Visions, Masters and Gales

Posted on Sat Feb 10th, 2018 @ 7:04pm by Bomoor Thort & Thane & Morgo Le'Shaad & Loren†
Edited on on Sat Feb 10th, 2018 @ 7:05pm

3,000 words; about a 15 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Armoury, Jericho
Timeline: After "Uncertain Strategy, Part Two"

OLD

"But be careful, Bomoor. These weapons know their masters..." she warned, cryptic.

Morgo looked to the ranged and melee weaponry, their grips and triggers shimmering a tell-tale green at the right angle. The newest and best technology to come from the user-identification corner of the galaxy. It would shock an unidentified user and alert security of unauthorized personnel in the span of a heartbeat, if handled.

Gaze returning to the only weapons chest she knew Bomoor would be interested in, Morgo took half a step away, assessing.

"...I wonder if you know yours."

Morgo's eyes cut away meaningfully to the open doorway, just as Thane and Loren stepped through. Pale eyes lingered on the diminutive woman.

NEW

In turn, as Thane marched past Morgo to the large chest Bomoor was inspecting, Loren took position by the entrance parallel to the Dromachean. Crossing her arms, the leather of her tunic creaking, she lent Morgo a steely gaze, inactive hilt clasped plainly in her hand.

"I'm s'pposin' you reckon yourself as bein' master unto yourself then, Le'Shaad?" She queried, cynically. "That you ain't got no one to answer to but yourself; that nothin' compels you in this galaxy barring what you fancy?"

Having been standing over the chest, letting the Trandoshan's sabre fall to the floor, Thane's attention was now drawn back to Loren and Morgo, although he made no show of moving his head.

"I'm reckonin' you also think yourself apart from us Force users too, huh?" Loren went on, her head inclining backwards as she spoke certain words, her posture undeniably challenging. "That you ain't drawn by some sick twist o' fate or calling?"

It struck Thane that it was an inopportune time to take umbrage in this manner, that such a confrontation could wait. But it was then he realised his hand had settled on the shining hilt of a vibroblade.

Etched with the markings of the Outer Rim Alliance (the likely target of a recent Exile raid) and recognising its design as the favoured melee weapon of Alliance officers in the recent conflict with the Republic and Jedi, he knew it to be forged with a cortosis weave. Glancing now at the lightsaber he had seen so many times over the years in Loren's lithe fingers, his own hand instinctively claimed the weapon.

Although she was not watching Thane, Loren's attention turned briefly to the errant Jedi, and her expression hinted at a sudden, suspicious distraction. Similarly, it felt to Thane as though he had brushed against something, that a breeze of fresh air had touched upon his face and senses, but just as Loren's look to him was fleeting, so too was the experience.

"Seems to me, my lady, you're as much as a slave to your own urges and criminal mind as any Sith." Almost spitting the last word, her eyes darted back to Thane. "You thinking your damsel in distress here had all these talents and gizmos in her arsenal when you 'saved' her, or is her descent into the criminal merely a recent development - her hand forced by the terrible misfortune of court intrigue?"

A smile, slow and entirely wrong on Morgo’s face, spread across her lips. Her head fell to the side, long strands of her hair slipping from her shoulder to frame the side of her face.

“Do stop,” Morgo said, grasping at her chest with a bored flutter of her lashes, “You’re making me blush.”

Slipping a foot across the smooth floor of the armory, Morgo stepped closer to the Jedi Sentinel. Looking down at the shorter woman, the duchess’ expression was deeply unimpressed.

“If I were you, Sentinel, I would worry less about my similarities to your Sith and look to your own,” she said smoothly, a polite smile on her lips, “Poor is the house that has only eyes on the front of her head, and not the back. After all, of the two of us, only one can truly fall the way so many of you have fallen before.”

Morgo did not glance over to Thane. She had more tact than that. But her point stood, even without that particular kernel of knowledge, never mind that if Loren could truly grasp the Force at this very moment, she would feel just how low Thane had sunken, and how apart from the Force Morgo truly was.

For his part, Thane had struggled to maintain his attention on the vague sparring between his two female saviours. Instead, he found himself fixated upon the weapons laid out before him, the scuffs, blemishes and stains that main them each unique. Running a grime-ridden finger along the grooved blade of his chosen weapon, he was struck by the most peculiar sensation.

The familiar breeze that had skimmed across his mind just moments ago once again began to flow, only no longer was it refreshing, but warm, like the humid air blowing across a homestead on a warm Tatooine night, dusk drawing in. As one of his broken nails caught an indent in the weapon, he heard a voice calling.

No, the Caanan corrected himself, as more voices joined in, the alarm in his ailing mind growing once again, shouting. It were as though they were bellowing at him from a great distance, their voices carried by the wind that was growing ever louder, ever hotter.

Turning his head to look about him, he was faced not now with the confines of Jericho or his companions, but a great stretch of land, bodies strewn about him, garbed in Alliance uniforms and Republic blues, the sky above a deep crimson and thick with smoke.

The shouting was now joined by the sounds of distant explosions and the screeching of engines. Artillery fire boomed, gravel and dirt flung into Thane's face as the wind grew to be an intense gale, his eyes burning from both the heat and speed. Laser cannons that screeched against the gale now joined in, until the deafening chorus of war reached a crescendo with the ignition of a lightsaber in the distance.

Looking, Thane saw a lithe figure stood atop a mound of skulls, the blade a gold sheen, bright as the sun against the bloody, ravaged sky behind it, forcing him to shield his eyes with his crumpled hand.

As he struggled to glimpse the wielder's identity through mangled fingers, only one name came to mind before the sight grew too unbearable, the noise too deafening and his body too weak. Slipping slowly to his knees, the figure - a woman - marched towards him, taking great strides, crushing skulls underfoot as though they were mere shells on a beach.

His vision blurring and body growing heavier, Thane struggled to hold himself up, and his weight fell upon his good hand, which was quickly swallowed by the gravel beneath as though it were sinking into molten metal. Refusing to submit, he looked up again at the approaching figure, now almost upon him, glimpsing something else was clasped in her other hand, as bright red beams of light threatened to escape her gloved fingers.

"A shard..." he whispered, reaching out feebly with his remaining hand, crippled though it was, only for the woman to walk straight into him with great force, knocking him onto his back. His head smashed backwards into the ground, surrounded by the unbearable heat of the gravel, boring into his head.

Unwilling to concede defeat, Thane summoned what little strength remained him to angle his pounding head towards the woman's destination. With great effort, billowing dust scratching at his dry eyes and open wounds, he sighted her in the distance surrounded by twelve looming shadows, each with a lightsaber held high in salute, her own hand extended high, proffering the glowing jewel to the dark dozen.

Once again, Thane reached out, a pathetic sight he was sure, when the shades suddenly all turned and stared directly at him, their distorted but familiar faces twisted in fury and malice. Finally seeing the face of the woman, a great sense of foreboding - of absolute defeat and remorse - a sensation of the like he had not experienced for most of his life, gripped the beleaguered Caanan to the core.

And then, all at once, they flew at him, and the darkness and fire consumed him, and-

-and then he opened his eyes, the artificial light that illuminated Jericho's armoury blocked out by the outlines of Morgo, Loren and Bomoor standing over him.

He pushed himself up from his lying position on the floor and propped himself against the chest of weapons. Whilst the gale had died down, and his face and body were still warm and his head pounded, the breeze remained, shifting and changing in intermittent waves, coming and going.

Bringing his hand to his burning forehead, he was struck by the staggered ebbs and flow being exuded from Bomoor, that familiar sensation he had for so many years lived with but been denied so catastrophically by Zrad Rezer finally brought back to him, but it was weak, in bursts. The Ithorian's river trickled here and there, rather than gushed with its usual brilliant power, his mind, soul and body still weary from the trials of Jericho.

Try as he might to stretch beyond the confines of the infernal station, Thane was met again with the void, and the breeze once again blew away, but not the images he had seen. Settling his eyes on Loren, he saw the concerned yet wary face of the woman he had loved, once as a sister and later fleetingly as something more - and the architect of his ruin from his vision.

Arching his long neck downwards towards his friend, Bomoor saw the vibroblade grasped, now tighter than ever, by the Caanan. He knew a Force vision when he saw one; he was reminded of the terrible state their uncontrollable affinity for such illusions had left the pair in on Tython. It was clear that the Force was bubbling back into the station. But why now?

Offering a blistered arm out towards Thane, Bomoor admitted his earlier suspicions, "I have felt the Force returning too, my friend. A mild premonition, however, compared to you.”

As Thane started to stand, notably straining from the pain not quite masked by the medication Morgo had administered, the consular kept his hand upon him a moment longer. Closing his eyes, he attempted to glean a sense of what he had experienced. Pulses of anger, fear and suspicion seeped out with no clear form to them.

Thane had stumbled to his knees with all the indignity of a man overcome, striking the ground with an uneven thud. Morgo had watched with vague interest in the sudden turn of events, as Bomoor and Loren rushed to Thane's side. She stayed back, observing his weakness, his vulnerability, in the seconds to between her breaths. Morgo's gaze tracked the desperate way Thane gripped Bomoor's arm—the way he looked at Loren like she was a bitter tonic, already swallowed.

The realization of what it might mean was like the death of a star. Silent. Powerful.

"Hark," Morgo whispered under her breath, remembering muttered words of history untold, "Watch him fall."

With eyes still lingering upon the backs of the Jedi, Morgo slipped a few grenades onto her person.

Glancing away from Thane, now more-assured he could stand by himself, Bomoor spoke more to the two females, who still held an uncomfortable air between them, “Force or no, we are never going to be far from danger so long as we are on this station. If there is anything useful in here, then take it so long as it has no trap upon it. I shall do the same.”

Bomoor himself swivelled around once more to the chest. Even minus the impressive vibroblade, there was still a wealth of weaponry ranging from ceremonial to cruel and unusual. Drawing a hand slowly over the array, he stopped over an older looking weapon; it was some sort of polearm with an elaborate blade sprouting from the end like a blooming duraplast petal. He had seen such weapons referred to as pikes; strong and far-reaching blades that could withstand most non-energy-based damage (unless of the far-rarer force variant). Grasping the weapon in his hand, it had a pleasing weight and feel so selected it with little time to peruse any further.

As the Ithorian examined his chosen weapon, Loren took a step gingerly towards Thane, who was now leaning unsteadily against one of the tool-laden shelves. Having set his gaze upon the near-untarnished floor of the armoury in the minutes since the Force had struck him, he carefully brought his eyes to bear against the Jedi Sentinel.

Whilst he had never had the talent or successes of Bomoor or Master Sotah in seeking wisdom by convening with the Force, visions and their like were not unknown to him, although so rarely to such vivid extremes; he could still smell the burning ozone that typified a battlefield, and his face still tinged with the burns gifted to him by the grit.

Looking at Loren now, concern creasing her blue eyes, lined lightly though they were by her more advanced age, he recalled his last attempt at convening with the Force, just hours before he and Bomoor had first departed for Jericho. Seeming a lifetime ago, he had glimpsed a golden blade swiping through the darkness, accompanied only by his name being whispered weakly, as if strained. Of course, his recollection of that had largely been swept aside by his ensuing conversation with Bería - of his warnings and concerns regarding Morgo.

Who, despite everything, he mused grimly to himself, not looking away from Loren, came for us. Bería-inspired or otherwise.

"Are you well?" Loren finally asked softly, her tone no longer accusative. However, Thane could not place whether her voice was genuinely concerned as to his well-being, or assessing his disposition following -

-following whatever he had just seen.

Knowing not what she had seen or experienced when the Force touched her too, he remained silent, perhaps hoping for some glimmer to reveal the truth of the matter.

Reaching forward as she moved to place a hand on his arm, he felt the warmth from her body, a stark contrast to his own body's fluctuating temperatures in the wake of many hours' abuse and Morgo's concoctions. As much as he feared what could transpire between the pair in the immediate future, concerned as he was for what fate now had in store for them, he longed for some sort of true connection - some understanding - of the kind they had shared in years past - anything that could convince him there was a path before them that left them both free.

As quickly as her hand brushed his bruised skin, however, they both withdrew as though shocked by static - and in that instant, they truly saw each other again, and Thane knew, much as Loren knew.

Taking two steps back from him, Loren's eyes had visibly widened and her lips were parted ever so slightly. The grip she maintained around the hilt of her weapon tightened, just as the muscles in Thane's aching jaw did. Try as he might to deny it, the reality of their situation was evident. Even as the sadness crept through his psyche, an experience largely unfamiliar to the wayward Jedi Guardian, he knew that Loren would not be content to let Thane leave with the Kaiburr shard.

Before either made any overt move, the sound of heavy boots crashing against the rusted metal of Jericho's floors sounded from beyond the doors to the armoury, accompanied by voices shouting in a disjointed combination of Basic and Mando'a and immediately drawing the attention of the party.

Reacting to the sound of incoming danger, Bomoor gripped his newfound weapon tighter and edged closer towards the doorway. The brights lights illuminating the armoury shot out into the hallway, giving a clear indication to those outside that someone was inside. By this point, the consular knew that closing the door would do little good. Looking backwards, he observed the rest of his group taking positions around the room in order to reduce their visability from the entrance.

One of the voices was cut off suddenly and an alert in Mando'a confirmed that the light had been noticed and footsteps became heavier. At this moment, another wave of the Force broke through the senseless void and allowed Bomoor to see the figures in the hallway as if he himself were standing in front of them. Five armour-clad Mandalorians approached - all human besides a tough-looking Cerean female with a deep scar across her large forehead. Not all of them were armed with projectile weapons but all carried some sort of blade or staff that would make overwhelming them a challange, particularly since their presence was already suspected.

Being unable to clearly mouth to the group, Bomoor raised his unarmed left hand, extanding all five fingers clearly to advise his companions. Looking at his hand, he wondered whether he could yet channel any Force powers; such abilities could give them the needed edge in this inevitable conflict. Keeping his arm raised he twisted it towards the doorway where one of the human Exiles had just poked his head to scope it out. Before the man could utter an exclaimation, his skull was compelled backwards to hit the doorframe with a clunk and the rest of him fell to the ground, giving in to the sudden pain. He dropped the pistol he had been holding.

In reaction, the Cerean Exile jumped through the door and rolled with great agility into the armoury before anyone else could react. The others quickly followed and everyone in the room became engaged in the struggle.

TBC

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