OOC: Hey guys, what's up? Old Poreon here is just looking for a good fight to be had... show yourself Jedi.
His head throbbed like a madman's. Dammit, he thought, must've drunk way too much last night. The Old Man's liver wasn't quite what it used to be. Drinks just went straight to his bladder while the alcohol destroyed his liver and intoxicated his nerves.
Usually when he was hungover like this, a quick Force meditation could filter the alcohol out of his system and have the old man feeling fresh again. Unfortunately for this old man, his days with the Force were long since gone. He had gone so senile, he couldn't even remember the last time he used the Force.
There was some aspirin on a bedside table about three feet away from the old man, and he reached out with his palm open for it. He couldn't quite reach the bottle, so he just kept on reaching for the bottle. In the old days, the bottle would've snapped into his hand quicker than a TIE Interceptor's acceleration.
Oh, those days were long since gone.
Hell, the old man wondered where his lightsaber was nowadays. A couple years back, while strapped for credits, he sold his weapon on the black market of Tatooine for some money. Later that day, he wasted all that money at the Mos Eisely Cantina.
Calorie starved, the old man had developed a chiseled body with a beer belly. He was strong for his age, but otherwise weak and pathetic. The darkside did that to him. It had deteriorated his body, until he was more addicted to the darkside than the alcohol he consumed twenty-four seven. But with the help of a doctor on some planet light years away from where he was now--where was he now, anyways?--he had overcome his addiction to the Force. He had been free for thirty years now.
That made the old man, who was once known as the great Dark Lord Poreon, almost fifty years old. Where does the time go? At one point in those fifty years, Poreon had already fought in the greatest battles, claimed victory in the greatest wars and had died and been resurrected once already. How much longer could he go?
He coughed, and that gave the old man just enough propulsion to reach the table with the aspirin on it. Snagging it, he popped the remainders of the bottle--two pills--into his mouth and swallowed.
The bottle was empty now, so Poreon through it on the floor. Dammit, now I have to go down to that old shop and get more. The newfangled medicines created by great medical strides in the past years were of no use to Poreon. Even bacta, the miracle drug would not work anymore on Poreon. His body couldn't handle it. The only thing it could handle was the dated drug of aspirin. The stuff was becoming harder and harder to find, but the nearby convenience shop usually had some of the pills in stock.
Weakly, he climbed out bed and draped a bath robe over his ragged body. He grabbed a walking cane hanging by the door and was soon on his way down to the drug store.
Poreon found the drug in stock quickly--quickly that is for an old and decrepit man.
"What up old man?" A voice shouted from behind.
Poreon turned around slowly and looked at the young person shouting at him. It was a street punk. The hoodlums were starting to invade this generally safe area of the city.
The street punk shoved Poreon, "I said, what up old man? You gonna respond or just stand there shitface."
Dropping the bottle of aspirin, Poreon let out a grimace of pain as he landed on the cool, marble floors of the store. A bone in his arm cracked, too.
"C'mon old man. Get up. Give me your wallet," the hoodlum kicked Poreon in the ribs.
He let out a grunt, "I don't carry a wallet."
The punk was getting annoyed, "Man, screw you. Get the hell out of here before I blast you," and the punk made it a point to show he wasn't kidding by pulling out a small, personal blaster pistol.
Something inside of Poreon swelled. It was all of his anger, his despair, his fear, his hatred. For the past decades Poreon had been able to suppress this rage, but now all that pent up rage flowed through his body. And it all came out as a small bolt of blue lightening... Force lightening.
The street punk took the blow full on, and he crumpled to the floor.
"You don't mess with Darth Poreon," Poreon said as he got up from the floor, and the Sith Lord was back in action.
Three months later, Poreon had turned his pathetic body into a fit machine again. He trained intensely, four times a day for the past three months. He squatted, he benched, he cleaned, he jogged, he sprinted, he ran, he jumped, he did pylometrics, and he meditated. His body was athletic and strong, and his mind was back in tiptop shape.
Desire can accomplish anything.
All that remained for the Sith Lord to do was rebuild a lightsaber. In time, that was completed. In the old days, Poreon had a black lightsaber or was it a silver light saber? He had always been partial to those colors, and he had even had a fleet painted all black with silver racing stripes. His lightsaber now resembled that once magnificent fleet.
He thumbed the lightsaber on, and it came alive with the familiar buzz.
The Sith Lord was here. Now all he needed was a Jedi to destroy.
His head throbbed like a madman's. Dammit, he thought, must've drunk way too much last night. The Old Man's liver wasn't quite what it used to be. Drinks just went straight to his bladder while the alcohol destroyed his liver and intoxicated his nerves.
Usually when he was hungover like this, a quick Force meditation could filter the alcohol out of his system and have the old man feeling fresh again. Unfortunately for this old man, his days with the Force were long since gone. He had gone so senile, he couldn't even remember the last time he used the Force.
There was some aspirin on a bedside table about three feet away from the old man, and he reached out with his palm open for it. He couldn't quite reach the bottle, so he just kept on reaching for the bottle. In the old days, the bottle would've snapped into his hand quicker than a TIE Interceptor's acceleration.
Oh, those days were long since gone.
Hell, the old man wondered where his lightsaber was nowadays. A couple years back, while strapped for credits, he sold his weapon on the black market of Tatooine for some money. Later that day, he wasted all that money at the Mos Eisely Cantina.
Calorie starved, the old man had developed a chiseled body with a beer belly. He was strong for his age, but otherwise weak and pathetic. The darkside did that to him. It had deteriorated his body, until he was more addicted to the darkside than the alcohol he consumed twenty-four seven. But with the help of a doctor on some planet light years away from where he was now--where was he now, anyways?--he had overcome his addiction to the Force. He had been free for thirty years now.
That made the old man, who was once known as the great Dark Lord Poreon, almost fifty years old. Where does the time go? At one point in those fifty years, Poreon had already fought in the greatest battles, claimed victory in the greatest wars and had died and been resurrected once already. How much longer could he go?
He coughed, and that gave the old man just enough propulsion to reach the table with the aspirin on it. Snagging it, he popped the remainders of the bottle--two pills--into his mouth and swallowed.
The bottle was empty now, so Poreon through it on the floor. Dammit, now I have to go down to that old shop and get more. The newfangled medicines created by great medical strides in the past years were of no use to Poreon. Even bacta, the miracle drug would not work anymore on Poreon. His body couldn't handle it. The only thing it could handle was the dated drug of aspirin. The stuff was becoming harder and harder to find, but the nearby convenience shop usually had some of the pills in stock.
Weakly, he climbed out bed and draped a bath robe over his ragged body. He grabbed a walking cane hanging by the door and was soon on his way down to the drug store.
Poreon found the drug in stock quickly--quickly that is for an old and decrepit man.
"What up old man?" A voice shouted from behind.
Poreon turned around slowly and looked at the young person shouting at him. It was a street punk. The hoodlums were starting to invade this generally safe area of the city.
The street punk shoved Poreon, "I said, what up old man? You gonna respond or just stand there shitface."
Dropping the bottle of aspirin, Poreon let out a grimace of pain as he landed on the cool, marble floors of the store. A bone in his arm cracked, too.
"C'mon old man. Get up. Give me your wallet," the hoodlum kicked Poreon in the ribs.
He let out a grunt, "I don't carry a wallet."
The punk was getting annoyed, "Man, screw you. Get the hell out of here before I blast you," and the punk made it a point to show he wasn't kidding by pulling out a small, personal blaster pistol.
Something inside of Poreon swelled. It was all of his anger, his despair, his fear, his hatred. For the past decades Poreon had been able to suppress this rage, but now all that pent up rage flowed through his body. And it all came out as a small bolt of blue lightening... Force lightening.
The street punk took the blow full on, and he crumpled to the floor.
"You don't mess with Darth Poreon," Poreon said as he got up from the floor, and the Sith Lord was back in action.
Three months later, Poreon had turned his pathetic body into a fit machine again. He trained intensely, four times a day for the past three months. He squatted, he benched, he cleaned, he jogged, he sprinted, he ran, he jumped, he did pylometrics, and he meditated. His body was athletic and strong, and his mind was back in tiptop shape.
Desire can accomplish anything.
All that remained for the Sith Lord to do was rebuild a lightsaber. In time, that was completed. In the old days, Poreon had a black lightsaber or was it a silver light saber? He had always been partial to those colors, and he had even had a fleet painted all black with silver racing stripes. His lightsaber now resembled that once magnificent fleet.
He thumbed the lightsaber on, and it came alive with the familiar buzz.
The Sith Lord was here. Now all he needed was a Jedi to destroy.