'If that was less than four hours I'm killing everyone in this room.'
Six acolytes crowded around his bunk, backing away slightly when he stood. "How long was I asleep?"
Slab took a step forward, japping Morgan in the chest with a finger. "It's tradition to haze new acolytes." He said, ignoring his question. "And I'm in charge of your hazing."
He grinned, pleased with himself. "And the best part? It's tradition. You can't do a thing about it without the Overseers punishing you."
"The next person to touch me loses his eating privileges." Morgan gravelled out, finding his warblade gone from where he had put it. "And the first person to tell me where you idiots hid my weapon will get to keep their walking privileges."
Slab frowned, poking him again. "You don't control the cafeteria. You're just an acolyte." Slab turned his frown into a smile. "And we didn't touch your blade. Someone must have stolen it."
Morgan sighed, and his enforcement snapped through his body in the time it took his heart to beat. His hand shot forward, his fist slamming into Slab's throat before the man had time to blink.
He went down gasping, clutching at his throat. Another slow witted acolyte tried to grab his shoulder, and he shattered her own with a simple step grab and lock. Soft Voice had taught him that, what now felt like a lifetime ago.
The rest flinched back, afraid. One acolyte, proving himself smarter than all the others combined, pointed to a locker on the other side of the room.
Morgan fetched his warblade, leaving the sleeping quarters without any more interruptions.
Finding the library wasn't any more difficult than finding the sleeping quarters, and he started to browse the shelves until he came upon something interesting.
'The art of alchemy, a treatise on fleshcrafting by Lord Gratyl.' The plaque informed him.
Just above it, in a glass case, was a simple holocron with none of the decoration or embellishment he had seen on many of the others he had walked past.
He opened the case without much issue, careful to not displace the holocron. The warning engraved into the walls at the entrance warned about what would happen if an item was removed from its casing.
He had no immediate wish to be turned into one, personally.
Prodding the holocron with the Force revealed little, save for a strange, narrow pathway for him to follow. He pushed the Force through it, finding it narrowing and twisting the further he got.
After a few minutes of careful prodding, he ran along a tiny bump. The pathway constricted violently, and he cursed. He broke the connection, feeling sore in the Force in a way he never quite had before.
He tried again, careful to avoid the bump this time. That became harder as he moved along, the bumps becoming more numerous and less obvious.
It took him nearly an hour, finding this the hardest his control had ever been challenged. Ways to bend and twist the Force he had never thought of, with even the slightest mistake causing the pathway to shut violently.
It was more than a little uncomfortable, but also rewarding. He twisted and wormed his way through, until he finally made it without a mistake.
The holocron opened, and a voice drifted out. "Nearly fifty four years since last this holocron was opened. The sith must be in ruin for the acolytes of the academy to be this weak."
The voice, sounding young and tired, sounded little like that of a Sith Lord. "Lord Gratyl?"
"No. And before you ask, my name or identity is not important. Nor was it recorded into this holocron, for that matter. I will not have politics stand in the way of learning, not again."
"Again?" Morgan probed.
"Yes, again. No more of these questions."
Morgan put up a hand in acceptance. "You sound more alive than any other holocron I've interacted with."
The voice laughed, a raspy sound. "Interacted with. Maybe you have seen your fair share of them, then. Most say talked with. Very well, if it will get you to stop asking these questions. The material in this holocron was once inscribed on stone tablets or fragile paper. I spent my last few months of life transferring my essence into it, so that the knowledge could live through me. So that I could be its teacher. Its guardian."
The voice coughed, sounding pained. "Now then. You have passed the test of opening the holocron, and are thus rewarded with the knowledge within. Tell me, acolyte, how long did it take you?"
Morgan contemplated lying, but saw no real reason to. "About an hour, give or take."
"An hour." The voice was silent for a moment. "Interesting. Well then, shall we begin your lesson on fleshcrafting?"
Morgan looked at his datapad, noting the time. "I truthfully don't have long. Other tasks await me, no matter how fascinating this is."
The voice made a tsking sound. "Then we shall be quick."
It cleared his throat, sounding so very alive. "Fleshcrafting, a discipline of sith alchemy, is the art of change . This could be the change of beasts, people or any organic material. Its name might give you the impression that it is limited to flesh, while in truth it deals with any form of change. Growing bone, muscle or any other tissue is perfectly possible, if increasingly more complex as you progress in the art."
Morgan picked up his datapad, dutifully making notes. "Sculpting monsters to do your bidding, making your followers stronger and more durable or even growing plagues are all uses for the art."
"Its true value, however, lies in its ability to improve oneself. With the Force, and deep meditation, you can achieve awareness of the body that is near impossible for any other being. While altering others is doable, it is done with grafting better qualities onto them. Replacing skin with strong hides to make them tougher, better muscles to make them stronger. Even giving them the eyes of animals, allowing such things as night vision, is very useful. It does carry the chance of rendering the subject mentally unstable, but such are the risks."
Morgan made careful note of it all, but was becoming less and less interested.
"What I find the best use, however, is self modification. When proper study is done, one can improve not through grafting, but careful manipulation. To promote the strengthening of muscle, so that none can overpower you through sheer brute strength. To make the skin shrug off blaster fire, or even make the liver capable of rendering any poison harmless, with no grafting required."
His head shot up, staring at the holocron. 'Poison immunity. Strength to rival Soft Voice without turning into an abomination. Skin tough enough to stop the inevitable knife in my back.'
"I thought you might like that." The voice resounded smugly. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Fleshcrafting requires flawless control, not to mention extensive practice."
"Now then, make careful note of the following. They will be the essence of the art, and will need to be mastered before any true practice can be done."
Morgan put his head down, rapidly making notes. 'Now this sounds like it might be worth my time.'
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
He walked into the jail nearing noon, his studies keeping him longer than intended. Cages lined the wall, many more than seemed needed. Three were to the side, with Knash pacing before them.
One cage, on the other side of the space, held a twi'lek, blue skinned and staring at the wall vacantly. He carefully ignored her, turning to the jailer. 'Nothing you can do for her yet. You don't even know her. Not really.'
"You. I'm Jailer Knash. I run these cells and the slave pits. You're the acolyte Tremel sent for the test, right? He must think highly of you."
Morgan said nothing, motioning to the cells with his trial in them.
"Not a talker, eh? No skin off my back."
Knash turned to them, nodding at each. "Now, these three prisoners have been selected for your inspection. You gotta interrogate them as needed, and then decide their fate. Whatever you decide, you will be the one to carry out the sentence."
Morgan decided that he wanted to spend as little time in this place as he could. "You." He barked at the first prisoner. The woman jumped. "Name and reason for imprisonment."
The woman, human and with black hair, stared at him stubbornly. He stared back calmly, and after a few seconds she caved first. "Solentz. I was hired to kill someone, but I had no idea he was Imperial! I don't even know who hired me!"
Morgan nodded along. "So you, as an assassin, did no research on either your employer or target. Did not find out who either was or worked for, nor what you were getting yourself into as a whole."
Solentz scowled. "I respect my client's anonymity, and how was I supposed to know he was a spy! You think they hang signs around their necks proclaiming it to the world!"
"So either you are incompetent, lazy or possess a code of honour. Any makes you a poor assassin."
The woman crossed her arms, her face the picture of defiance. Morgan felt fear coming in waves from her, but so far her emotions did not point at lying.
"Let's make this simpler. Did you kill the spy on orders of enemies of the Empire?"
"No."
Morgan couldn't tell lies from the truth, not really. But her emotions pointed at the truth. No nervousness as she waited to see if he believed her lie. No guilt, or any other signs that she was deceiving him.
"Either," He stated, "you are lying or telling the truth. If you are lying, then you do so to sith, in the heart of their empire. If you are telling the truth, you are incompetent, unmotivated or worse. But I cannot judge the latter, and I believe that you are telling the truth."
Morgan turned to the jailer, who was watching with interest. "Send her to Imperial intelligence. They can judge if she is worth employing."
Morgan turned to the next prisoner, and he spoke before he could say anything. "Please, I am a fellow sith. Grant me the opportunity for a trial by combat. I beg you."
"You beg?" He asked, surprised. "How long were you sith?"
"I served faithfully for twenty-four years, then one mistake and they threw me away. Please, let me feel the weight of a weapon once more."
"You beg." Morgan repeated, intrigued. "You were sith for twenty-four years, but beg."
It wasn't disgust he felt. Not pity at his state or glee at the prospect of killing. Mostly he felt like he was doing a chore. The thing he had to get through so he could get back to doing what he wanted. But now the chore was slightly interesting, so he motioned to the jailer.
"Give him a weapon."
The sith bowed his head. "My thanks, young warrior."
Knash opened the cell, and handed the prisoner a weapon. Morgan realised he had made a mistake when the sith enforced his body, strength rushing through his old frame.
The training saber came straight for his eye, and it was all he could do to dodge and ready his own weapon.
His blade was sharp as anything, with plasma running along its edge to make any wound that much worse. He was younger, rested and in top physical shape.
His opponent was old, tired and starved. He wielded a training saber and had likely not fought for months. Yet he nearly died five times in seven exchanges, the training saber he so readily threw away nearly reaping his life again and again. He could do little more than stay defensive, dodging what he could and blocking what he couldn't.
The fight dragged on, first one minute and then two. He realised, slowly, that he was wrong. That while the sith was pushing him onto the defensive, he wasn't being beaten. The old man had experience, but was tired and weakened. His edge had been dulled, and age had taken what not even the Dark could give back. Morgan had youth, and his edge was sharp. His mind slowly adapted to the speed and skill of his opponent. He could dodge more, make a few counter strikes here and there.
He studied his opponents' enforcement by reflex, slowly adapting the superior technique into his own. It brought them closer to equal in speed and strength, his blows hitting harder and faster.
Then, after what felt like hours of desperate fighting, the man slowed. Morgan raked superficial wounds across his body, and took less wounds himself. Where his opponent was slowing, he was going steady. His enforcement nowhere close to emptying his reserve, his shield strong and limbs steady.
Then the old sith made a mistake, dragging power from his shield to his limbs. He probably thought it wouldn't matter against a young acolyte, thought that even a weakened shield would suffice. Morgan slipped past it, jerking his opponent's wrist to the side so hard it shattered. He used up a quarter of his remaining power in the process.
The old man didn't even grunt in pain, trying to grab his falling saber with his other arm. Morgan took it at the elbow, then cut deep along his stomach. Guts spilled, and the man collapsed.
He breathed deeply, watching as the old sith died on the floor. Pain covered his body, but he paid it little attention. 'Sure showed me to be more cautious. Jesus christ.'
Morgan looked at the man he had just killed, and felt little. No torrent of regret. No guild gnawing at his bones. He had killed someone, for the very first time, and he felt nothing but exhaustion.
Exhaustion that was leaving his frame with every heartbeat as enforcement flowed through him.
Slow clapping reached his ear, and he turned his head to see the jailer near the door. "My, he sure was a lot stronger than he seemed. Would have gutted me in a second, where I his opponent."
He looked Morgan up and down, seeing his uniform in tatters and wounds covering his body. "Might want to get those looked at, and maybe get a change of clothes. The last prisoner isn't going anywhere."
Morgan ignored him, turning to the last part of his trial. "I'm named Brehg." He said quickly. "They suspect I forged documents for the republic, but I'm innocent!"
"Strange little fellow, remained adamant of his innocence despite being tortured." Knash said, stepping over the dead body on the floor. "Always claimed he was set up."
"That's because I was!" Brehg shouted. "I forged some documents when I was younger, did time for it, but I've been clean since I came out! I swear!"
'No good choices. No way to find out for sure if he's lying.'
"Send him to Imperial intelligence too. If they believe him, they could use a forger. If not, they can kill him themselves." Morgan looked at the jailer, seeing he was nudging the dead sith with his foot. "I'm done here."
He walked away, not noticing that the twi'lek had been watching the entire exchange. Not seeing how she watched him leave with narrowed eyes, looking between his retreating back and the body on the floor.
Not even feeling the slight glimmer of hope in her, as she went back to staring at the walls.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
He walked into Overseer Tremel's office after a trip to the medic droid and a shower. It had taken care of his shallow wounds quickly, applying bandages and smearing ointments. A new uniform covered him, taken from the quartermaster all acolytes could request basic items from.
"Run back to your master in the beast pens, before I cut you in half." He heard Tremel sneer, just before an acolyte near sprinted past him.
"Ah, acolyte Morgan. Finally." The Overseer picked up a datapad, reading out loud. "Now then, your test in the jails."
"First, the assassin. She attempted to kill an Imperial spy but was unaware of her client's affiliation. You assigned her to Imperial intelligence. I commend you, that was excellent thinking. Never waste a potential resource."
Tremel scrolled down. "The failed warrior. Why grant his wish for a trial by combat?"
"I wished to see what twenty-four years of experience would make of a sith. To learn from him."
The Overseer looked up, eyes piercing into his own. "You wished to learn from him? If an acolyte could kill him, no matter how promising, he was not worth learning from. You should have killed him in his cell. We don't have time to honour yesterday's accomplishments. In the future, come to me if you wish for instruction."
Morgan bowed his head in acceptance, knowing it was a pointless offer. 'Either you are dead in a few days time, or I am. I learned more from that fight than I will ever from you.'
"Lastly, the forger. You send him to Imperial intelligence as well. Why?"
"He is here. Brought to Korriban for a crime without strong evidence. He must be very good at what he does, or someone would have killed him long before now. Innocent or not, I judged that Imperial intelligence should determine if he could be useful."
The Overseer scowled, but nodded. "Acceptable, in this case. But remember that not all skills are in high demand. A forger, no matter how good, is easier to acquire than an assassin."
Another acolyte walked into the room, carrying a stack of datapads. "It seems other issues are pressing. You did well in this trial, if slowly." The Overseer gave him a pointed look, but continued without further comment.
"Your next task is to go to the caverns of Marka Ragnos."
Tremel pointed to a spot on his desk, and the acolyte put down his burden. "In there is a beast he left to guard his legacy. Go there, sit among the flames, and wait for the beast to come for you."
The Overseer put down the datapad that he had begun reading, giving Morgan a stern look. "This beast has been there for centuries, so long that records are conflicting on when exactly it was placed there. It has killed many an acolyte, and is exceedingly dangerous. You must kill it if we hope to have any chance to impress Darth Baras."
He waved to the door. "Go to the Valley of the Dark Lords and find the tomb. Slay the beast, and return to me when you are done. Dismissed."
Morgan turned and left without comment, thinking. 'If it's a beast, I might be able to disrupt its mind. Kill it while it drools on the floor. Or maybe it's resistant to mind attacks, if it's survived for so long.'
Taking a shuttle to the lower wilds was easy enough, and once there he looked around.
A minimal research station spread around him, with guards patrolling the perimeter and acolytes coming and going. One stark presence in the Force was examining a beast on a table, acolytes caring for dozens more in cages.
The perimeter was soft, he noted. No gate or walls, just soldiers and barricades. What acolytes came and went out of the station did so in groups, looking nervous to leave or returning bloodied. He saw no one he recognized, so went out of the perimeter almost as soon as the shuttle landed.
"Sir!" A soldier stopped him. "Pardon, sir. Haven't seen you before, and all new acolytes get a warning before leaving."
Morgan waved at the woman to go on, looking out over the valley. "Thank you, sir. The Lord in charge sent soldiers to gather his research materials before he tasked his acolytes. Unfortunately, some of the soldiers turned mad. Now they stalk the valley, attacking beasts and acolytes alike. The wildlife consists mostly of Tuk'ata, but they are both numerous and territorial. Deeper into the valley, should you need to go that far, scouts reported to have found failed acolytes, hiding when they could not complete their task."
'This many acolytes and a Sith Lord are making the soldiers nervous.' He thought, feeling fear spike and eb as she talked to him.
She took a deep breath, saluting. "That concludes the briefing. Thank you for listening, sir!"
Morgan nodded. "And thank you for the information, it will be most useful."
He moved past her, hearing her snap to attention again as he did so.
He was in the wilds proper soon after, and the number of acolytes he could see quickly dwindled to nothing, beasts taking their place.
He quickly found that the beasts were both non-speaking, noting to thank Soft Voice for insisting they all learn their bestiary, and far more able to work together than most. He had to cut through the first group that found him entirely, leaving none to try and find out if he could manipulate them mentally.
That trend continued for near half an hour, Morgan slowly making progress through the valley. Finally, a group he came upon contained a younger hound. He kept it after he killed the rest, wrestling it down and tying it with rope he had taken from the quartermaster.
They looked only a little like dogs, but the resemblance still made Morgan want to try something different than making them turn on each other. So he examined its brain, slowly stimulating various parts of it. He found aggression fairly quickly this time, but moved past it. One made it yelp in pain, and another made the hound shake its head in confusion, whining. 'That part must be sight or balance.' He noted.
He poked another part, and he felt nothing happening immediately. He started to move on, but noticed the Tuk'ata had become sluggish. He pressed the area again, and stepped back to observe.
The hound seemed no different at first, but after some ten seconds it's eyes started to droop. It would shake awake, then repeat. Some thirty seconds after initial stimulation, it fell asleep on the ground.
Soft snoring came from the beast, and Morgan allowed a small smile. "Kinda cute when they're not trying to bite my balls off. Seems I won't have to kill several dozen of them."
He moved on, taking his rope and leaving the young hound to sleep. Any group he came across was soon snoring on the ground, Morgan only needing to give ground to buy time. Dodging out of their way wasn't too hard, and they usually only contained some four to six Tuk'ata per group.
It was when he moved deep into the valley, some hours walking, that he noticed a change. His mental shield, as ever present as his soul one, started to come under attack. A slow, almost unnoticeable attack, seemingly from nowhere.
Morgan took an embarrassing long moment to realise it was the Dark itself grinding against his shield, not so much attacking as bumping into it. It was a high amount of Dark energy, and he scowled. 'That Sith Lord must have known that this area was so strong in the Dark, and he sent those troopers anyway. So either he didn't know - which seemed unlikely - didn't care or wanted to weed out the weak minded. In any case, a disgusting waste.'
Some fifteen minutes after moving into the high Dark area, he came upon the first soldier patrol. Came upon seemed too dramatic, however, because they were inanely arguing about how to best move a large boulder. No purpose or higher reason seemed clear from what little he could hear.
Morgan snuck past with minimal effort.
It was the same for many of the remaining soldiers he came upon, either staring vacantly at nothing, screaming to one another about random subjects or fighting with the rare Tuk'ata group. All were easily avoided, until he arrived at the tomb of Marka Ragnos.
A half dozen soldiers stood around the entrance, vigilant and with weapons ready. None seemed easy to distract, and Morgan saw no other way than to attack.
'Unless they still respect the chain of command? Madness is madness, but they are still behaving like soldiers.' He thought.
He walked around the boulder he had been hiding behind, lengthening his stride and putting a scowl on his face. The soldiers snapped their weapons to him, but he spoke before they could shoot.
"At attention!' He barked. "Officer inspection!"
Half of them snapped to it, the other half lowering their weapons in confusion. All except one.
"We were not told of an inspection today, sir?" The last suspicious soldier asked.
"It's called a surprise inspection for a reason, soldier!" He shouted, rapidly closing the distance and making his face look as angry as possible. "Now at attention before I boot you straight back to bootcamp!"
It seemed to work, and he pretended to inspect armour and weapons while angling to step past them. "Wait a second! That's not an officer, it's a jedi!" The suspicious soldier shouted, raising his weapon and firing in one smooth motion.
It hit the wall behind him, Morgan having moved to the side a few heartbeats before the soldier had even pulled the trigger, but it caused the rest of the soldiers to snap out of the fake inspection and raise their own weapons.
He cursed, but was close enough to snatch a soldier's weapon out of his hand and start bashing it on their helmets. One good wack was enough to send them to the ground, none getting back up.
With his speed and being so close to them, the half dozen soldiers were on the ground before they could alert the whole valley with their blaster fire. Morgan made sure to hit hard enough to knock them out, but not so hard to cave in their skulls. A surprisingly delicate balance.
'That must have looked ridiculous.' He thought as he moved past their prone forms, dropping the blaster. 'A sith bonking soldiers on the head with their own weapon.'
Inside the tomb was a group of acolytes, dirty and starved. He slipped past one woman's shield and snapped her ankle, the sound causing the rest of them to scurry away like rats. They even left her behind, moaning on the ground where she had fallen.
He kicked her head when he passed her, making her eyes roll into the back of her head. 'Not the academy's finest.' He noted dryly.
Then, finally, he made it to the chamber itself.
A huge slab of stone, covered with intricate carvings, dominated much of the room. Statues of Marka Ragnos loomed from the wall, and the floor was covered in dust.
Dust and footprints.
He kneeled at the carving, feeling out into the Force. The Dark was near overwhelming here, but it did not attack. It flowed around his shield with no more malice than water, overwhelmingly powerful but harmless. For now.
He studied it, the way it flowed and ebbed around. It moved through stone like smoke, yet bumped into walls Morgan could not see. After some time, a shape seemed to suggest itself, slipping out of his mind's eye just before he could recognize it.
Then the Force screamed at him to move, and he dove to the side. He cleared some twenty feet, using his enforcement to jump sideways more than roll.
A huge beast lumbered where he had kneeled, vaguely resembling a spiky, smaller rancor.
It shot at him with little warning from the Force. Morgan jumped, using the ceiling to vault to the other side of the room. He tried to attack its mind, but ran into a blanket of Dark so thick he couldn't push past it.
'That must be the beast, then. The Force gave me less warning than normal. Better not get caught by those claws either, they seem like they would hurt.'
He jumped again when it charged, and it crashed into the wall behind him. 'Sure is fast. But unfortunately for you, I'm a lot more mobile.'
The next few minutes he spent playing a deadly game of catch, where Morgan used his superior agility to stay out of the huge paws of the beast.
It seemed to become elated as the fight went on, enough so that even though both its soul and mind were shielded in the Dark, Morgan could see it in its eyes.
He was surprised when the beast tried to grab after him after another jump, a move that he could punish freely.
His blade flashed, and two stumpy fingers dropped to the ground at the same time as a deafening bellow rebounded through the room. It resumed trying to catch him, its movements seeming angry, but its eyes shining relief.
'Almost like sparring with Soft Voice.' Morgan reminisced. Those fights had him use superious speed and agility to avoid getting hit too. 'But then he had a saber, and he isn't quite as big as this one is. He also didn't have contradicting body language.'
Several more exchanges passed, with Morgan scoring little more than shallow cuts and the beast hitting him with nothing more than sound. Hurt his ears, but little more than that.
Slowly, as Morgan lost himself in the repetition of dodging and jumping, the beast slowed. He could put a little more time calculating his blows, scoring deeper wounds between thick armoured scales. 'Just like against that old sith. Endurance over power. Speed over strength.'
He thought back to the holocron in the library. 'But it's even better to have both.'
The fight ended without fanfare, the beast slumping to the side from a dozen wounds. Morgan startled as the Dark rushed to envelop it, feeling almost protective. Its shields dropped when it fell to the ground, and Morgan could feel the beasts emotion for the first time.
It felt tired. So very, very tired.
'Finally,' A rough snarl sounded in his head, 'Finally an acolyte that can put an end to this misery.' Morgan startled again, the voice crashing against his mental shield without damage and giving it an strange echoing quality. 'You can talk?' He asked back.
He had been wondering why he had seen intelligence in those eyes, yet the beast had tried to kill him the same way every time. Dangerous, to be sure. One slip and he would have been paste, the bruises on his shoulder from a slight graze telling him that much. But predictable all the same.
'I was forbidden.' It spoke. 'Forbidden from speaking. Forbidden from leaving. Stalking this dark tomb for centuries. Alone.'
'I'm sorry.' He told it, sheathing his blade. 'That must have been lonely.'
'I wanted to join my master.' It said, voice weakening. 'But I was young. So very young. My keepers dismissed my claims. Told me that I could not join where he had gone. They thought I did not understand death.'
It snarled into Morgan's mind, anger bleeding over the connection between them. 'When I rebelled against them, when I fought to join my master's side, they chained me. They used the sorcery that birthed me to chain my mind. To bind me to this place. To his grave.'
Its eyes focused, locking with his. 'Listen well, young sith, for you deserve a prize for setting me free. My master grew to heights few have reached since. He claimed world after world as his prize and built an empire from his followers. He was a man many respected. A man none disobeyed.'
'But I remember a time when he was but a lowly sith, young and ambitious. We used to play in green fields, running and wrestling. I used to sleep at his side, something deep within me knowing stars would shatter before he would allow harm done to me.'
The beast's chest heaved, then stayed still. 'But the more powerful he grew, the less joy I saw in him. The more followers he gained, the more time he spent ensuring they did not betray him. He was a man none disobeyed. But the more power he gained, the more lonely he became.'
'Remember that, young sith. Surround yourself with those you trust. With those you love. When you can have anything you desire, it will be too late.' Its voice faded, and Morgan chased the connection before it broke.
'Maybe we'll play again, like when we were both young and happy. I'm sorry, master. I tried to follow you. I tried. Please don't leave me all alone again.'
Morgan felt the Dark spike, rushing as a tsunami to the dying beast. He felt the Dark lift something, before his senses overloaded from the power and he could feel no more.
It subsided, the tomb feeling strangely empty at its passing. The drain on his mental shield lessened, until it felt as any other place on Korriban.
But before it was gone entirely, Morgan's strained senses saw a shadow beyond shape. A shadow that looked at him, and he felt like the statues had come alive. A shadow that reached out, like a giant would pet a kitten. A surge so powerful it knocked Morgan out cold, even if all it had meant to do was wave.
A gesture that felt like gratitude.