Epilogue
Now.
He looked at his feet. He looked at his hands. They were beginning to tremble slightly. The adrenalin was beginning to seep out of his system, and the heightened awareness and abilities that came with it were lapsing once more into normality. The Force ebbed slightly as he moved his hand. Tobal smiled a wan smile as he felt this phenomena. He knew the feeling wouldn't last, it never had, but for this small moment, he savored it.
Then.
The squeal and spit of tortured electricity filled the air. You could taste the energy in the room, even if you weren't any more force sensitive than a rock. Four men danced to the death, their brilliant weapons screaming for blood and flesh.
There was a distinct difference between the fighting styles of each man. One, a gruesome creature that could no longer be called a man fought like one possessed. Some would say he was possessed, or even, the possessor. His blades were a constant blur, shifting from hand to hand to air to ground to hand again. He dropped them, he threw them, he guided them through the air, and he caught them again. His opponent, an older Jedi who likewise dueled with two weapons, seemed to deflect each blade as if with ease. Their dance was that of two experienced dancers.
Subtle.
Swift.
Deceptive.
They worked each other over, weaving attack within attack within attack. Each feint, each strike, and each dodge was part of an ever-evolving plan of action that went forward and backwards dozens of steps, all in their minds. These two planned their moves like a bride to be plans her wedding.
The other two combatants fought, not as if in a ballet or waltz, but as if in a tango. Their attacks were vicious and brutal and juxtaposed with momentary pauses for a quick breath or strategic movement. The one was like his master, more dead than alive. His flesh hung in strips much like his clothing hung. His face was deformed, and his jaw was gone. His tongue hung loose, flapping in the wind. The cauterized wound said that his opponent had been a moment faster, a tad bit more cunning than he. Though their battle was brutal and carnal and seemingly well-balanced, to the keen observer well verced in the art of the Lightsabre there was a distinct imbalance between the two. The Jedi, his white hair flowing out behind him, patches missing where his enemy had scored a hit, was constantly pressing the attack in a manner more similar to that of his older comrade than of his young opponent.
Now.
Tobal stood, paused for balance, and then slowly began making his way down the hill. The adrenilin had left his system now, the feeling of the Force ebbing and moving about him was gone. It left him feeling empty.
His clothing was tattered, his side was bleeding through the hasty but well-made field bandage, and his hair was dirty, torn, and burnt. But he held his head high -- he had faced the enemy from within and without, and he had triumphed.
Then.
The creature before Tobal -- he could no longer think of this thing as Mat -- tried to speak. It was almost comical, the tongue making an effort to enounceate. But, without a lower jaw to aid in the pronencaition, little more than a garbled rasp and spittle-filled gurgle resulted in the effort. But the message was clear.
You are weak. You cannot do it.
Tobal ground his jaw, and squeezed his sabre tighter. Fient left, stab low left. Push that rock to the right, Pull that rock behind while slashing high. He launched his attack with renewed fury. The dark anger within him was building, and he loved it. He could feel its intoxicating power filling him from the bottom up. His enemy gargled a scream as a white hot blade of blue severed a hand.
Now.
His ship, the Shadow, was still where he had left it. It was true, then, what Jiren had said. Xireon would not bring low-level minions to this planet, and especially not this place. Tobal had half expected his Infiltrator-class craft to be stolen, looted, or at the very least surrounded by heavy guard.
He spoke a word into his com, and the autocannon disengaged its trakcing of his heat signature. The rear bay opened, and Tobal entered.
His legs gave out as he neared his bunk, and he collapsed on the floor. His vision was fading rapidly now, quickly shifting between a massive blur, and crystal clarity.
Then.
Gash Jiren. A name with so many meanings -- at one time synonymous to the word Evil, now often tantamount to that of Redemption. Jedi Master Gash Jiren, leader of the Rogue Jedi Order. Once Sith, once NR General, even a one time Prince. Gash Jiren, a man of so many different faces, names and sides was now focused solely upon one goal. He was down to one Sabre now, the other had been destroyed along with one of his mechanic fingers.
His opponent was laughing at him. He appeared to hardly be winded, while Jiren was beginning to tire. He drew upon the Force, and let it flow through him, renewing his strength. With a glancing blow he deflected a flying sabre, while at the same time he motioned with his eyes at a rock. It obligingly flew in the desired direction while Jiren followed with a lunge. Xireon ducked low, avoiding the projectile, and struck high, forcing Jiren to leap over him and miss his attack.
On his end, the battle was not faring as well as it could.
Now.
Tobal shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision, and tried to stand. It was hopeless, his body was completely drained. He futilely tried to reach out with the Force, but that attempt failed as well.
"C... computer," he murmured. "Computer," he repeated again. "Enter low-level orbit.... ...c ... cloak."
A low level whine accompanied him into a deep, deep sleep.
Then.
Tobal's sabre sliced bone and sinew, removing Mat's... no, the creature's left leg. It screamed horribly, spittle and blood gargeling in the back of its exposed throat muscles. Tobal stood triumphantly over his fallen opponent. The dark rage swelled within him, and he smiled. His left hand balled into a fist, and a bluish flicker danced over his knuckles. He opened his palm, and made the lightning bounce from fingertip to fingertip. He kicked the fallen creature's lightsabre from reach.
"No, we can't have that," said Tobal in a low voice. The lightining grew exponentially. It struck.
Jiren felt the surge of darkside energy, and in one fatal moment he faltered. He had felt Matrim fall, and he could now feel the pitiful creature's pain as the most horrible manestation of the Force possible surged through his bones.
It was like slow motion. The lighting -- blue with hate and anger -- bounced from palm to fingertip to screaming Matrim. The screams made Tobal grin, the power surged higher. The lighting grew larger, and the screams more intense.
And then he heard it. Across the cavern, over the screams and the lighting, into his very soul he felt Jiren cry NO TOBAL. He turned to look toward the Rogue Jedi, and blinked as the blade struck.
Jiren felt the pain first. Then came the heat, and then cold. Xireon's sabre parted metal, bone, flesh, and armor as it severed his arm and penetrated his torso. He twisted, struggeling to move his remaining weapon into position to stop his enemies blade, but it was too late. Inside, he knew it was over.
"And the creation defeats the creator."
Xireon stood over his fallen creator, his fallen brother, and gloated. Jiren could see his mouth moving, and his ears could hear the diatribe, but his brain could not process it. At this point, on the edge of death, his brain was moving at speeds an Imperial computer envied. He could see the past, the present, the future. His life, from birth to this final moment flashed before his eyes in a microsecond. The force opened up to him in ways that the Jedi Masters of old had only dreamed of. He saw the future like a weaving, a tapestry that started from this moment and moved into the next. And he saw what he had to do. A calm slid over him, and Jiren moved with ease into Emptiness.
Tobal Hadul, Shadow Jeid Knight, faltered. The lighting vanished, and he fell to his knees. His eyes glazed over with a film of saltwater, and he cried out himself. He too saw a vision, but it was not a vision of his past, it was a vision of him in the future. He stood at the head of a great army, raised his weapon, and attacked. The death ran rampant. Planets fell before him, leaders pledged fealty and died reguardless. And then he died, and was nothing.
The vision shifted, shifted to the face of Tobal not weeks previous, swearing never to fall to the Dark Side, and to exterminate those who had.
He shook his head, the tears flying. NO!
He would not, he could not be this weak!
He looked at the twitching, blacked corpse of Mat. It looked back. As the spirit faded from the corporeal manifestation, a message crossed the gap.
I'm sorry Tobal. I'm so sorry. Please... pl... for.....
And then it, no, Mat died. The corpse twitched slightly, a foot drummed against the stone, and then it was done.
Jiren's body gasped in pain as he lifted himself with his remaining arm. Inside, there was no pain. There was only The Force. During battle The Force was like a surging river, but when in the Emptiness, it was like calm glass. Jiren could see the battle going on as if he was outside his body, yet he could see Xireon as if he was in his body. He could see himself as a dot in the distance. His body groaned as he forced his useless legs to the side. A bit of dark humor laughed at him as he levitated. He was but half the man he used to be. The joke went unnoticed in the Emptiness.
He could feel his life slipping away rapidly. Though he was now holding himself at head height with the gloating Xireon, he couldn't stay here indefinitely. In fact, all the futures he had seen said he had but seven seconds before his control slipped and his innards spilled themselves over the ground.
He reached out a finger.
And pointed.
"Mat... Mat..." Tobal crawled towards his fallen comrade. He touched the body tenderly. He now understood why Jiren had shown him Valarious, the killer, back on Ossus. Tears streaming freely from his face, Tobal stood. His sabre fell from an uncaring hand and clattered to the ground. He had failed where he said he would not. Mat was dead, Jiren was dead, and he was as good as dead. A man without control was no man at all.
A flash of light so bright it blinded caused him to fall to the ground again.
What..?
On Ossus, in a library, contained on a shelf, and between two sheets of paper reads this brief description: Spark of the Lightside: A technique invented by the High Council of Masters to combat the ranged attack of the Sith- Dark Lightning- this power creates a thin, powerful beam of light, no broader than the Rogue Jedi's finger. The beam takes on a color unique to the user, and often crackles with electricity. This beam shoots unerringly towards its target, striking it and tearing through matter.
Jiren's body cried out in pain as he formed the Spark of the Lightside. His concentration wavered, but was reinforced by the look of utter surprise that permeated Xireon's face. The Emptiness consumed him, and the Spark of the Lightside lunged out. Wide as his palm, the beam of pure white exploded across the cavern. It carved flesh, burnt water and vaporized rock. And then, it was gone.
Finally, there was silence. The Valley of the Jedi was silent.
A gasp.
Tobal lifted his head. Jiren's body was a few meters away. Half of it, anyway. The Shadow Jedi crawled towards it slowly. Next to the body of Jiren were the remains of Xireon, the twisted remains of what had once been a man.
As Tobal moved over the dying Rogue Jedi, he felt an enormous peace envelope his aching body. The two Asthentian's locked eyes for a brief moment, and then Jiren was gone. Bits of bio-mechanical implants clattered to the ground, and what was left of Jiren's Jedi robes billowed slightly, and then lay flat.
Now.
Hyperspace enveloped the Infiltrator like sleep enveloped its pilot. The craft had orbited Ruusan for the preprogrammed amount of time, and had then initiated the course inputted by the now deceased. Destination: Naboo.
ooc: It's apparent that Gash isn't going to be RP'ing any time soon, if ever again. This is roughly the ending we had planned -- I skipped bringing in a few characters of his, I don't feel comfortable playing them. Heck, I don't feel comfortable playing Gash. Should Gash ever decide to complete this with me, this post will be bumped/edited/etc to suite how the story ends.
Now.
He looked at his feet. He looked at his hands. They were beginning to tremble slightly. The adrenalin was beginning to seep out of his system, and the heightened awareness and abilities that came with it were lapsing once more into normality. The Force ebbed slightly as he moved his hand. Tobal smiled a wan smile as he felt this phenomena. He knew the feeling wouldn't last, it never had, but for this small moment, he savored it.
Then.
The squeal and spit of tortured electricity filled the air. You could taste the energy in the room, even if you weren't any more force sensitive than a rock. Four men danced to the death, their brilliant weapons screaming for blood and flesh.
There was a distinct difference between the fighting styles of each man. One, a gruesome creature that could no longer be called a man fought like one possessed. Some would say he was possessed, or even, the possessor. His blades were a constant blur, shifting from hand to hand to air to ground to hand again. He dropped them, he threw them, he guided them through the air, and he caught them again. His opponent, an older Jedi who likewise dueled with two weapons, seemed to deflect each blade as if with ease. Their dance was that of two experienced dancers.
Subtle.
Swift.
Deceptive.
They worked each other over, weaving attack within attack within attack. Each feint, each strike, and each dodge was part of an ever-evolving plan of action that went forward and backwards dozens of steps, all in their minds. These two planned their moves like a bride to be plans her wedding.
The other two combatants fought, not as if in a ballet or waltz, but as if in a tango. Their attacks were vicious and brutal and juxtaposed with momentary pauses for a quick breath or strategic movement. The one was like his master, more dead than alive. His flesh hung in strips much like his clothing hung. His face was deformed, and his jaw was gone. His tongue hung loose, flapping in the wind. The cauterized wound said that his opponent had been a moment faster, a tad bit more cunning than he. Though their battle was brutal and carnal and seemingly well-balanced, to the keen observer well verced in the art of the Lightsabre there was a distinct imbalance between the two. The Jedi, his white hair flowing out behind him, patches missing where his enemy had scored a hit, was constantly pressing the attack in a manner more similar to that of his older comrade than of his young opponent.
Now.
Tobal stood, paused for balance, and then slowly began making his way down the hill. The adrenilin had left his system now, the feeling of the Force ebbing and moving about him was gone. It left him feeling empty.
His clothing was tattered, his side was bleeding through the hasty but well-made field bandage, and his hair was dirty, torn, and burnt. But he held his head high -- he had faced the enemy from within and without, and he had triumphed.
Then.
The creature before Tobal -- he could no longer think of this thing as Mat -- tried to speak. It was almost comical, the tongue making an effort to enounceate. But, without a lower jaw to aid in the pronencaition, little more than a garbled rasp and spittle-filled gurgle resulted in the effort. But the message was clear.
You are weak. You cannot do it.
Tobal ground his jaw, and squeezed his sabre tighter. Fient left, stab low left. Push that rock to the right, Pull that rock behind while slashing high. He launched his attack with renewed fury. The dark anger within him was building, and he loved it. He could feel its intoxicating power filling him from the bottom up. His enemy gargled a scream as a white hot blade of blue severed a hand.
Now.
His ship, the Shadow, was still where he had left it. It was true, then, what Jiren had said. Xireon would not bring low-level minions to this planet, and especially not this place. Tobal had half expected his Infiltrator-class craft to be stolen, looted, or at the very least surrounded by heavy guard.
He spoke a word into his com, and the autocannon disengaged its trakcing of his heat signature. The rear bay opened, and Tobal entered.
His legs gave out as he neared his bunk, and he collapsed on the floor. His vision was fading rapidly now, quickly shifting between a massive blur, and crystal clarity.
Then.
Gash Jiren. A name with so many meanings -- at one time synonymous to the word Evil, now often tantamount to that of Redemption. Jedi Master Gash Jiren, leader of the Rogue Jedi Order. Once Sith, once NR General, even a one time Prince. Gash Jiren, a man of so many different faces, names and sides was now focused solely upon one goal. He was down to one Sabre now, the other had been destroyed along with one of his mechanic fingers.
His opponent was laughing at him. He appeared to hardly be winded, while Jiren was beginning to tire. He drew upon the Force, and let it flow through him, renewing his strength. With a glancing blow he deflected a flying sabre, while at the same time he motioned with his eyes at a rock. It obligingly flew in the desired direction while Jiren followed with a lunge. Xireon ducked low, avoiding the projectile, and struck high, forcing Jiren to leap over him and miss his attack.
On his end, the battle was not faring as well as it could.
Now.
Tobal shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision, and tried to stand. It was hopeless, his body was completely drained. He futilely tried to reach out with the Force, but that attempt failed as well.
"C... computer," he murmured. "Computer," he repeated again. "Enter low-level orbit.... ...c ... cloak."
A low level whine accompanied him into a deep, deep sleep.
Then.
Tobal's sabre sliced bone and sinew, removing Mat's... no, the creature's left leg. It screamed horribly, spittle and blood gargeling in the back of its exposed throat muscles. Tobal stood triumphantly over his fallen opponent. The dark rage swelled within him, and he smiled. His left hand balled into a fist, and a bluish flicker danced over his knuckles. He opened his palm, and made the lightning bounce from fingertip to fingertip. He kicked the fallen creature's lightsabre from reach.
"No, we can't have that," said Tobal in a low voice. The lightining grew exponentially. It struck.
Jiren felt the surge of darkside energy, and in one fatal moment he faltered. He had felt Matrim fall, and he could now feel the pitiful creature's pain as the most horrible manestation of the Force possible surged through his bones.
It was like slow motion. The lighting -- blue with hate and anger -- bounced from palm to fingertip to screaming Matrim. The screams made Tobal grin, the power surged higher. The lighting grew larger, and the screams more intense.
And then he heard it. Across the cavern, over the screams and the lighting, into his very soul he felt Jiren cry NO TOBAL. He turned to look toward the Rogue Jedi, and blinked as the blade struck.
Jiren felt the pain first. Then came the heat, and then cold. Xireon's sabre parted metal, bone, flesh, and armor as it severed his arm and penetrated his torso. He twisted, struggeling to move his remaining weapon into position to stop his enemies blade, but it was too late. Inside, he knew it was over.
"And the creation defeats the creator."
Xireon stood over his fallen creator, his fallen brother, and gloated. Jiren could see his mouth moving, and his ears could hear the diatribe, but his brain could not process it. At this point, on the edge of death, his brain was moving at speeds an Imperial computer envied. He could see the past, the present, the future. His life, from birth to this final moment flashed before his eyes in a microsecond. The force opened up to him in ways that the Jedi Masters of old had only dreamed of. He saw the future like a weaving, a tapestry that started from this moment and moved into the next. And he saw what he had to do. A calm slid over him, and Jiren moved with ease into Emptiness.
Tobal Hadul, Shadow Jeid Knight, faltered. The lighting vanished, and he fell to his knees. His eyes glazed over with a film of saltwater, and he cried out himself. He too saw a vision, but it was not a vision of his past, it was a vision of him in the future. He stood at the head of a great army, raised his weapon, and attacked. The death ran rampant. Planets fell before him, leaders pledged fealty and died reguardless. And then he died, and was nothing.
The vision shifted, shifted to the face of Tobal not weeks previous, swearing never to fall to the Dark Side, and to exterminate those who had.
He shook his head, the tears flying. NO!
He would not, he could not be this weak!
He looked at the twitching, blacked corpse of Mat. It looked back. As the spirit faded from the corporeal manifestation, a message crossed the gap.
I'm sorry Tobal. I'm so sorry. Please... pl... for.....
And then it, no, Mat died. The corpse twitched slightly, a foot drummed against the stone, and then it was done.
Jiren's body gasped in pain as he lifted himself with his remaining arm. Inside, there was no pain. There was only The Force. During battle The Force was like a surging river, but when in the Emptiness, it was like calm glass. Jiren could see the battle going on as if he was outside his body, yet he could see Xireon as if he was in his body. He could see himself as a dot in the distance. His body groaned as he forced his useless legs to the side. A bit of dark humor laughed at him as he levitated. He was but half the man he used to be. The joke went unnoticed in the Emptiness.
He could feel his life slipping away rapidly. Though he was now holding himself at head height with the gloating Xireon, he couldn't stay here indefinitely. In fact, all the futures he had seen said he had but seven seconds before his control slipped and his innards spilled themselves over the ground.
He reached out a finger.
And pointed.
"Mat... Mat..." Tobal crawled towards his fallen comrade. He touched the body tenderly. He now understood why Jiren had shown him Valarious, the killer, back on Ossus. Tears streaming freely from his face, Tobal stood. His sabre fell from an uncaring hand and clattered to the ground. He had failed where he said he would not. Mat was dead, Jiren was dead, and he was as good as dead. A man without control was no man at all.
A flash of light so bright it blinded caused him to fall to the ground again.
What..?
On Ossus, in a library, contained on a shelf, and between two sheets of paper reads this brief description: Spark of the Lightside: A technique invented by the High Council of Masters to combat the ranged attack of the Sith- Dark Lightning- this power creates a thin, powerful beam of light, no broader than the Rogue Jedi's finger. The beam takes on a color unique to the user, and often crackles with electricity. This beam shoots unerringly towards its target, striking it and tearing through matter.
Jiren's body cried out in pain as he formed the Spark of the Lightside. His concentration wavered, but was reinforced by the look of utter surprise that permeated Xireon's face. The Emptiness consumed him, and the Spark of the Lightside lunged out. Wide as his palm, the beam of pure white exploded across the cavern. It carved flesh, burnt water and vaporized rock. And then, it was gone.
Finally, there was silence. The Valley of the Jedi was silent.
A gasp.
Tobal lifted his head. Jiren's body was a few meters away. Half of it, anyway. The Shadow Jedi crawled towards it slowly. Next to the body of Jiren were the remains of Xireon, the twisted remains of what had once been a man.
As Tobal moved over the dying Rogue Jedi, he felt an enormous peace envelope his aching body. The two Asthentian's locked eyes for a brief moment, and then Jiren was gone. Bits of bio-mechanical implants clattered to the ground, and what was left of Jiren's Jedi robes billowed slightly, and then lay flat.
Now.
Hyperspace enveloped the Infiltrator like sleep enveloped its pilot. The craft had orbited Ruusan for the preprogrammed amount of time, and had then initiated the course inputted by the now deceased. Destination: Naboo.
ooc: It's apparent that Gash isn't going to be RP'ing any time soon, if ever again. This is roughly the ending we had planned -- I skipped bringing in a few characters of his, I don't feel comfortable playing them. Heck, I don't feel comfortable playing Gash. Should Gash ever decide to complete this with me, this post will be bumped/edited/etc to suite how the story ends.