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[General Fou Fou]

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[Mos Maluem]

The dust swirled around his robed body, catching in its folds and resting on his shoulders, only to be swept away once more by the next gust of dry, hot, wind. His eyes were closed, and his mind was silent, giving no thought to space or time.
The Sith Lord merely sat, pensive, or not, for one could not tell, on the dingy, dirty ground, sand rustling everywhere. He'd been sitting in that very same spot for nearly two standard weeks, not eating, nor drinking, and never truly sleeping.
He was drawing on the Force, drawing on the Dark Side that made him strong, reaching out with his anger and his hatred for Life, drawing power into his body and soul from the dark energies that pervaded the planet.
It made him whole.

Mos Maluem was waiting for something, waiting for a moment to awaken and realise his true destiny. Victory would be his, regardless of how long the fight lasted, for the Dark Side was his ally, and a very powerful ally it was indeed...
But the wait was growing longer, and whilst Mos Maluem never lost patience, he was beginning to chafe mentally under the stress.
He would never break, but that did not make his situation any more comfortable.
Mos Maluem had been waiting for some time, gazing into the galactic telescope that is the Force, and glimpsing what he could of civilization.
Their time was near, the New Republic, the Empire...the Jedi.

Mos Maluem breathed in deeply, and suddenly, his eyes flashed open.

It was time, almost. He must be ready.

Mos Maluem closed his eyes once more, sinking back deeply into the Force, into the Dark Side.

[Mos Maluem]

Mos Maluem swallowed, feeling the dry air on his tongue. The wind was picking up, and many days had passed, yet still he carried on, breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out...

He'd been sitting in the same spot for weeks, not eating, not drinking, not sleeping, merely teetering on the edge of existence, the Dark Side permeating his body so deeply, he didn't need food, it's energies sustained him. His mind was strong, and glowing, even if his body was feeling the effects of neglect.
His muscles had begun to atrophy, his stomach had been eating away at itself for days, his fingernails had grown long and his head tails crusted with dirt and flecked with rain water.
His rear was numb from sitting so long, and his own feces had long since over stayed their welcome. Mos Maluem did nothing to stem the flow of bodily functions, only feeding them with Dark Side energy, testing his limitations, or if he had any left...

Mos Maluem stood up suddenly, the Dark Side was calling to him...calling him to...his eyes, nearly glued shut with debris and leaked tears and eye gunk, opened slowly, like large wooden doors rusted shut at the hinges. His arms hanging at his side, and his lightsaber from his belt, Mos Maluem turned away from the balcony on which he sat, and looked at his ship, an unarmed, Tartan Patrol Cruiers, whose previous owner called it the Merry Miner.
Mos Maluem stepped forward, and fell instantly, his knee cap cracking loudly against the 'crete, splintering into dozens of fragments. He shouted out, clamping down on his pain and fueling his anger with it, his hatred growing with every step towards the ship. His knee bruised violently, and pain seared his leg with every centimeter it moved.
Mos Maluem made his way onto the ship, activating all the systems he could with his weak grip, and flicking on the rest using promptings from the Dark Side. The Tartan lifted into the air, its engines rattling with the stress of liftoff before blasting forward towards orbit.