The Arcanist mask was well known in the Outer Rim, but the civilized people of the Core didn't bother reading about the criminals of the savages. The Arcanist had taken full advantage of that en route to his current location. His robes and mask brought some sick comfort of their own.
Talak Rand was in a bad place, but the Arcanist was in the prime of his power. His gloved hand gripped the hilt of his lightsaber tighter, and the blood red crystal inside seemed to call out to him, mingling his own darkness with the well of rage that flowed freely from it.
In... two... three... four... he let each breath come in as he centered himself not in the peace or tranquility that a Jedi would seek to find, but channeling the anger that was already there. This entire realm of the Coruscant underworld was steeped in evil and desperation. This was a place that even in the height of their power Jedi didn't like to come. It forced them face to face with what they let fester, and it threatened to impinge on their precious "Light." And that was why they'd fallen. They wouldn't bring themselves to face the ugly realities of the galaxy, and so they floundered now as well.
Out... two... three... four... he let the breath flow freely out. The darkness that flowed around him was channeled from that of the people's here. It flowed around him, but not through him. Like a current rushing by on every side and he was at its center. His own anger, fears, pain, and heartache mixed with it. All the product of your own foolishness, a mind of its own whispered. He hated that voice, and for months it hadn't been there, but it was back. He knew why it was back and he knew what had kept it at bay, but he'd never admit it. Not even to himself.
In... two... three... four... Talak spent a great many days of his life feeling confused and lost, unsure of where he fit into the galaxy. Trying to hold onto someone who it seemed he was foolish to have ever worked toward. He was tired. Tired of the indecision and the uncertainty. He wanted to be rid of the hurt, and all of his normal means he used to purge himself had fallen short. So he fell back on what he knew: a "swift justice" to those who destroyed the galaxy and brought harm on everyone.
The Arcanist knew it could use every ounce of that rage for something of worth. Waste not, want not. The saber hilt in his hand flipped on its end and lit. Its blood red blade would be sated and plunged into the floor beneath him. A hole was carved and down he dropped. The "floor" was the roof to the business of one Mr. Nyx. A Neimodian who - after a quick and dirty interrogation - the Arcanist had learned ran the biggest organized crime business on the streets of Level 1138.
Knock knock. The slab of roof dropped down and the Arcanist's saber was swinging before he'd even hit the ground. A clean cut across the throat left the closest thug - a bulky Feeorin - without 2/3 of his neck and also flipped the saber back to forward again. One movement flowed into another as he plunged the saber through the chest of a Chadra-Fan to his left.
From the streets outside, people were beginning to look at the building where shouts, gunfire, and the sounds of a scuffle were emerging. But who was going to step in to the lair of a known criminal?
Talak Rand was in a bad place, but the Arcanist was in the prime of his power. His gloved hand gripped the hilt of his lightsaber tighter, and the blood red crystal inside seemed to call out to him, mingling his own darkness with the well of rage that flowed freely from it.
In... two... three... four... he let each breath come in as he centered himself not in the peace or tranquility that a Jedi would seek to find, but channeling the anger that was already there. This entire realm of the Coruscant underworld was steeped in evil and desperation. This was a place that even in the height of their power Jedi didn't like to come. It forced them face to face with what they let fester, and it threatened to impinge on their precious "Light." And that was why they'd fallen. They wouldn't bring themselves to face the ugly realities of the galaxy, and so they floundered now as well.
Out... two... three... four... he let the breath flow freely out. The darkness that flowed around him was channeled from that of the people's here. It flowed around him, but not through him. Like a current rushing by on every side and he was at its center. His own anger, fears, pain, and heartache mixed with it. All the product of your own foolishness, a mind of its own whispered. He hated that voice, and for months it hadn't been there, but it was back. He knew why it was back and he knew what had kept it at bay, but he'd never admit it. Not even to himself.
In... two... three... four... Talak spent a great many days of his life feeling confused and lost, unsure of where he fit into the galaxy. Trying to hold onto someone who it seemed he was foolish to have ever worked toward. He was tired. Tired of the indecision and the uncertainty. He wanted to be rid of the hurt, and all of his normal means he used to purge himself had fallen short. So he fell back on what he knew: a "swift justice" to those who destroyed the galaxy and brought harm on everyone.
The Arcanist knew it could use every ounce of that rage for something of worth. Waste not, want not. The saber hilt in his hand flipped on its end and lit. Its blood red blade would be sated and plunged into the floor beneath him. A hole was carved and down he dropped. The "floor" was the roof to the business of one Mr. Nyx. A Neimodian who - after a quick and dirty interrogation - the Arcanist had learned ran the biggest organized crime business on the streets of Level 1138.
Knock knock. The slab of roof dropped down and the Arcanist's saber was swinging before he'd even hit the ground. A clean cut across the throat left the closest thug - a bulky Feeorin - without 2/3 of his neck and also flipped the saber back to forward again. One movement flowed into another as he plunged the saber through the chest of a Chadra-Fan to his left.
From the streets outside, people were beginning to look at the building where shouts, gunfire, and the sounds of a scuffle were emerging. But who was going to step in to the lair of a known criminal?
