Jaime
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Oct 15, 2013
- Messages
- 418
- Reaction score
- 27
OOC: This is a private thread.
Before...
He could hear his feet dragging against the ground, his armor clanking, and his voice echoing through the halls as he called out: "My Queen?" Something is not right, the Jedi knew. It was eerily quiet for a palace under siege, and he heard not a single one of the nobles and advisers screaming in terror as they were when the Imperium had first entered orbit. Turning yet another corner, he was not surprised to see two corpses littering the floor down the far end of the hallway.
They wore the same, honorary crimson armor that Cal wore himself, blasted to smithereens by blaster fire. The guardsmen under Cal's command only wore this armor by his request; it was nice and shiny and more pleasant looking than the standard armor the Queen gave her other guards. He swallowed hard; he knew who they were, but he had to be sure. He had to know that he was not just having some sort of hallucination due to what he had witnessed on the battlefield only... what, twenty minutes ago? Force help me...
Moving forward slowly and painfully, the young Jedi knelt down and confirmed his fears. Masema... Galvin... The look of sheer horror at the prospect of imminent death was still plain on the the young Galvin's face, and Masema's was one of hard acceptance of it. They didn't deserve this... Hash didn't deserve it... He could feel anger welling up inside of him, and upon pushing that catalyst of the Dark Side away, the tears began to flow. He caressed Galvin's cold, pale cheek with his un-gloved left hand with his index finger, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his emotions in check. "They will..." he began to say, but cut himself off.
For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the two of them, and then Cal-Doran began to ball.
Pounding his fist into the ground after who-knows-how-long, the guardsman rose, his legs wobbling slightly. Hearing the sound of heavy footsteps just around the corner, the young Jedi bounded off toward the opposite direction, wiping his tears away as he went.
Soon, after rounding several corners and staying as far away from any blaster fire as he could, Cal found himself finally at the Queen's Royal Ballroom. All the nobles should be found here, Cal remembered. The rest of the squads of guardsmen were to escort them here so they could debate on where to head should the fighting reach the palace. But Cal-Doran could not hear a single sound within the room, or sense a single presence. Slowly putting his hand to the door, Cal took a deep breath, and went in.
The place was largely empty, save for the usual furniture and tables and whatnot surrounding the dancing floor. And save for the almost-dozen corpses strewn towards the western doorway. Slowly making his way toward them, the Jedi unsheathed his phrik-weave blade and tightened his grip on his belt, where the lightsaber from the Mon Calamari Jedi that had saved Cal from the Dark Side was clipped. Kneeling down to examine one of the bodies, he recognized it as the heir to a less-than-noble family that had less-than-large influence here in Theed. He was only sixteen, if Cal recalled correctly. His body was still smoking from the cauterized wounds inflicted all around it. Lightsaber, Cal knew.
Suddenly, it occurred to Cal-Doran that the assailant could still be within, waiting for more unsuspecting nobles to come in seeking refuge. Masking their presence with the force, he reckoned. Rising, the man called out, his voice echoing throughout the ballroom:
"You Sith may enjoy massacring the innocent for sport, but how about fighting an armed opponent? Or have you gone soft since the fall of the Alliance? Too many cushioned pillows and prostitutes?" His brow sweating, the Jedi tried to hide his unease with a nervous laugh and a small grin.
You'll fight on my terms now, Sith bastard. One on one... fair.
Before...
He could hear his feet dragging against the ground, his armor clanking, and his voice echoing through the halls as he called out: "My Queen?" Something is not right, the Jedi knew. It was eerily quiet for a palace under siege, and he heard not a single one of the nobles and advisers screaming in terror as they were when the Imperium had first entered orbit. Turning yet another corner, he was not surprised to see two corpses littering the floor down the far end of the hallway.
They wore the same, honorary crimson armor that Cal wore himself, blasted to smithereens by blaster fire. The guardsmen under Cal's command only wore this armor by his request; it was nice and shiny and more pleasant looking than the standard armor the Queen gave her other guards. He swallowed hard; he knew who they were, but he had to be sure. He had to know that he was not just having some sort of hallucination due to what he had witnessed on the battlefield only... what, twenty minutes ago? Force help me...
Moving forward slowly and painfully, the young Jedi knelt down and confirmed his fears. Masema... Galvin... The look of sheer horror at the prospect of imminent death was still plain on the the young Galvin's face, and Masema's was one of hard acceptance of it. They didn't deserve this... Hash didn't deserve it... He could feel anger welling up inside of him, and upon pushing that catalyst of the Dark Side away, the tears began to flow. He caressed Galvin's cold, pale cheek with his un-gloved left hand with his index finger, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his emotions in check. "They will..." he began to say, but cut himself off.
For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the two of them, and then Cal-Doran began to ball.
Pounding his fist into the ground after who-knows-how-long, the guardsman rose, his legs wobbling slightly. Hearing the sound of heavy footsteps just around the corner, the young Jedi bounded off toward the opposite direction, wiping his tears away as he went.
Soon, after rounding several corners and staying as far away from any blaster fire as he could, Cal found himself finally at the Queen's Royal Ballroom. All the nobles should be found here, Cal remembered. The rest of the squads of guardsmen were to escort them here so they could debate on where to head should the fighting reach the palace. But Cal-Doran could not hear a single sound within the room, or sense a single presence. Slowly putting his hand to the door, Cal took a deep breath, and went in.
The place was largely empty, save for the usual furniture and tables and whatnot surrounding the dancing floor. And save for the almost-dozen corpses strewn towards the western doorway. Slowly making his way toward them, the Jedi unsheathed his phrik-weave blade and tightened his grip on his belt, where the lightsaber from the Mon Calamari Jedi that had saved Cal from the Dark Side was clipped. Kneeling down to examine one of the bodies, he recognized it as the heir to a less-than-noble family that had less-than-large influence here in Theed. He was only sixteen, if Cal recalled correctly. His body was still smoking from the cauterized wounds inflicted all around it. Lightsaber, Cal knew.
Suddenly, it occurred to Cal-Doran that the assailant could still be within, waiting for more unsuspecting nobles to come in seeking refuge. Masking their presence with the force, he reckoned. Rising, the man called out, his voice echoing throughout the ballroom:
"You Sith may enjoy massacring the innocent for sport, but how about fighting an armed opponent? Or have you gone soft since the fall of the Alliance? Too many cushioned pillows and prostitutes?" His brow sweating, the Jedi tried to hide his unease with a nervous laugh and a small grin.
You'll fight on my terms now, Sith bastard. One on one... fair.
Last edited by a moderator: