Post by Darth Kairos on Sept 23, 2019 9:51:37 GMT
The Imperial Palace, Coruscant
Several months after the end of the Clone Wars
Cloaked in black gloom, Darth Vader stalked the hallways of the Emperor's palace.
His master's summons had not been unexpected. In the nascent Empire, there were always tasks for the Emperor's enforcer. His master's will needed to be carried out, and Vader was the instrument his master wielded - sometimes deftly, sometimes brutally, but always effectively. But Vader was troubled by his own thoughts of late.
The Jedi had been exterminated, the few survivors fleeing into the galaxy's corners where they could be slain by Vader's own blade, but he remained restless.
The Clone armies were grinding their way through the remaining Separatist holdouts in the Outer Rim, but he remained combative.
The Senate was utterly at the Emperor's command, a relic of the Republic that his Master kept around solely for theatrics, but he remained tense.
Left alone, he could not hear his own thoughts, only the wheezing of his respirator in the gloom of his mind.
Vader's armour was but a shell, animated by the rage of the creature left inside of it, and it would never know peace. He knew this, and yet, he rejected it.
With a hiss, the turbolift doors slid open and he strode into his Master's throne room. There his Master sat, at the top of a tall staircase in a high-backed swivel-throne facing away from him to survey the cityscape outside of the palace walls. He stopped at the base of the staircase, and there he genuflected, his head bowed low. At length, the throne swivelled to face him, and a command dismissed the utterly irrelevant red-robed royal guards that his Master kept near his person for show.
Only once they were alone did he utter the words he always did.
"What is thy bidding, my master?"
Several months after the end of the Clone Wars
Cloaked in black gloom, Darth Vader stalked the hallways of the Emperor's palace.
His master's summons had not been unexpected. In the nascent Empire, there were always tasks for the Emperor's enforcer. His master's will needed to be carried out, and Vader was the instrument his master wielded - sometimes deftly, sometimes brutally, but always effectively. But Vader was troubled by his own thoughts of late.
The Jedi had been exterminated, the few survivors fleeing into the galaxy's corners where they could be slain by Vader's own blade, but he remained restless.
The Clone armies were grinding their way through the remaining Separatist holdouts in the Outer Rim, but he remained combative.
The Senate was utterly at the Emperor's command, a relic of the Republic that his Master kept around solely for theatrics, but he remained tense.
Left alone, he could not hear his own thoughts, only the wheezing of his respirator in the gloom of his mind.
Vader's armour was but a shell, animated by the rage of the creature left inside of it, and it would never know peace. He knew this, and yet, he rejected it.
With a hiss, the turbolift doors slid open and he strode into his Master's throne room. There his Master sat, at the top of a tall staircase in a high-backed swivel-throne facing away from him to survey the cityscape outside of the palace walls. He stopped at the base of the staircase, and there he genuflected, his head bowed low. At length, the throne swivelled to face him, and a command dismissed the utterly irrelevant red-robed royal guards that his Master kept near his person for show.
Only once they were alone did he utter the words he always did.
"What is thy bidding, my master?"