Blanket Full of Doubts

[Alexia Sturkov]

The Force Hunter prowled through the wreckage of the tomb entrance. It had no name, nor recollection of it's life before it was mutated into the unstoppable warrior it was now. It had never even desired to know, or ever thought about it. It lived to follow orders, to serve the mistress. No name, no nickname or service number. It was just a Force Hunter. Nameless, genderless, heartless. Relentless. No more, no less. And it was under orders now, among dozens of other Force Hunters, to search the tombs of the Ancient Sith Lords for anything of worth. Already many tombs had been opened and searched, their traps disarmed or set off, but so far nothing of real value had been found beyond a few worthless relics. A piece of armor here, a sword there. Nothing that was not so degraded that it would turn to dust if touched.

Now it was entering another tomb to another unknown Sith Lord. The doors were easily opened, usually a sort of puzzle mechanic would employed to fool casual tomb robbers, and now and then a key or some sort would be needed. The Force Hunters bypassed all this. Either with cunning, or with explosives. Now a dozen of them were passing into a fresh tomb, moving from room to room, chamber to chamber. They disarmed the traps they found, and sent in the weakest of the Hunters ahead of them to trigger any traps they could not find.

The hunters were all dressed and armed similarly. They wore studded leather jerkins that covered their spindly bodies. Cloth wrapped around their long, thin but muscular arms, and metal faceplates covered their faces. The Faceplates were capable of several levels of vision enhancement, such as night and heat vision. There were also breathing apparatuses built into the masks, allowing the Hunters to breath easier in the dusty, stale confines of the tomb. As far as armaments went, the gauntlets worn by the Hunters had spring loaded wristblades as well as projectile dart launchers. Each hunter also carried a wicked blade of Psionic Steel, a metal created by bonding durasteel together until it was incredibly dense, which allowed it to withstand several blows of a lightsabre before melting away. Such a blade was indeed very heavy, but the superhuman strength of the Force Hunters allowed them to wield the blades with little unease. Several of the hunters also carried knives and spears also made of Psionic Steel.

They prowled through the new tomb, looking for anything of worth. They had not yet encountered hostile lifeforms, and as such expected none. They had their bulbous eyes out looking for traps.

[Lucianus Adair]

It made him curious to the fact that in all the persons that had trampled their way across the dust of Korriban, none had disturbed the grounds of his childhood - if one could call it that - and yet, in rethinking it, perhaps it was not so curious. Most anyone that set foot on this otherwise desolate planet were here for one thing: The tombs of past Sith lords. It was all that was known to be there, and until any other individual had the gall and the cunning to actually further explore the surface in its entirety, it would likely remain as such. Shade Estate, formed by his caretaker in youth, was a retreat of silence, a place where he also carried out private works. Be it a slaughtering in the courtyard, studies in the vast library, or parusing the inventory of weapons, the K'paur man found plenty to fill his time with.

It was one day, that he had returned to this place (as he rarely felt need to unsettle the dust), that he was most intrigued to find another presence planetside. More than one, in fact. And as he approached the tombs in his waltz of daily musings and evaluations, those presences became more concrete. The predator sniffed the air. They smelled of slow decay and weakness. He frowned.

What is this which my senses bring to me? Again, he sensed for them. It dawned on him. Force hunters. Weak. Useless.

A corner of his mouth upturned in a most sinister smirk.

Marsuo'ur'stalis stepped quickly, masking his presence, and bombed right for the tomb in which the invaders had finagled their way into. There was nothing like a kill to accentuate the day. He kept his guard, drawing a blade of bloodsteel, and advancing with hushed steps to their position. This would be a simple task.

[Alexia Sturkov]

The hunter in the rear of the group paused. What was left of a breeze of air filtered to where it stood, having traversed the small distance from the entrance. A scent entered it's nostrils. It smelled mostly dust and dirt, but there was that green tint to the otherwise monotone smell. It smelled something alive, something that was not a fellow hunter and not the Mistress, or any of her lackeys. The Hunter hissed, catching the attention of the rest of the hunting pack, and with a simple motion of it's hand sent them down the way they had come. Weapons still sheathed were drawn and held at the ready. Bodies dropped lower to the ground, moving in a half crouch, ready to attack at a moment's notice.

True, they were ailing and slowly dying, but they had enough vitality in them to fight and their senses were still keen, even if dulled with age. They were always ready to fight, already ready to die. It was what was programmed into their brain, planted at scalpel point. They moved, their movements almost graceful if not for the occasionally sloppy step. Their pale skin was easy to see in the darkness, as were the scales that bristled down their shoulders. Their black spiky hair was either tied back in a knot or cut off completely. They looked every bit like the alien warriors they are.

And it had been too long since they had a good fight.