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Flight will not save you; the collapsed entrance will take too long to clear, and your efforts would be crushed by the overwhelming power of the ancient Sith Lord. All you can do is continue forwards into the fight and trust that the Force will guide you, and that the numerical advantage will hopefully even the odds. All any of you would need is just one lucky blow, and you could subdue this living memory from the archaic past. With any luck, Master Porro could hide an impressive secret skill with Lightsabers, the thought almost causes a chuckle to escape your lips.
The room is poorly illuminated, the Lightsabers alone would not have sufficed to bathe the expansive space in light. Bulky industrial but man-portable torches litter the floor by the mutilated cadavers that called the man robed in black an ally. They haphazardly spew light onto the smooth sandstone walls, which then reflect, giving the rest of the room a low illumination level. Low, but enough to see in, especially for one gifted in the Force. More statues of the many defeated foes litter the room. But unlike the rows of them that stand alone on the journey to the Lord's Chamber, they coalesce into a diorama of mortally wounded bronze bodies. Some bow in supplication; in contrast, there are those recoiling in horror, others are hoisted onto long spears, and there is a pair locked in an embrace, hands wrapped around the other's throat.
Empowering yourself with the Force, time slows as you bolt forwards like a projectile flung from a slug thrower. Each enhanced footfall sends you forward towards the battle dozens of meters at a time, and within an instant, you have crossed the great resting place of the prodigious Sith. Your cape comes off cleanly, it flaps in the gale your speed creates and slovenly falls to the ground. Before you, the two Force wielders battle, the revenant is overpowering his much younger kin with uninterested ease. The living dark side practitioner’s wounded shoulder glows an aggressive yellow around the clean hole that travels through both ends of his shoulder joint. Around the wound, his tattered black robes have curled up as if they are some leaf long deprived of moisture. Charred black skin is visible through the ruined portion of his clothes, proving that indeed there is a living being under the midnight black cloth.
Waves of pure dark energy radiate from the ghostly pale figure; it buffets you with rays that gnaw into your flesh and taints your core. Poisoning the fountain of Force within yourself, your connection with the rhythm of the universe is out of tune with your senses, the ones perverted by the outflow of power from the presence of the apparition. Being so close to the soul that rejected death stabs at you with daggers of unease, filling your head with biting thoughts that inflict distraction and distrust in your own ability.
