A/N: This is my last one-shot, I swear. Then it's back to finishing up my already-almost-finished third chapter for the Trunks series. Above any series that I'll ever write for, Star Wars holds the crown. It is my favorite fictional series and I just had to write this one-shot before the idea left me. I do appreciate all of your patience. This one is extremely short, probably will serve as a prologue for a story I might try out later in the year, but we'll see; I do hope you all enjoy it nevertheless. Oh, and for all my fellow Star Wars geeks out there, this one is set in the new Disney canon (though I obviously have incorperated names, places, and beings from the Expanded Universe, because I cannot just ignore that glorious section of Star Wars fiction that has held me captive for so many years). Enjoy!
The ancient sands of Moraband, which took on the harsh color of rusted iron, had been undisturbed for decades now and centuries before that. Once, they had been frequented by mighty Lords of a dark empire, but countless wars had brought an end to those times. Now, the red world was a crypt. Evidence of civilization remained despite the passage of time. Dreshdae, its capital in a distant era and nestled safely among the some of the red world's deepest ravines, still stood. Its structures were still intact, despite centuries of weathering; their furnishings also remained in place. No one had dared wander its vacant streets or loot its riches. Beyond the city sat a more recognizable monument to the planet's lost inhabitants. The Sith Academy was a decrepit sight, rising high over the valleys and ravines, where the scorching light of Horuset, the planet's star, gleamed off of its crumbling spires. Ruined by many battles fought in its halls, the Academy was a carcass for vultures that would never come—dead much like the order that once occupied it. Like Dreshdae, none dared to set foot here. Fear kept them away. Fear of ghosts. Fear of the darkness. But there was more. Moraband was unforgiving to those who would foolishly seek to rob the treasures of its former dark masters.
Perhaps, though, that was an exaggeration. One had dared to breach centuries of silence on the lonely, red world. One had set foot in its rusted-red sands, though it had been many decades since then. The last visitor, that oh-so brave One, had been a vile little green thing. A thing of the day—of the light. The green defiler had come for answers in the timeless vaults of the Valley of the Dark Lords, though he had found only the taunting illusions of Sith Lords long dead and haunting visions conceived by the very architect of the demise of the green thing's slanderous Order. The defiler had left empty-handed, of course, and Moraband had returned to the vexing silence of death. Forgotten by the defilers. Forgotten by the very Lords whose cult the planet's sand had birthed to so many millennia ago.
And so, for decades more, the red world remained silent. The only activity on its surface were sandstorms, the likes of which could rival those that plagued the Dune Sea on Tatooine, and the daily prowling of its non-sentient animal life, themselves the products of the dark sorcerers that had once been hailed as kings and lords by the planet's ancient populous. These animals had long-forgotten their red-skinned brethren, as well as the dark-robed outlanders who had come and seized up the reigns of Moraband's once-thriving society. Those days were lost to time. To an age when Moraband's name had been something else. More. The very name, when spoken, could silence a room filled with the galaxy's worst—so familiar were they with the power that radiated from the world it described.
Korriban.
Korriban was no more. On Moraband, the beasts now made their dens from out of the former haunts of their long-dead masters.
Only One had the courage to face the echoes of the dead since the planet's demise and he had been rewarded with nothing. Another was about to make the tabooed venture to the planet's red surface. This one, though, was not of the day—of the light. This visitor, a cold spot in the Force, was a creature of the night—the dark. For many eons, his people had existed on the fringes of the galaxy. His tribe was long forgotten, thought extinct by the Emperor and his apprentice. Not even the brave One and his fellow, exiled Jedi had suspected their presence. So he and his tribe had remained lost to the galaxy at large, untouched by the conflicts that had consumed it over the past several decades, and free to wait in the shadows. Free to prepare for their eventual return.
A cluster of lights, like falling stars, broke free of the black heavens in Moraband's skies. Their source, a squadron of Revenant-class transport shuttles, were sleek and silent as they descended towards the planet's dark surface. They landed, in no distinct orderly pattern, at the mouth of the old valley—resting place of their greatest lords. The leader of the squadron, a shuttle darker than the rest, opened at the belly, revealing a bright light that cast long shadows on the burnt colored sands, and a landing ramp descended. The light was then obstructed by another shadow, this one tall and humanlike—very much unlike the green defiler. The shadow descended the ramp with slow, measured steps. If there was any excitement in him, he did not show it.
The other Revenant-class vessels followed suit and soon the shadow was flanked by a great multitude that was his tribe. None of them spoke and the sounds of their breathing were muffled by a sudden gust of stale wind that swept across the valley and caused the shadow's tattered cloak to flutter wildly. The shadow proceeded ahead with a purposeful stride and mounted a rocky ledge overlooking the valley. All around him, orbiting above, Moraband's seven moons cast their pale, ghostly light upon the valley, pushing back the blackness just enough for the shadow to make out the features of the scar in the planet's surface. On either side of him, in varying states of disrepair, tall statues bowed in two symmetrical lines that ran the length of the valley. Every pair of two guarded the mouth of a large pyramid, the tombs of those who had come before and left the mortal realm—monuments of their power. At the far end of the valley, merely a silhouette against the light of the planet's moons, the ruins of the long-vacant Academy dominated the horizon. A cruel grin twisted across the shadow's face as he surveyed the ancient structures as though he were laying eyes on home after a long, arduous journey.
At long last, we have returned…
Another tremendous gust swept through the valley, forcing the shadow to brace himself against a nearby rock which stood taller than he. The stone was cold to the touch, but he found himself unable to pull away. The brief contact with the stone had awakened something. An ancient force that had lay dormant on Moraband since its dark masters had abandoned it centuries prior. The dark power touched the shadow through the stone and pulsated with life. An echo of this pulse soon reverberated through the Force like a powerful shockwave, causing the assembled tribe to shiver with thrill and anticipation. That seemingly thoughtless action had set off a chain reaction and now the Force edged towards darkness.
The shadow could scarcely contain the sudden surge of triumph that reached a crescendo within him in that moment. Throwing back his head, he howled with triumphant laughter that echoed across the valley.
Story Note: This story takes place after the events of Star Wars: Episode VI Return of the Jedi, though the precise year I am purposely leaving open to interpretation. If I ever decide to turn this story into something more, which will be in the distant future if at all, then I will expand upon it. The only thing that is clear about its placement is that it takes place decades after Grand Master Yoda's pilgrimage to the planet during the height of the Clone Wars and sometime following Luke Skywalker's self-exile, which was mentioned in The Force Awakens.
