Jedi - General - Exile - Wound

Atris: It does not matter how many Sith there are. If they face a true Jedi, they will fall.

The walls and halls of the Academy were always dark, a crumbled ruin lit only by shocks of green lightning or the odd glow of red crystal embedded into the stone. It was quiet too, a kind of sickening stillness that twisted your stomach and begged you to flee.

But in this room, better preserved than most and small, there was a presence, a sensation, like fresh air blowing through a stagnant catacomb. Any force-user might sense her but here, in this cold prison with her body entombed in stone at the centre, Surik could make herself known to anyone she wished. 

Malachor V was a long way from anything in these times, a grave-world where the dead kept their secrets. Perhaps it’s existence was enough for others to instinctively seek it’s teaching? Her thoughts on the wind idly wondered if this one would leave with a loss, or a gain, or if they would even leave at all. Or perhaps they just wanted to steal her lightsaber? 

Her form flickered into view, a vision of her preserved from the moment she ordered the Planet’s destruction. She looked like a Jedi, perhaps, but by then she had shed her robes, released her hair, let the toll tell on her face as she had stood at the Command Centre and watched ships tear each other apart.

“Well, you have come a long way.” She spoke with an echo that seemed to come from everywhere, but her tone was curious and somewhat sardonic, “What are you looking for, here of all places? Or did you simply get lost?”