He stared at the sealed door, the ancients stones interlocking in ways that hurt his mind, the joints too perfect, too seamless. A hand pushed dark hair from his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, feeling the squeak of age as he rubbed into the corners of his eyes. It had been too long.
The icons came into view again, the pale light cast by the chemlight flickering as it too felt the ravage of age. He reached out a hand, a thin veneer of soft leather between his fingertips and the stone, coated in antique dust. Images flashed before his eyes, a typical defense from the ancients. He smiled, teeth glinting as he traced the symbols round their spirals, across runes and ideographs. And there it was, the dull creak of the catch. He paused before applying more pressure, the stone sliding back into the door, stone cogs rotating from within, rumbling with deep bass resonance as they moved away, exposing the room ahead.
His hand went to his belt, skipping over a blaster holster and a hanging lightsaber, fingers closing around another chemlight. He snapped it in his hand, shaking it to activate the reaction within, pale golden light flowing from it as he threw it into the darkened room. The tapestries were the first thing he saw, rich and dark, hanging from the ceiling to the floor, black embroidery telling stories older than anything he had seen in his lifetime. He stepped cautiously, half holding his breath as he moved across the threshold.
The golden light bounced off of his violet eyes, framed with creases as he scanned the room. There were cabinets, the old wood carved with steady hands in a display of fine craftsmanship. Chests of the same make flanking them, no doubt full of treasures meant to accompany the long dead lord into the afterlife. Then, the raised dais in the middle of the chamber, a waist-high platform covered in more tapestry. He stepped to it carefully, leery of the pressure plates and myriad other traps that the old architects were fond of using to protect their gods. He raised another chemlight, his eyes falling upon the platform, finding nothing but dust.
He let out a sigh, turning away, eyes drawing across the rest of the chamber. A silhouette caught his attention, lurking against one of the walls. He moved toward it, raising the chemlight again, mind reeling. The old lords were known for building intricate suits of Force-imbued armor, and to find an intact set would be worth millions of credits easily. He let his mind idly consider the fantasy of a long vacation in a paradise climate, moving toward the dull sheen of black armor.
It turned.
He froze, mouth falling open as he blinked. The chemlight poured his own shadow over the corner of the room, and his mind tried to tell him he had imagined it, but somewhere back in the unevolved parts of his mind he knew better. The fear grew behind his eyes, and he let it hold him to that spot for a moment.
It moved again, the armor shifting without the benefit of wind or breeze. It was deep below the stone, after all, nearly fifty stories below the spot that they said a keep once stood. It was ten years of research and expensive scanning equipment that revealed the opening, the culmination of his father's work and his own. He shook off the doubt, stepping forward.
It definitely turned toward him, stepping in mirror toward him. A trick, a trap, ghosts of the old lords were only legends, used to keep interlopers and gravediggers from their treasures. He waved a hand, seeing if it would do the same.
The squall of energized crystals filled the air as the deep crimson light did. He stepped back, nearly stumbling as a second blade erupted, the color of a stormy sunset crashing over him. He staggered backward, hand reaching for the hilt at his own waist, the weapon his father had built with him. It fumbled from his fingers, sliding down the leg of his pants and to the stone of the floor. He couldn't think, his mind caught in the fear. Dropping to his knees, he scrambled for the saber, the dull ache in his fingers reminding him that he was too old for this work. The hum of sabers louder as the distance shortened, he felt his breath catch.
"You're not real!" he cried out, eyes wide.
The dull throb washed over his senses as the helmet raised from the specter, floating back on unseen hands and setting down on a cabinet behind him. Dark hair flowed out from under it, cascading down his back, a mustache flowing down his chest. His skin was paler than moonlight, eyes darker than space as he looked at him.
"None of us are." The words crashed against his ears and his mind, the gravel tone assailing him from all sides.
He let the visage burn into his eyes, recognizing the man almost immediately. He had read about him, heard the stories ever since he was a boy.
"You died." He found the saber, standing up slowly to look at the ghost, his heart pounding in his chest. Bravery was stepping past fear, his father taught him. He clasped the saber to his belt in feigned defiance, something in his head still screaming at him for foolishness.
The lord's head tilted at him, as if considering it, and then he abruptly turned around, looking back toward his helmet, the saber blades evaporating into darkness. "Why are you here?"
That was a long story. He tried to sum it up in his head, tried to distill it down into an easy to pronounce and easy to digest bit of speech. It wasn't easy. "We had to be sure you existed."
He turned back, looking at him with those black predatory eyes. "You know what I was and yet..." He gestured toward the opened door with a sweep of a hand. "There is nothing for me out there." He paused, looking off into space. "Not any more."
"I know. You're dead."
He felt a tug at his belt, his saber detaching from the d-ring and soaring toward the Lord's open hand. His mouth fell open as he watched it move through the air, tongue working silent obscenities before coagulating into real words. Ghosts did not possess that ability. "You can't be... it's been seven hundred... no. There is no way."
He closed fingers around the weapon, turning it over in his hand, letting the Force reach into the hilt, feeling across the crystals, the power cells. He looked back up at him. "Who are you?"
He blinked. "It's mine, I swear." He stammered, wondering.
"Who are you?"
"I didn't steal it. My father and I built it."
The Lord stepped forward, the bootfall echoing across his senses. "I am Lord Musashi Daraku Keibatsu, the Lion of Tarthos, Emperor of the Golden Lotus, and Dark Lord of the Star Chamber." He paused for a beat. "Who are you?"
He blinked, drawing in breath. "I am Isar Kuros, of the Sanjuro clan." He paused for a moment before the words spilled from his mouth. "Your descendant."
Muz paused, watching him for a moment as the chemlights slowly flickered.
"You should be dead." Isar shook his head.
Muz lowered his head, looking at him through the tops of his eyes. "You should not have come here. You know what I am."
The stories screamed past his mind as he considered. Tall tales, legends, myths. The God of Kyataru, wreaking havoc on the heavens, tearing worlds apart, building technology from the stars back to his old home. They couldn't be true.
"Just like I can't be alive." Muz completed Isar's thought aloud.
Isar just stared at him, letting the unasked question hang in the air.
Muz ignored it. handing him back his saber, waving him at the door. "Leave me in peace. Your world wants me even less than I want it."
"You don't want to see..."
Muz just looked at him, no expression on his face. Isar stepped backward, his feet shuffling the dust as he backed away from the man. The stories said that once his queen passed that he had changed, withdrawing to the Rock of Kuroshin, the castle that once lay where his hometown grew. Afterwards, every time his people came calling, both from the stars and from the capital, they would come to regret it. The legends said he buried himself in the rock so deep that even the Force couldn't feel him, then laid down to die. Isar looked back at the Lord, searching his face.
Muz turned away, an outstretched hand waving, the stone gears rotating again to seal him back in his hole. Isar watched as the clasps reconnected, the sigils reforming as the parts combined and fell back to flush. The curves came together, the symbol of the lion's head assembling before his eyes.
Isar sighed.
No one would believe him.