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Even the aged oak will fall to the tempest’s winds.
[fancybox4=https://i.imgur.com/XKNh39Y.png]Azizullah al-Jedhi[/fancybox4]
HOMEWORLD: Jedha
AFFILIATION: Exile
RANK: Exile Apprentice
SPECIES: Human
GENDER: Male
AGE: 36
EYES: Brown
HAIR: Black
SUMMARY:
Next in line of a long and proud Jedi lineage, Azizullah does not follow in the footsteps of his progenitors. Having forsaken the ways of the Jedi Order as a result of seeking forbidden knowledge, Azizullah now belongs to the Exiles. Of the sects, he considers himself a sorcerer, bent on uncovering ancient and terrible power so as to bring truth to the Order that now shuns his existence.
As life ebbs, terrible vistas of emptiness reveal themselves.
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Obsessed with uncovering knowledge regarding the Dark Side and its power has led to an increasingly-callous demeanor, a result of his malfeasance and corruption. For all the Jedi's animosity towards their fallen brother, Azizullah still believes that they can still be turned to see the boons of submitting to their own inner darkness; they need only accept his guidance. Matters of the blade, while relevant,
are not his concern. His goal is a complete mastery over the Dark Side and its terrible secrets, and he will not let anything get in the way of his relentless pursuit of knowledge. -
Azizullah carries with him only a few personal belongings:
- A lightsaber, blade still as blue as the day he first forged it. The blade is 110cm, or approx. 3 and-a-half-foot long.
- A 4C Blaster Pistol.
- A set of Jedi dueling armor.
- A set of robes from his time spent in the Jedi archives.
- A personal communicator.
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Twisted and maniacal – a slathering testament to the power of corruption.
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I.
This is the journal of Azizullah al-Jedhi, sixth of his name.
Jedi Knight. Librarian.
As I sit here in this hallowed temple, among these antique tomes whose dilapidated pages contain immemorial, esoteric knowledge, I cannot help but focus on the dying of my candlelight. So pitifully weak it is, this faint wisp of flame, yet how greatly its loathsome effulgence seems to dispel the encroaching murk. In a way, we are the flame; the Jedi Order. Though that which lurks in the shade seeks to dismantle our efforts – we alone stand, wavering ever-so-slightly, illuminating the world around us until we, too, are extinguished and all that remains is twilight. Poetic.
Time and time again I have revised these ancient texts, searching for that one hidden answer which we all seek.
Power.
Unfathomable. Beyond comprehension. Lusted after by many, but obtained by so very few. It is an accursed affliction, this lust. Innumerable men have been driven to madness in their quest for it. No matter, I will not find myself among those unnamable ranks. I have, in my journeys around this planet – around this galaxy – found what I had been searching for. The temple!
Yes, the temple. Ancient. Indescribable. To even speak of it to the others would be to seal my own fate. Months of scouring the vast, dark fringes of the galaxy for this accursed tomb have granted me that prize which I have sought after for so long. The spirits beckon me. I must go.
But the Jedi will not allow it, my mind warns, surely they will banish you once they uncover your plot. Bunch together a group of people deliberately chosen for strong religious feelings, and you have a practical guarantee of dark morbidities expressed in crime, perversion, and insanity.
Denied anything ardently desired, the individual or state will argue and parley just so long - then, if the impelling motive be sufficiently great, will cast aside every rule and break down every acquired inhibition, plunging viciously after the object wished; all the more fantastically savage because of previous repression.
I will not be denied.
- Azizullah al-Jedhi
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IV.
We entered the temple. Outside, the sun fades and the gibbous sky grows dark, any trace of the light vanishing almost utterly. The grand statues transform from glorious sentinels to wardens of that portal of antediluvian evil. The temple is grandiose and foreboding. I cannot fathom how many died in building this shrine of unmentionable corruption. It was quite a journey.
With relic and ritual I bent every effort towards the excavation and recovery of those long-buried secrets. This expedition cost me a small fortune, hiring sturdy shovels and swarthy workmen. How easy it is to convince the pious pilgrims of a holy city into obeying when the siren song of money finds its way to their ears. It seems no man is above greed.
Meat, nothing more.
I gagged at first on the charnel stench of this morbid place. What stygian horrors await down these blackened arcades of antiquity? As I look now upon the dank cyclopean stones that make up these accursed tombs, my mind cannot help but wonder, forever drawn to the blasphemous manuscripts I had brought with me. It is difficult to focus in here, but the men have made camp. I have convinced them of the foolishness of setting up defenses; after all, these foetid halls have gone undisturbed for millennia.
A circle in the dark. The men are huddled together around a fire, sharing stories and ale to keep spirits high. Good. They will need it come tomorrow. I know not what lies deeper inside, but I alone expect to see the light of day.
Concern grows among the workmen. The man Larkin has begun gibbering to himself relentlessly. The others look upon him with worry, for he continues to mumble the same thing between ragged breaths and furtive sobs. I find my mind unable to focus on his words, as if their very nature were meant to be unutterable, yet they resound so clearly with me. It is… a feeling I do not enjoy in the slightest. Sleep will be difficult. Even during his blackouts, his mouth continues to work. Another soul battered and broken, ready to be cast aside like a spent torch. The men shun his presence, but I need the muscle and the bodies.
In truth, I cannot tell how long we have been in here. It's as if my perception of time in these festering catacombs has become distorted.
I pray morning comes soon.
- Azizullah al-Jedhi
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XIII.
The battle is lost! Our very steps unsettled the ancient earth. 'Twas a realm of death and madness. I find myself unable to write as I once had. My hand quivers relentlessly. The men, dead or damned. I do not care for their fates. In the end, I alone fled, laughing and wailing, until consciousness failed me at the threshold between this accursed tomb and the freedom of the outside world. When I awoke, the infernal manuscripts were missing. Only a single page of horrible eldritch runes remained on my person. I set it ablaze and left that daemonic place.
It will haunt my dreams for a lifetime, I fear.
I cannot remember what went on beneath the salt-soaked crags of that damnable prison, but my body is bruised. Battered. Broken. It pains me to breathe. I cannot focus on any one object for too long before my thoughts flow to doom and the macabre. The very world around me seems unraveled. The nature of reality shatters, if only for a moment. It feels as though it is an eternity. My very soul aches.
I do not remember waking up inside the holy temple. Perhaps I was found in the wastes, my body given out. The only memories I recall are spectral, dismal, foreboding. I am in none of them, yet they are as vivid as my own hand. As the flame under which I write. As the Force itself.
The Order will not accept this transgression. I fear that my sins have pushed me beyond their mercy. I am an unsightly beast, my beard bloodied and unkempt, my eyes ravaged by horrors I cannot even remember.
As I glance upon my bare flesh, I find innumerable flaws that were not there previously. Runes, archaic in nature, yet very clearly terrible in origin. Dark magic, wytch marks to curse my very being, perhaps. The others pass by my chambers and look upon me with scorn. Or pity. I cannot decipher their expressions any more. I only know that they hold me in contempt. I violated such a dark place and have returned as the sole survivor. I should be dead, yet here I am, chronicling my downfall. The stars of iniquity shadow my every move, inescapable. I am not alone.
The very thought is blasphemous. Heretical, even. The Exiles? Traitors to our very order. The same order that I have been born into, like my father, like his father before him, like their fathers, many generations past. I am shame incarnate, my very existence a pox upon a stainless history of selfless service to the galaxy. Yet, I feel only disappointment. This order fears knowledge. This order fears me.
I will not let them kill me. I have not gotten what I desire.
Power. -
.
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I fear that I may have gone too far.
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