Alaric was panting heavily, having just passed the midpoint of his exercise routine and coming to a stop in the middle of the training area. Sweat dripped from his deep blue skin at short, regular intervals, tickling the long tendrils that grew from his head before falling. The light sound the individual beads made as they dropped to the floor gave him something to focus on, and he seized the opportunity quickly, finding the rhythm of the drops, losing his conscious thought to it, and settling his body down for the rest of his exercise.

 The rhythm reminded him somewhat of an intravenous drip, something he had seen quite a lot of recently...

 The young Feeorin had been traveling with his Master, an elderly human named Yorik, for the past several months, completing various humanitarian missions in systems affected by the ongoing wars, and they had stopped back at Coruscant for a break. Yorik had raised concerns that Alaric was growing too focused on the morbid nature of their work, losing himself as they delved into those tragic environments.

 The man was not far off. Alaric had noticed that his waking thoughts were always focused on the mission at hand, or on the horizon, and rarely in any hopeful way. Dark thoughts occupied his mind, ranging from the anticipation of encountering emotionally devastated individuals to trying his inexperienced hand at various emergency medical procedures.

 He still had the occasional nightmare about his first time treating what was so clearly a doomed victim. The look of hope in their eyes, and the eyes of their children, at the realization that the mythical Jedi had come to their rescue, and the eventual dawning of heartbreak as it became evident that they would not survive. The wailing of survivors as he stood from beside the body, thick hot blood absolutely covering his hands and clothes.

 Shaking his head, Alaric brought himself back to the present, no longer feeling fatigued, at the expense of his cheerful attitude only a few moments prior. In fact, he quickly began to feel sick, and his sweat immediately went cold, just as a wave of pure, relentless anguish ripped through his core. He fell to his knees, feeling hot, unfamiliar tears leap to his eyes as he began to understand what had happened.

 As one familiar with death, and the pain it caused among those who cared for the deceased, Alaric quickly pieced together the morbid puzzle. He had been overcome by the Force, resonating with the death of many friends, teachers and those who were as close to family as many Jedi would ever know. Shortly thereafter, he felt the following grief, a far more subdued, sickening shudder that went through him.

 [i]They are dying...[/i] He thought, horrified as he heard the distant sound of blaster fire, of shipboard cannons laying waste to the temple he had called home. Of rolling thunder as structure failed and fell to the ground.

 "Master!" Alaric gasped, realizing that Yorik had been speaking with a tribe of younglings, and that he would likely be defending them from whatever was assaulting the temple. Moving with a burst of Force-assisted speed, the Feeorin grabbed his belongings and raced towards the training halls, where he hoped to find his Master. Surely, he would know what to do.

Alaric only hoped that he could help to save as many lives as possible, and that they would all survive to see another day.