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Post by Shaman Odin Alfodr on Apr 9, 2013 7:33:44 GMT -8
*Mariunhus was a vault-spire on Muunilinst, one of the many small mountainous cities located out at sea, the foundations of which were built around the cones of active underwater smoker volcanoes. These volcanoes were known for spewing out superheated gases containing precious and pure metals. Entire mountains of gold, platinum and other metals had been formed over the eons, eventually covered by mollusks, bioluminescent ferns and tubeworms.*
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on May 9, 2013 6:06:58 GMT -8
*To one less traveled and experienced, this might look like the edge of the world. He looked into the distant ocean, where the Villa Obscurum had once loomed upon a spire all it's own. Before the funeral. Before Plaga had set a fleet to ruin. Falling faster and faster toward them. Only the quickest of them had been able to escape. He had chased Elyia and Plaga as far as he could before they jumped to the ends of the galaxy. He had cursed his inferior ability to guide and pilot a ship. It had never been his strongest suit. Let them have stood their ground without the distraction, and he would have wreaked a vengeance that would scar even his own callous mind.
He could see so much from so far. Ghosts and echoes of unrest, and chaos. The shocking silence that took the room when Reign laid himself to rest. He still couldn't remember who took the podium first, he or Rhea. With everything gone, he could only wander. Pursue Reign's grand scheme in his stead. Collect all the knowledge the galaxy had to offer, and hope that something would piece together the missing edge to his blade. The thought that hung about his brain he couldn't quite grasp. Speak the words forgotten on the tip of his tongue. There was no such peace to be found. Every day it grew more belligerent. A bother so fierce it would grind his teeth to dust, and the gears in his fists whined as they clasped tight. He could not find whatever it was he sought strangling the air either, it would seem.
How many had been in the room when the specter cried out? He could not remember. He could only be sure of what the words meant to him. A beginning forged by Hevn. He could never assume to have known Reign best. He could never outmatch the bond between the brothers that came before. Only Bedrovelse could pierce the walls of solitude that were built around him. Together they picked through secrets they would bury with them, truths that tormented their mortal eyes. What had the Dark Jedi Order been missing that brought them to war? Blades turned upon blood sworn brothers that consumed them with a hunger for destruction.
Pale sapphires glowered down toward the water. Surely the wreckage was recovered by the Muunilinst government. The Dark Jedi had a major influence over the government and soldiers here. They would know that relics beyond pricelessness were hidden away in every inch of the place. It was a small wonder if he could find a way to approach Reign's old friends. See if they might yield what he was looking for.
Hevn glances down at his mechanical hands. The squeeze into fists. Frustration bubbled in veins that were no longer there. He quaked with a rage that without the Order, he often struggled to contain. Was control the answer? Reign had abolished every word of the Code in one fell stroke. He couldn't be certain.
Reaching out had been a difficult thing. The last time he had seen the man was Ossus. After that it was every man for himself, Hevn uncertain that the others had the wit or skill to survive the full retaliation of the Jedi Order. There was no one to trust. Only questions for men who once thought similarly. It was time to find out if he was alone in this task or not. *
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Post by Anima on May 9, 2013 10:31:32 GMT -8
These ashes are the lamentations of men once celebrated as great. Perhaps it might seem humbling, to a man who could not see beyond delusions of Power riddled in haunting echoes. But we are no such men, the sole survivors of that civilization. Dark Jedi in truth, driven toward excellence, striving toward knowledge, powerful through sheer force of will. That, perhaps, answers the questions I once asked myself, in the absence of true faith. What did our order lack? Conviction. Without a Code, what bound us? Without hollow words, were we ever brothers in truth?
I intend to weigh the veracity of that, now.
Bedrovelse Hevn. I can feel him here, like me, staring blankly into the abyss that was left in the wake of greatness. For several moments of silence, precious heartbeats in the chests of mortal men, we drink in the bitter aftertaste of this, the so-called revolution, and we wrack our minds to their limit with truth. As it should be.
Anima stepped forth from the Shadows, the behemoth creature of consummate darkness, who's face was naught but unblinking, lurid, luminous orange orbs set in a wreath of shadow, strode in silence toward a man who also called himself Jen'jidai. It was in difficulty that the two had found themselves of an accord, and increasing difficulty that they had finally come to be face to face. The true heir of House Plaga- the bastard son, the apprentice, Death itself, stood finally at Hevn's side, looming there like the slowly palpating heart of a world condemned.
For a long moment, he did not speak, eyes considering all the ruin, seeing the places it had been torn apart. Moments in time, echoes in history itself, tears of blood splattered on duracrete. And he saw beauty in it. These things had been destroyed, in the way of the old, to make way for the new. The cycle of death, once preached by his Master. All things must end, but death is only the beginning.
He saw it. What the others had not, and what his Master had tried in vain to tell them. But in their self-serving notions of power, none of them would hear. Destroyed from within, as with all great things, tainted by the craftsmanship of human hands. In his struggle to be heard, in the final moments of his life, William Reign had shattered the Code, and left a cryptic message. A message that would become knowledge, if only they opened their minds.
The Code was broken, and by shattering that chain, they had become free. More free than any who had come before, and a promise of freedom to those who would follow. Now, to take the measure of Hevn, Anima turned his gaze toward the man, glancing almost lovingly at his imperfections. All of the cracks, the pieces that had fallen away, the rage that held him shakily together. And somewhere within the darkness, he felt a stirring.
"I would hear you, Bedrovelse," he uttered in a solemn whisper, once that seemed to echo in the same manner as the ghosts in this place. "Tell me what knowledge your strivations have brought to you. Tell me of the state of the last of our kind."
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on May 11, 2013 14:43:30 GMT -8
*So subtle. Wind curling it's fingers into the curtain within an open window. Ever the slightest breeze, and a man was next to him. Just as Hevn noticed the wind, he could sense Anima. Bedrovelse himself had a certain affinity for going unnoticed to the naked eye, or the vast spectrum of the force, but Anima was something else. He could creep up from the unlikeliest of places and make the skin of lesser men crawl. No worms twisted beneath the synthetic skin on Hevn's body. He was curious as he turned toward Anima, if the effect could piece him as simply a man.
Bedrovelse's visage was no longer as sharp or stern as the standard he had once kept it too. Dying had a certain influence on that. His steel grey hair hangs at neck length, dirty and ever so slightly unkempt. Windblown more like, well traveled. His eyes could shear the weak with a glance, but greater men like this one fared well under the pale sapphires that stormed like a vicious blizzard. Almost a glimpse into his heart, or his mind. His skin is worn, but clean. There is a look grim and weary that sat upon his face with a fierce persistence. Youth still clung to him somehow. Corruption weathered and kept at bay. A weak pair of eyes might consider him for his mid twenties, though the piercing eyes and gaunt look told a different story. Centuries of strife and suffering. Lashed upon him, and he upon others. The quadranium that held his bones and flesh akin made his build thick at the jaw, arms, chest, and legs. Not the muscles that once corded his body so condensed and explosive, but cold ruthless metal.
He wears black spidersilk robes. An armorweave tunic. Boots that climbed up half his shin, before a plate of cortosis took to the knee. Gauntlets of his own design, claws crawling up his fist, and three slits on each hand at the knuckles that ached to release them. A single lightsaber was hidden under his black cloak somewhere. A belt pouched with many treacheries and weapons of guile. He had not troubled himself with his hood. Hevn could pass for a wanderer with a severe demeanor pretty much anywhere in the universe. His crossed arms relax some at the approach of Anima, and Hevn's head turns to bear his rigid gaze upon him.*
"Dark Jedi are born every day. In fury, hatred, passion, woe, and pain. They live, struggling to find what to do with that ache inside them. The longing that lashes like a kraken, many tentacles confused and disturbing the order of the soul. I watched the wisest and most fearless men in the galaxy rip into each other like rabid dogs. This proves either that the longing can never be sated, and that we like the Sith must feed our individual lusts, or that somewhere along the path the way was lost. My vision is clouded when I concentrate on William Reign's final moments. How could a man so troubled as not to stir from his chambers be at peace with the force when that sword ripped him in two? How could such a cunning and fierce combatant take his own life, when all he had ever waited for was the true warrior that would finally claim his place? My will has been hardened by training and atrocities not fit for even strong eyes and minds. Yet it crawled through my thoughts like a snake in the water, hissing, and slithering. I have not in my vast study or expertise found whatever tool, spell, or witchcraft that might stir his spirit and demand my answers. I have not found the shackles or claws that might drag him from the abyss to serve my thoughts a rest. I was left only with his final words, and to my knowledge was the last to learn his ways. Perhaps the purge has left open a new path to be carved from calamity and failure. My certainty is slim. I know I would see through his hope to build better and stronger, if ever they were his hopes. To seize strength from the ghosts of the past, and curb their weaknesses. As I always have. The force calls me to fulfill a duty I cannot possibly fathom or understand with any clarity. Balance demands I regard the scale with care. Reach out in hope to revive a cause, where my boiling rage might foolishly seek to erase it."
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Post by Anima on May 11, 2013 15:43:02 GMT -8
"Long did I seek to look upon the treacheries that devoured our kin objectively," the hissing whisper came, Anima's eyes passing over Hevn to look upon the ruined horizon, the sunset casting a blood-colored glow on the ravaged land. His pale white fingers became visible as he turned his palm up, hand outstretching before him to reveal a small, black orb. Orange orbs that glowed eerily seemed to take no heed as they lost focus, the bitter gale of darkness moving around the two Jen'jidai like a tempest. "You could seek knowledge of the dead for the lifetimes of ten men, and still you would never have found the knowledge that William Reign left to you. But, you prove his final wisdom and vision all the greater by not falling into the pitfall of your own rage. He left us to do as he once did- to discern truth in the galaxy of lies."
The blistering breath of the Corruptor swarmed them for a moment longer, and then, surged inward to a focal point- the diminutive orb in Anima's palm. With a screaming noise, it rocketed upward, out of the Wraith's hand and over their heads. Anima tilted his head back to gaze upon the now glistening object, and his eyes began to roll back as he uttered an unintelligible string of words. The orb began to spin- slowly, at first- then faster and faster until finally, it stopped.
And from within it's heart exploded a flash of light. Around the two men, orange and green light took the form of the galaxy itself, like some ancient map. The stars themselves came to life, nebulae and planets sparkling into existence like the night sky. And Anima glanced silently over to Hevn, waiting for a long moment. "My master once told me that the greatest gift that the dead leave is their legacy. Not their strength itself. With that insight, I began to look not around, but inward. It was then that I began to see."
Reaching out as if to take a handful of the light, Anima clenched his fist, and the images swirled with breathtaking speed. The galaxy became Marinhus, it's golden age, when the Villa Obscurum was whole and the Jen'jidai were not yet scattered. Before the rebellion. Before their world was destroyed. Muun men and women, children, and the Jen'jidai, all interacting, all of them going about their routine. Monotonous, and yet, held together by... something.
The hulking wraith moved his opaque hand in a lazy swirling motion, and the scene shifted. The words, torn asunder by fire. C'thulu Plaga, destroyed by a brother beneath a chandelier. Lashash de Fortia, slain in glorious battle- Eversio, dead, in the arms of some wench. All of it, wrong, wreathed in fire, and then...
Nothing. There was darkness. All of them abolished, in their own way, carried into dust by their own whims. Anima turned his gaze from Hevn once more, letting his arm fall to his side. The orb fell to the ground, clattering as if useless, as if wholly spent. And Anima spoke once more. "All of that time we spent clinging to words, we were not Brothers in truth. We were deluded, as Jedi are. As Sith are. By words. Words are made of man, Hevn. The Code was destined to fail us when we needed it the most. With nothing but words to bind us, we were set free to our devices. Little better than Sith. Meditate for a moment on Reign's actions- the words he chose. He chose, with his final moments, to undo the words of the Code. He broke those chains, and he left us to divulge for ourselves what was to be done. That was his last gift to us. Freedom to find truth. Freedom to create something more real. Freedom from becoming lost for an eternity."
Anima stood in silence for a long while, then spoke again. "When I died in truth, it was the same. My Master destroyed the Chains that bound me to the living. I began to see past the lies. Men are, in their core, beings of desparation. There exists, in equal parts, the possibility for strength, and for weakness. That which is nurtured becomes the natural condition of the beast. Only when a man closes his mind to the lies and opens his eyes to truth can he finally glimpse it."
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Post by Bedrovelse Hevn on May 13, 2013 8:16:45 GMT -8
*Watching and listening came natural to Bedrovelse. Though his eyes turned lazily upon the orbs, and his face showed little grasp of attentiveness, underneath there was a deep intent to understand. Something more than the pages turned, logs scrolled through, a fresh pair of eyes. What Anima suggested was not so difficult to grasp. Though his experiences contradicted a few points. Ones of less importance than some.
Hevn still believed that if he were powerful enough to drag up any one of them, he might wrench the answers he sought from their souls. Be given a glimpse of some clarity. Reign had absolved the Code, but did he make it? The words that Reign gave Hevn, the lesson taught, were altogether different than the Code itself. Perhaps that was alone a clue. That Reign saw it dissolving, and zealots would not let rot what they killed and bled for. So carnage unleashed itself. Reign prevailed, or had he? What had he lost so close to him that he would not revel in victory and pave the new way? Truths and lies vanished with that man's corpse that would unsettle him to the end of his days. There were few answers he sought more than those. Even the truth Anima spoke of paled in vast comparison to why.
When the call to lead had fallen upon him. His words, his hands, all had sifted and fallen. They had all turned or battled him. They let it die without a word. His memory alone could serve record. Where Anima was in the course of the ruin and despair was of less importance than the seeming desire he had to rebuild. Anima has always appeared to him as more monster than man. What did it know beyond death? Hevn had once not been much more though, and underneath an exterior that had been conceived for the sole purpose of misery, he had found purpose. He supposed he could warily accept his words, suspicious as always of a greater ploy.*
"Words of binding are not easy to find. Though the principles of nurturing strength above weakness, and dispelling lies are probably key. My interest is piqued."
*He would divulge more if the time came. For now accepting his words and taking action was more important. There were deep tremors of thought rattling the Jen'jidai's brain. Many pieces of the great puzzle needing a place. How they fit together all the more difficult than what they created together.*
"Where do you propose we begin?"
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Post by Anima on May 13, 2013 11:26:32 GMT -8
From the dust came all men all of civilization, and to dust did they all return. Silently did Mariunhus give testament to that truth, even as the two men stood in the midst of that once thriving utopia. Hevn asked, with due skepticism, where to begin, and Anima's gaze locked with the man once more, considering the words. Such had occurred to him many times as well, but humility had tempered those thoughts with deeper conjecture. One man alone could not speak for all of his brethren, could not possibly think for men who claimed to be equals whilst living at the end of a leash. And so, there was another long moment of silence.
How could he show this man the things he had seen? In part, he could not- beyond what Enmity had absorbed of his knowledge and translated into fleeting images for Hevn to view, there was no way to allow the man to glimpse the things he had sought after and ultimately learned. The question of where to begin was, perhaps, less prominent than why Anima wanted this new order at all. And perhaps that was the commonality that Hevn sought. A purpose, directed, and properly conceived. "When there was a Code, we did not ask questions," he said, "not of the creed, not of our purpose. It led us to question other things, yet demanded adherence. Only after it was broken do we look back and see the frailty of that. So I do not expect to go unsuspected, unquestioned."
It had been his way, since his rebirth as Anima, to look beneath the surface, to rip truth from places it sought to hide under layers of lies. Like flesh ripping away from the innards of some great beast, giving way for the lifeblood to trickle back to the ground that had loaned it out. He took measure of each word, the way he had been taught to. It was a curious thing- while Plaga had birthed the Order, the things he had taught to Anima were things that he looked out with clarity through. Had his Master seen the inevitable end? Had the Code been an impermanent means of binding great men together for nothing more than a long series of expensive lessons? That was how it seemed now.
Here was Bedrovelse Hevn. One of the last, next to himself. The man was bitten, rather deeply. And Anima, in spite of his lack of humanity, understood that pain. Somewhere within him, an echo of the past felt the pangs of compassion, though it drowned itself in the darkness, never to be seen by the world outside those robes. Lifting his left arm, Anima revealed a long gash, pouring blood down his arm that splattered to the ground and glowed faintly, his hand now holding a black blade that teemed with fell energies.
"We begin, I think, with the exchange of knowledge. An act of trust, of forging the bond of kinship. In accordance, this is my gift to you. The rite of evocation. Partake of my blood, contaminated by the Corruptor, and the sight will be upon you- vision in the manner gifted to me. It will not last long, but there is no better way to share it."
Blood continued to trickle down the white flesh, Anima's eyes seeming to narrow in concentration. It would be, truthfully, a horrific experience, if Hevn delved in. Almost undirected, at first- he would see the creature beneath the darkness, the way he had once been, all of the wards ripped away. The past, flooding in, would spiral maddeningly about. But after a moment, the connections would become clear. Where the world came together, and where it fell apart. These Shatterpoints, invisible to most men, were abundantly clear to Anima. And he knew, where great men found themselves united, the rock became even more solid.
To absolve those shatterpoints by creating greater bonds. In the same way as absolving distrust, absolving hatred between kin. Creating a family- one that, even in moments of disagreement, came together and grew closer, instead of further away. Something unbreakable, and unbelievably powerful. That was the truth Anima had seen.
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Post by Orin Clash on May 13, 2013 21:26:33 GMT -8
"Bring it in low and slow, Ad. All hands keep your eyes open. Mirte, any sign of other vultures?"
"None yet cap, but my eyes are peeled."
"Brell- "
"Way ahead of you, cap - guns are hot and ready to blow."
"Good. Palla, flap your wings, be my eyes."
"On it, cap."
The Chain flew low over the ocean, a squadron of fighters dropping out from its belly and splitting into three groups of four. Each group fanned out over the water, followed by another squadron dropping into the air from the Chain. These spread out and surrounded the Chain, taking up support positions. The ship cruised in at an easy pace towards the spire. Adar had dropped them into atmosphere well away from the spire, on Abel's orders. If there was anybody else loading up on the wealth that a Muunilinstian vault-spire could provide, they would be disinclined to share, and they would defend their share with the ferocity of a firaxa. If this party had already started, Abel wanted to see it coming from a long way off. As it was, they were still roughly a hundred kilometers away, and approaching at only twenty-five percent speed. It would take them approximately half an hour to reach the spire; plenty of time for anybody to see them coming, and plenty of time for them to see anybody else coming.
It spoke about Abel's character that this was his strategy. He was a fencer by training; some sense of honor and formality pervaded his strategy. If he was going to fight, he wanted both sides to see it coming, so as to give it their best efforts. If he ambushed somebody, it was because he knew he couldn't beat them in an even fight. If he could, then it wouldn't be an even fight anyway. It also gave a hint to Abel's confidence in his men. The Epicanthix pirate was willing to pit his black-painted Corona frigate and motley array of fighters against any other pirate, in straight-up combat. He was confident in his men, and in the machines they operated.
Up on the bridge, sitting in the command throne, Abel snapped once. Stephane was immediately on hand, his sharp Nagai features calm and open.
"Wine, Steph."
"Of course, sir." Liquid splashed into an electrum goblet, which the valet passed to his master, and the master sipped at. A fruity vintage, probably sourced from one of the myriad of Corellian wineries. Crossing his right leg over his left, Abel leaned back and settled into his seat, listening to the hum of the bridge. Every few minutes one of his officers would call out an update, whether solicited or not. The run was quiet and uneventful as they came puttering along, now only fifty kilometers away. Over the flat expanse of water, the spire and its mountainous base were now readily visible, and then the reports came in. Mirte was first.
"Bridge, scans: another craft entering atmo above us; Assassin-class corvette. Looks like it's coming in hot, and course indicates it's aimed to intercept us in... ten kilometers. I think it's the Spear, Phaley's ship; I'm making out the blue X-mark on the nose."
Phaley. The ass; I'd bet he's been waiting for me to show up. Don't know how he thinks he can take me with that little corvette though. "Copy that, scans. Guns ready!"
"Aye cap, guns ready!"
"Palla, flap Third Squadron- "
"Bridge, Wings. Problem."
"Copy that Wings, go on."
"Second Squadron reports scanners picking up a cruiser rounding the spire and coming at us at battle speed, weapons hot. Scythe-class. Bearing a blue X and all indications say that it's Phaley's."
...shit. That's how he's can take me. He picked up a new toy. "...copy that Wings. Move forward to support Second Squadron, Third Squadron divert to keep eyes the Spear. Helm, slow us to fifteen-percent speed and aim us to split the difference between the two. Shields up and guns hot, let's dance with them." Well this will be fun.
Mirte called back again. "Cap, the big one is hailing us."
"Put him through, Comms."
Hey hey hey, Abe! Like my new ride? Phaley's voice was whining and superior, as usual. Abel had never liked Provan Phaley; prickless prick that he'd always been. He was an unlikeable man, but a decent pirate with a vicious streak, a nose for opportunity, and an appetite for grudges. Before now, crossing him had been a negligible offense, because the man had never had the firepower to back up his grudges. A while back, Abel had been part of a deal with Phaley and one other captain. Abel had stiffed the other two, making off with the entire bounty and leaving his comrades to be destroyed. He knew that Phaley had made it out, but until now, he'd kept a safe distance between them: but now Phaley had caught him, and wanted his head. Abel gritted his teeth and sneered into his end of the comm.
I've never known a woman who found a big shiny cruiser to be a good replacement for an actual dick, Phaley. I'm sure not impressed. Abel snickered as he listened to Phaley beginning to spit and snarl: he'd hit the other pirate in his 'weak spot.' Phaley had lost his biological manhood in a skirmish a while back. He'd always been insecure about his endowment, and losing it had only made things worse.
I'm gonna leave you in a scrapheap at the bottom of the ocean, Bayard! Abel grinned wolfishly and stood up from his throne, wine still in hand.
Then come at me, Pro.
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Post by Orin Clash on May 14, 2013 22:01:20 GMT -8
The Chain still hung low over the water as its last squadron of fighters dropped from the ventral hangar bay, flying upwards towards the descending Assassin corvette. Assassins lacked fighters, which made them a good option to be targeted with fighter. Phaley's first mistake had been to split up his ships; in the shadow of the Scythe, the Assassin would have been much more effective as a support ship. Separate, and lacking its own fighter support, it was an easy target. Abel could see this. Abel planned to use this. As the Scythe came crashing through the air towards them from the spire, Abel sent First and Second Squadrons and half of Third towards it at top speed, while Abel's own ship began slowly to turn upwards and to starboard. Phaley had deployed his own fighter support: all four of his fighter squadrons. They came charging in a mass, while Abel's fighters formed a loose square screen, clustering at the corners.
Standing before his throne, Abel tapped the fingers on his left hand against the shell of his wine goblet. He was counting, waiting, measuring. His bridge looked to him.
"Cap, the Spear is at 20 kilometers out and closing at full speed to intercept us. Enemy birds are headed straight at our screen. Orders?"
"...on my mark, fighters disperse into pairs and engage the enemy. Punch through them and make them turn in on themselves; get behind them if you can, but don't get too close to the big guy. Helm, you'll give us full speed and turn us up to pass the Spear and then cut hard to port behind it. Guns, before we make that turn, I want you to give the Spear a full broadside and then hit them with both tractors. Lock on to them and keep them locked as we make the turn. All fighters with us are to give a salvo of torpedos. Engines, after that broadside you're going to give me as much power as you can to three things: the tractors, the port shields, and the thrusters. You all with me?"
"Aye cap!" they all chorused.
"Then make ready."
The bridge fell silent. The frigate puttered on over the water, and Abel watched as Palla's fighters raced in towards Phaley's. He had to get this timing right; Phaley was being stupid, and Abel needed to make best use of that. His ship was barely a kilometer above the ocean, and he needed to even the odds as quickly as possible. His voice trembled with tension, but Abel managed to slap a thick veneer of calm façade over it as he inquired: "How far out is the Spear?"
Jacka, the co-pilot, answered. "Five klicks, cap."
This was it. Now was the time to make his move. Abel lifted his hand slowly, like a headsman's axe - and then it fell, slapping with a loud crack against the rail in front of him as Abel shouted: "MARK!!"
Immediately, the Chain jumped. Every soul clung on for dear life as the frigate swung and bolted towards the inbound corvette, blasting at the Spear with ion cannons as it rapidly closed the distance. The half-squadron flying with Abel all fired their proton torpedoes, plastering the smaller ship. It rocked and reeled in the sky, shields fluctuating as it weathered the blasts; but then the Chain was alongside, and a bank of five laser and five turbolaser cannons ripped into the corvette. Smoking, and with debris dropping away, the ship attempted to return fire. Abel's engineer was quick-fingered, though, and had already raised the shields. The Spear's return volley rocked the Chain, but did little damage. The frigate was already turning, too, locking its tractor beams to the corvette as it swung behind the smaller ship and began to race towards the water.
Abel began to smile grimly as the two ships plummeted, the smaller attached by invisible chains to the larger, and dragged along in its wake. He raised a hand again. "Helm, Guns: on my mark, disengage tractors and put our nose to the sky!"
"Aye cap!"
"...mark!!"
An observer could have almost heard the chains breaking as the two ships, formerly perfectly mimicking each other's course, suddenly diverged. One kilometer above the water, the larger ship swept skyward. The corvette's helmsman, now freed and out to rescue his craft, attempted to follow suit - but he was fighting the momentum of two ships, not just his own. Their engineer hadn't had the foresight to cut or reverse their own engines, and only now thought to back them down from full throttle. It was too late. The helmsman got the ship's nose clear of the sea, cresting through a tall wave; but the tail swung down and slapped into the water. Immediately a gout of steam and water exploded from beneath as the heat from the engines vaporized the liquid. The corvette was tipped up onto its nose, facing down into the waves - and then with a terrific splash, crash, and fireball, it was gone, wreckage sinking down.
Now, what of the fighters? Where had they been during all this excitement?
On receiving Abel's mark, Palla had immediately fragmented his screen. The swarm of starfighters split up and streaked past and through the enemy cluster, guns blazing. Phaley's flight chief had intended to punch right through the opposing screen, thinking they were simply to go head-to-head and that then he could swarm the frigate. No such luck. First and Second Squadron tore into the enemy fighters like dogs. Second Squadron preferred heavier fighters, primarily the ARC-170 or Aleph-class - and it showed. They came smashing through Phaley's formation with all the subtlety of a battering ram, flanked by First Squadron's hodge-podge of X-Wings, B-Wings and V-WIngs. Dancing around the outside were a half dozen X-83s and and Eta-2 fighters, representing Third Squadron as they picked at stragglers. Phaley's formation, attempting to counter, began to curl in on itself: and here the formation's density proved its undoing. While Abel's fighters had managed to maneuver through relatively unscathed beyond a few minor bumps, that had been before the formation began to collapse. Room for fancy flying became a precious commodity, and the supply of friendly fire far outweighed the demand. Phaley's fighters dropped like flies, either colliding with each other or the enemy, or simply shooting each other down.
By the time the Abel's frigate turned back to this part of the battle, the two fighter groups were on roughly equal footing, apart from the portion of Third Squadron which had been covering the frigate. These promptly joined the clash.
Abel looked past the dogfight as the frigate slowed to thirty percent throttle, and commed Phaley.
Now, let's get down to business.
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Aug 16, 2015 17:29:58 GMT -8
Dust and echoes.
His violet eyes drank in the coattails of decadence that the ruin before him clung to with exaggerated desperation. The cool, crisp breath of Muunilnst mocked the failed aspirations of an order born and reborn in futility over the rocky course of history. Alkor stood seeped in the bathing orange light of the planet's sunset. A murky haze hung low to the ground, the aftermath of a minor volcanic eruption in the distance that belched ashen minerals.
The banking clan funded the Order in its last days under the careful command of William Reign and Eversio, both men who learned to turn a system on its head and right it in a way tailored to their own designs. Alkor found himself both fascinated and disgusted.
All of the Old Ways preached a mantra of self-sufficiency, control, and freedom from fleeting attachments. Alkor mused over the absolute drudgery of managing an entire planet, let alone a corporation, and his gaze knit tighter. Muunilnst stood a constant testament to the failures of the Dark Jedi Order, and therefore, the only brothers Alkor Centaris ever had.
To him, now, they were dead.
Alkor raised his right arm and glanced over the necrotic tissue that sloughed off bone black as midnight. Eldritch, verdant runes whispered unintelligible secrets to him, his pupils dilated as the ancient magic that cursed his body seemed to mock him.
"Dead." The word dripped like poison from his lips. His hardened scowl murdered the memory of them as he concentrated on ripples from the past. Alkor stared at the fabric of reality, almost touching it with a skeletal finger, almost caressing it. He felt the tremendous shiver where the once brothers converged.
Alkor could feel the instant where the Jen'jidai lost control.
His breath shook and he gasped as he forcibly withdrew his mind from the tumult of terrible, dark power. Some chaos was best left unseen. C'thulu, his master and far more corpse than he, lived and died as proof enough of that. "In the end, you were exactly what you claimed to be," Alkor muttered, "a thief skilled enough to steal life from the hands of death. But he caught you."
Alkor spat on the ground. "He caught all of you."
Both his eyes slowly shut as Alkor drew his hood and his face disappeared behind shadows. "So it dies with us. The things you knew, the things I know, they are destined for the darkness. Just like we were, from the very beginning. I once vowed to destroy the enemies of our order,
"I so vow once more." His words were seeped in enmity. "We became our own enemies, so focused on perfection within that we lost sight of all fault." Alkor touched his wicked arm and the appendage, both hot and cold at once, dimmed for an instant. "I cannot teach," he stated, "I can only destroy. That was the only gift you gave me, Master, so obsessed with enemies on the outside."
"Now, I will destroy the enemy within." The winds rose around him as he uttered solemn words, hot dust and ash whipping against his dull skin. He did not flinch from the pain.
He did not flinch from the future.
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 25, 2015 17:47:37 GMT -8
The Corona-class frigate Marauder came shrieking down from Muunilinst's orbit at full speed, dropping through the planet's atmosphere until coming to a sudden stop just a kilometer above the spires of Mariunhus. Immediately frantic threats from half a dozen police and military forces began crackling over the comm channels, until a sharp glance from Fraljia prompted the communications officer to block their transmissions. In total radio silence the ship hovered over the mountainous city, patiently charging its weapons.
As the silence and the waiting dragged on, a slow smile began to stretch the Blood Matron's pale lips. When a marine at the gunnery station gave her finally gave her the nod to indicate they were ready, her teeth bared in a savage grin. "Fire all cannons. Scramble the fighters after the third volley; assault shuttles after the fifth." The officers standing around her rang out a chorus of salutes and affirmations, but she didn't hear them. Her pale eyes were fixed upon the city. "Let the Rites of Harangir begin," she murmured.
All ten of the frigate's turbolaser cannons fired simultaneously, raining a wave of ruby fire down upon the city. With no warning and no defenses, the people of Mariunhus ran screaming for cover as the wall of death descended. Most didn't even make it out of the street. Vaporized where they stood or torn to bits by concussion alone, they died as the mountain crumbled and the streets ran molten.
The Marauder fired again.
And again.
In the awful silence that followed, twelve B-wings boiled out of the frigate's bowels and descended upon the city like a swarm of insects. The half dozen police blastboats that rose shakily to meet them were met with a wave of missiles that tore their sloppy wedge formation apart, leaving two plummeting back into the spires in ragged pieces and the rest struggling to regroup amidst a hail of laser-fire.
High above the dogfight-turned-butchering, the bridge of the Marauder operated in silence. The crew wore identical looks of quiet reverence as they went about their duties, choosing new targets and coordinating with the squadron below. Aside from the clunking of boots as they shuffled between stations, the only sound was the deep thrum of the cannons recharging for another volley.
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Aug 25, 2015 18:37:16 GMT -8
He felt it seconds before it came.
Tremors in the fault lines of destiny screamed in discordant agony around him. Panic surged beneath his skin and terror bit at his blood. Thousands of voices rattled as a collective, then heaved a single sigh. Both violet eyes turned to face the harbinger of this ill fate with a grim acceptance. There was no chance to avoid what came next.
Alkor slowly turned as the Corona class frigate howled its battle cry, breaking atmosphere with a violent crack. It hurtled through air and rained misery down on the spires that towered over his head. His hood blew back in the wind to reveal the deep frown that tugged at his lips. He narrowed his gaze and drew a long breath.
The chorus of woe reverberated in his ears a second time, shattering the last vestiges of equilibrium that he managed to retain. Alkor grit his teeth in abject hostility toward the attack, one that came seemingly unprovoked and now by foul consequence targeted the Jen'jidai as well. Alkor dug in with all the effort he could muster, and he managed to keep his footing as the ground shivered beneath him.
Light, white and hot, scathed the world on every side of him. Duracrete singed by turbolaser fire blew skyward and evaporated in a screen of deadly illumination. Chaos reigned- the same chaos that once stole the breath from every man he called brother. Reopening old wounds only served to incite something within Alkor.
The heat licked at his body, barely protected by the fabric that wreathed him. The norris root, famed for qualities that resisted energy breakdown, offered him some protection from the outskirts of the blast. Combined with his own efforts to cocoon himself in dark energies, Alkor managed to stave off annihilation for at least several seconds.
Before he had the chance to breathe, the ship opened fire a second time.
Concussive force blew Alkor backward. In the time it took to draw on his latent power, Alkor felt several high volume waves of energy split his flesh. Three large lacerations blossomed open on his chest and arms, held defensively in a stunning show of willpower. The Jen'jidai howled his frustration, his rage, and his agony as his body channeled them together and sustained his life.
When the dust settled, Alkor held himself up with a single hand, labored breaths fighting to fill his lungs with air. His eyes never left the ship. "Enemies," he rasped, "will be..."
Alkor fought to his feet, bones creaking in protest against the effort, "put to death."
He gulped greedily at the ashen air and rolled his neck out, drinking in every ounce of pain that his body had to offer.
The first step wavered. The second did not.
Above him, the nearest spire moaned, tired from a long life of standing. The requiem sang by the frigate brought it the peace of sleep, and it began to crumble.
Alkor turned his attention to the massive debris that threatened to crush him. With a soft sigh, the Dark Jedi held out a hand- a sinister, blackened, skeletal hand that almost looked too frail to do anything.
And as it came into contact with the duranium alloy, it scattered to pieces that rained all around Alkor.
"Now I'm angry."
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 28, 2015 13:47:58 GMT -8
The Marauder loosed two more volleys before the Blood Matron threw up a hand. "Enough. Scramble the assault shuttles, and alternate our firing pattern to linked pairs, firing with two second intervals." She didn't hear whomever answered her order; icy eyes fixed upon smoke rising from Mariunhus, Fraljia was lost in exultation. To end life on such a massive scale...surely an offering of this magnitude would win her the Destroyer God's favor at long last. And perhaps, she thought with a wicked smile, the Prophet of Harangir won't be the only one to hear your voice.
The B-wings had finished slaughtering the police forces long before the assault shuttles ever left the frigate's hangar, so there was no one to oppose them as they descended toward the city. There were five, each carrying a dozen Reavers in their holds, and they split up the moment they hit atmosphere to target different areas of the ruined metropolis. For the most part, their agenda was death, but the Blood Matron had given them orders to round up any survivors that could be taken without a struggle. Thralls were valuable whether they were sold or given to Kad, and she didn't intend to miss out on the opportunity to collect them.
Saris's ringmail creaked and rustled as he shifted within the hold. The Reavers standing around him dwarfed the diminuitive Thyrsian, yet all were careful to keep a respectable distance. The sergeant had slaughtered more than one of his men simply for nudging him, and he had a habit of making sure his victims died bad. His twin beskads were sheathed across his back in an X, and on his hip he wore a DeathHammer heavy blaster pistol, but that was the extent of his armament. It painted a sharp contrast to the men around him, clad in heavy plate and toting WESTAR-M5's that could cut a man in half at thirty paces. And yet Saris' pale eyes were unconcerned, almost bored as the assault shuttle flew through the streets of Mariunhus, its buildings collapsing on either side of them.
When they reached an intersection flooded with natives fleeing the destruction, the sergeant slapped the pilot's shoulder. "Put us down here. Remember, move quick and kill quick so we can leave quick." His men leered with anticipation as the shuttle rocked on its landing gear and the ramp began to open.
They exploded out into the street like demons from Chaos, blaster rifles firing indiscriminately into the crowd while those closer to the landing site were met with beskads and combat knives. Saris watched it all with a look of bitter contempt on his face. It was butchery, not battle, and while Kad's thirst for blood would be sated regardless, it left a bad taste in his mouth. His own beskads remained sheathed, though he gripped the DeathHammer casually. Occasionally he would raise it and pump a round into a sentient who made themselves too much of a target, but as the Reavers spread out and the viscera began to pool in the street, he found himself doing little more than watching the carnage unfold.
The fighting was worse in other districts, where the bombardment hadn't done as much damage. Police forces and private military contractors fought a retreat toward the city's outer limits, too hard pressed to aid survivors or push the invaders back or do anything but try not to die. They made for poor sport regardless, and as their lines crumbled the civilians became the true target. With no threats from the air the fighters prowled the streets, strafing laser fire down sidewalks and back alleys and leaving the corpses where they lay.
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Aug 28, 2015 14:53:48 GMT -8
There seemed to be something beautifully morose in the act of slaughter. Characitures of life splayed across dulled pavement with vivid streaks of crimson danced in the waning sunlight. To appreciate the display only with the eyes robbed it of justice. The exquisite and earthy aroma of freshly spilled blood offered an intoxicating sensation, something only the truly depraved could indulge in.
Mariunhus, the city of spires, reduced to ruin before his eyes. Alkor would have laughed, in another life.
Instead, the Jen'jidai stalked forward with grave purpose. A tattered ruin remained of his robes, sloughing off like melted flesh from his burned torso. Ribbons remained of the left sleeve, which revealed his arm covered in blood and several gashes. Flecks of shrapnel lodged in his chest cavity radiated pain throughout his body with each step.
Still, Alkor swayed slowly straight ahead.
Replaced, the hood over his head obscured everything but two deep, violet orbs that burned visciously as the rage within him teemed. Around him, the rubble faintly shook from the aftershock of the assault.
Ahead of him, Alkor clearly felt the imposing presence of war. The figures of trained enemies flooded into the streets and more carnage paved the way toward his next destination.
The warning sirens screamed far too late. Cautions from the Banking Clan to all the Muuns driveled out into empty ears. "Pity not the damned," Alkor recited, words taught by his former master, and by many generations of Dark Jedi before him. "Lest you find them welcoming you."
The coarse words came silent beneath the hiss and rattle of blaster fire, another wall of corpses just ahead of him falling flat. Muunilnst tried in vain to repel invaders it had not been ready for.
"Times have changed since the Order protected this world," he murmured. The sight of beskar'gam ultimately did not surprise him. True, once the Mandalorians found an ally in the Dark Jedi. With those ties no more, however, imperialism and the assets of the Banking Clan could easily be taken into consideration, or even acquired.
"Graverobbers." The word weighed heavily on his tongue as his eyes closed in contemplation of the new information. "Betrayers of an oath sworn."
As he strode silently now into the thick fog of ammunition and ozone, Alkor withdrew an object from the remnants of his cloak. In an instant, the blade erupted to life, its color an eerie mirror to the haze of death all around.
Alkor glanced toward the horizon, focused on something far away...
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Faust Skirata
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Post by Faust Skirata on Aug 29, 2015 8:09:07 GMT -8
After a while the screams all began to blend together and fade into the background, until Saris no more heard them than he heard the steady -thump- of the Marauder's cannons or the chatter of blaster fire. Everywhere the Thyrsian looked was smoke and flame, cinders drifting on the wind like autumn leaves over the crumbled ruins. He could no longer tell minutes from hours, no longer had any idea how long he'd been here, cutting down the Muuns as they fled the hellish bombardment. It all ran together in his mind until it fell away, and there was nothing but the ache in his arms as he swung his beskads and the blood spraying against his ringmail.
"I have credits! I can pay you!" squealed one of the spindly natives over and over again as Saris backed him toward a burning merchant's office. He didn't stop until the flames were licking his back, and still he dug frantically through the pockets lining his vests, pulling out fistfuls of credit chits and flinging them at the Thyrsian's feet. Saris took two bounding steps forward and sank both blades into the Muun's stomach. "I have credits!" the Muun moaned through a mouthful of blood.
The sergeant planted one booted foot in his chest and pushed, freeing his blades and toppling the native back into the flames. "I know, you can pay me."
He whirled suddenly as whoops and jeers rang out behind him to see five of his men grouped together, rifles shouldered but silent despite the screaming crowd of natives struggling to escape. Before them a robed figure walked forward purposefully but calmly. It took Saris only moments to deduce what his men had already concluded. His armor jangled as he sprinted in their direction, his beskads still dripping blood.
"Forceling!" the Reaver on the end cackled madly, just as the figure activated his lightsaber.
Wearing vicious grins all five men opened fire in a series of controlled three-round bursts. All of the men were veterans of the Ossus campaign, and well versed in slaying Jedi. They worked their system efficiently, drifting apart as they fired to loosen their formation before two of the men flicked switches on the sides of their barrels and fired a grenade, aiming for the ground at the forceling's feet while the other three kept him occupied with blaster fire.
Saris watched with gritted teeth, willing his legs to move faster. With his luck, the one sentient that would provide an actual challenge in this den of Arasuum would be dead before he had a chance to cross blades with him.
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Aug 29, 2015 19:43:17 GMT -8
Each motion seemed erratic, violet, and detached. His arm moved with a wickedness that transcended meager human ability; he responded with the skillful agility of a force sensitive, and the training of a swordsman.
Three bolts moved in rapid succession, timed with two small explosives fired from different angles and directions. His mind raced over the present quicker than his body reacted, stimulated by otherwordly awareness. In the span of a second, he gave answer.
His blackened hand shot out menacingly toward the first grenadier, halting the explosive from ever leaving the barrel with a diminutive expense of concentration. The grenade thudded loudly against a sheer wall of energy that capped the mouth of the weapon.
Three bolts met with plasma as his brutal blade connected furiously with the first and sent it wide. The second rebounded from an arcing slash and the third screamed skyward.
The hazy violet beneath his hood wavered as the concussive burst cried out halfway to its mark. The second grenade, originally intended for him, burst into a stream of heat and smoke, and flecks of shrapnel peppered the ground around all of them. Unblinking, undaunted, Alkor let out a weighty breath and his body trembled with ecstasy, seeped madly in the thrill of warfare. This set Alkor apart from a simple soldier, or even a Jedi.
This was ferocity given form.
This was Juyo.
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Post by Faust Skirata on Sept 5, 2015 11:56:04 GMT -8
Brief confusion painted the Reaver's face as his weapon shuddered in his hands but didn't fire, before suddenly detonating in a ball of orange flame and glinting shrapnel. The force of the blast hammered the Mandalorian sideways and into the street, smoke rising from the stumps of his neck and wrists, his beskar scorched black by the fire.
None of the other men spared the corpse a glance, their gazes remaining trained on the force user and their fingers tight on the triggers of their heavy blaster rifles. Their steady lateral movements had caused their formation to drift apart and took all but the man who'd fired it out of the second grenade's range. Even he barely had to recoil, two staggering steps backward and a drop to one knee proving sufficient to abate the concussive aftershock. Teeth bared, the Reaver remained on one knee and resumed firing.
The force user proved adept at deflecting their first volley of shots, but then again, they usually were. Experience during the Crusades told the veterans their target's energy would begin to lag, his blade would slow, and eventually a bolt would make it through. A constant offensive was also necessary in order to keep them pre-occupied with defending and make it more difficult for them to crush your skull with a wave of their hand.
Saris came to a halt as he reached the four-way intersection where his unit was engaged. He was on the force user's left side; the lanes to his right and behind him were occupied only by the awkward, terrified Muuns running in every direction. Tightening his grip on the hilts of his beskade, the sergeant rattled off a silent prayer of tribute to Kad and then broke into a jog, making a wide loop to his right in order to circle behind the force user.
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Post by Reign on Sept 7, 2015 5:58:37 GMT -8
*Mariunhus. The vault-spire. The island city that was once the galaxy's greatest fortress; protected not merely by the firepower of an armada, but by the personal power and reputation of those warrior-kings who had called it home. But they were all dead now; ashes and bones scattered to the four winds by the epic implosion of what had been one of the galaxy's oldest and most powerful orders. Only a handful had survived the carnage; cut loose at the last breath of the Sage in the hopes they could survive the death throes. It had been an ignoble end to a blazing chapter in galactic history. And with its closure, so too it seemed had Marinhus entered its epilogue. The city was a shadow of its former splendour; poor and dishevelled - the mighty villa that once dominated its landscape was now a ruin; a monument only to failure. And yet something still remained...
There lingered a presence here whose power - even in death; perhaps especially in death - could not be denied. After all, death was only the beginning....* |
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Post by Xuan Wu on Sept 22, 2015 5:34:11 GMT -8
*The years had not been altogether kind to Xuan Wu. The good heart was still there but it's warmth seemed a little dimmer these days, and the naivety had been burnt away long ago. His old friends Adiemus and Isis would barely recognise this as the young warrior who had graced their home all those years ago, well on his path to becoming a Jedi, as his father had been. For one thing, both his arms were gone. They had been replaced by gleaming metal, built for strength and durability that no mortal arm could likely match... but Xuan Wu had never grown fully used to them - he missed his own arms, and the occasional phantom pain reminded him ever so clearly of their loss. Cut off. He'd been betrayed and left for dead, and if he didn't trust as easily these days, well... he had a damn good reason. But he still had a good heart, and that was exactly the reason he was here now, on this derelict excuse for a city. He knew some of its history of course, but he figured it would be safe enough to risk the visit. And the reason for the visit? The boy walking by his side.
He had rescued Kal from slavers six months ago. The boy had lived with his auntie before that, and Xuan had agreed to take the boy home. The only problem was... Kal's home had been a burnt out husk when they got there. No sign of the living or the dead. But Kal was convinced his Auntie still lived; apparently she had been a soldier - and a Mandalorian one at that - and she sometimes got called away on tasks. It was in fact while she was on one of these tasks that Kal was taken, and Xuan Wu sure wanted to have a word to her about that, assuming she was still alive. Xuan himself was doubtful, but Kal was convinced and had somehow convinced Xuan to help him. Besides, it's not like Xuan was going to jump the kid off at an orphanage; for one thing he had taken a liking to the lad, and secondly, the kid's Force potential shined like a beacon... something Xuan Wu was very careful to cloak from the moment they'd entered this system. It wasn't paranoia if they really were out to get you.
In any case, Kal clearly remembered his aunt mentioning Mariunhus, though in what context he had no idea. But at least it was a place to start, right? And so here they were. And so far, they had found nothing. Showing around an old holovid had got nothing.... except that one guy who spat on it. But he seemed to know nothing, and to Xuan Wu's refined Senses, the man's anger and bitterness at life in general seemed to drown out everything else, making it impossible to get a read. And so they continued, though they did stop a moment to look over the ruin of the old Dark Jedi temple. Good riddance to the galaxy, that was. Though Sith they were not, the galaxy certainly seemed a better place without them. And to think that if the rumours are true, they had done this to themselves. Kal himself seemed captivated by the ruins, and after a long pause Xuan was realised Kal seemed like he had zoned out. Clapping him on the shoulder, he guided Kal away, and it was only half way down the next avenue that he noticed an incoming frigate. He felt a sharp sense of foreboding at its descent. Sithspit.....Dark Jedi or not, I should have known better....
"Kal, run."
*Grabbing the boy's arm, Xuan Wu pulls him into a sprint for their ship, which thankfully was only a few blocks away. But as turbolaser rain lanced down upon the city in a wave of death, suddenly those few blocks seemed like a marathon through the valley of death. Dodging this way and that, guided by instinct and by the Force, Xuan Wu led his charge to safety, taking small thanks in the fact that the fire had started on the other side of the city spire. Assault boats and B-Wings followed, and Xuan knew that getting to their ship was only going to be the beginning. But thankfully, they made it. Racing onboard, he immediately fires up the controls as Kal jumps in the co-pilot's chair and starts to assist with the pre-flight checks and navicomputer prep. The boy was nothing if not smart; capable beyond his years. Now they just had to get this baby in the air before that frigate realised someone was trying to run and got a lock on them. Once in the air, Xuan had an ace up his sleeve he was hoping these murderers couldn't match; a SubLight Acceleration Motor, better known in the engineering world as a SLAM system. Though it sure as hell wasn't meant to be used in atmosphere, Xuan Wu was hoping the shields at full strength would stop the atmosphere ripping the ship apart. Only one way to find out....
Lifting off, Xuan Wu guns the freighter at full speed out of its docking space, heading directly for the thinnest concentration of attacking fighters. He doesn't wait to see if anyone tries to lock onto them, he simply sets forward shields to maximum power, dials up the SLAM system to 50% and glances over at Kal to make sure he's strapped in
"Get ready for a ride kid."
Xuan Wu thumbs the activation switch and the two are instantly thrown back in their seats as the inertial dampeners strain and then fail to account for the acceleration. The whole ship frame shudders as it punches through the atmosphere, and the front shield warning light begins to flicker within moments. But they make it, blasting out of Muunilinst at a pace even most fighters can't match. As the power bank for the SLAM system and the front shield deflector both run out at pretty much the same time, Xuan looks again at Kal, to find the kid grinning back at him with adrenaline-fuelled happiness. The innocence of that smile can't help but bring a smile to his own face.
"Alright, I think we've had enough fun for one day. Lock in the co-ordinates for Nar Shaddaa. I know its a sithspit hole in Hutt space, but the information brokers there are second to none. I know you think it would be easier to just head straight to Mandalore, but Jedi aren't exactly welcome there these days.... even retired ones."
Kal nods in understanding. The lad was good like that. Kal had explained that he had a few honourary uncles, like Kharakh, that he hadn't seen in a while, and one of those uncles apparently lived on Mandalore. But as much as Kal was desperate to find his auntie, Xuan also knew the lad was happy to be seeing more of the galaxy; the kid had wanderlust in spades. Hands flickering over the controls, gently despite the power in these gleaming mechanical appendages, Xuan confirms the inputs a final time before activating the hyperdrive.... and in an instant, they're gone.*
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Post by Reign on Sept 22, 2015 5:59:34 GMT -8
*Not many people visited the ruins these days. They had in the beginning. Many in respect. Many with sadness. Some with anger and some with joy. All sorts. But as time passed, so too did memories. The inexorable march of time lay its claim on everything, and even those who lived and still remembered move on. But the power that rested there did not. Oh it had in the beginning... drawn into the Force by its own designs, a denizen of the netherworld that was the resting place of all those like it.... but it did not rest. It learned. It grew. And it found in death what it had never quite managed in life - balance. But such knowledge was of little use to the dead. It was true that more than one of its kind had crossed over and crossed back again. And it too could have found the means if it really wanted to; but its time of flesh was over. Overs had taken over that mantle. Like its most gifted apprentice, the indomitable Hevn. But Hevn was beyond it now, walking a different path. Who would walk this new one? And how would it show them? That was the question. The answers eluded it until one day, when a man and boy stood at the edge of its former glory. At first, they seemed as ordinary as could be. But with the death of its flesh and the removal of its mundane senses, its others had been amplified. Though the man tried to hide it this was no ordinary boy, and what's more, there was a familiarity in that presence.......
This was what it had been waiting for..... what HE had been waiting for. Gender meant nothing to the dead, but if he was going to interact with the living once more, he would have to be more relatable. Careful not to alert the man, the presence reaches out, enveloping the boy like ethereal smoke, delving in to his mind to forge a connection. He gives away nothing yet. He does not wish to scare the boy, or to dominate him; merely to build a bridge between the living and the dead that would allow him to give guidance when the time was right. When the time was right. But it was not yet. The man guides the boy away but the task is finished, and exultation flows through the spirit, followed minutes later by a brief splash of anger when the hail of turbolasers begins to slag the city. But the emotion is transitory; a shadow of a past life, in which none would have dared. That they dared now was not an insult to his memory; it was nothing at all. Such things were insignificant next to the power of the Force. And so he waits once more....*
Soon.....
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